Work Text:
Now
Castiel's cock is softening in the warm crook of Sam's thigh when they hear the motel room door slam open.
“Oh, what the fuck.” Dean slams the paper bag onto the pea-green formica countertop, throwing his jacket onto the nearest chair like it personally offended him. He crosses his arms and stares at Sam and Castiel.
“Do you know how many diners this town has?” Dean taps his foot against the threadbare carpet.
“I believe there are-” Castiel starts before Sam shushes him.
“Three. Three fucking diners. And do you know how many of them had pie?”
Sam and Castiel both know better than to answer that question.
“One. And guess what kind of pie it was?” Dean holds his hand up for emphasis, fingers spread out at the pending offense. “Rhubarb.”
“You like strawberry rhubarb, Dean, that's -” Sam tries weakly before Dean cuts his off, pacing back and forth in front of the nicotine-stained Paul Bunyan poster adorning the wall of their room.
“I didn't say strawberry rhubarb, Sam. Rhubarb. Rhubarb pie.” Dean sits down on the edge of the bed, unlacing his boots and flinging them across the room. They bounce off the lopsided sofa, a green shade of tweed somewhere between lima bean and brussels sprout.
“Who the fuck makes a pie with just rhubarb?” Dean says in the same tone normally reserved for “why do they need to eat babies?” Sam sits up onto his elbows, feeling the worn cotton sheet stick to his back before the air hits his skin and chills him. Winter in North Dakota would put anyone in a touchy mood, even without the full moon two days away.
“Hey, we'll be out of here tomorrow,” Sam says calmly, nudging Castiel with his leg and calling him closer with a wag of his chin. He whispers into Castiel's ear and gets a set of curious blue eyes in return.
Castiel unfolds himself and goes to Dean, stretching before he settles on the floor in between Dean's legs. Dean lets Castiel spread his knees apart, leaning back on his hands while Sam rolls his ankle and rubs his foot against Dean's wrist. He can see by the set of Dean's shoulders that he's clinging to his bad mood. It's a losing battle.
Dean's still pouting as Castiel carefully unbuttons his flannel shirt. Dean barely helps him pull it off his arms, lifting his hands off the bed with a sigh. Castiel undoes the top three buttons of his Henley and pulls the button-fly of his jeans open with a soft pop-pop-pop.
When there are no buttons left to unbutton, Castiel slides into Dean's lap and brushes his lips against Dean's. Dean murmurs and kisses him back, hand hovering off the bed to go to Castiel's side before he plants his palm back down on the rumpled plaid bedspread, apparently remembering that he's pie-starved and grumpy.
“Rhubarb,” Dean whines half-heartedly, putting up a perfunctory resistance as Castiel pulls the waffled cotton shirt over his head. Dean's hands don't land on the bed this time, giving into the magnetic pull of Castiel's hips. Sam is familiar with the phenomenon.
“Dean,” Castiel says in his reasonable tone. “You don't have to worry.” He pulls Dean's thin black t-shirt off and leans in to kiss a soft line along the stubble at Dean's jaw. “Sam assures me that we have pie already.” Sam watches Castiel run his fingers down Dean's back, leaving a pink wake on top of the light smattering of freckles before he looks over Dean's shoulder to tilt his head at Sam. “Although, I don't know what he's talking about.”
Sam sees Dean shoot him a narrow-eyed look over his shoulder before he turns back to Castiel, running his hand up into Castiel's hair and kissing him deeply. Without breaking their kiss, Dean flips Castiel over, pinning him down with his mouth as he tugs his jeans down around his hips. Sam can't see, but he can guess by Castiel's soft noise of satisfaction that Dean's cock is rubbing up against his.
Dean leans up onto his hands, circling his hips as Castiel squirms under him. Dean's lips are pursed and his eyes are sparkling as he looks at Sam.
“So what kind of pie did you get me, Sammy?” Sam wants to kiss that smirk right off his face, but it's worth the wait as he watches Dean's mouth fall open as Sam spreads his legs.
Dean laughs, soft and rich as he licks his lips and grinds himself into Castiel. Sam shamelessly presses two fingers inside himself, moaning as he pulls them out and spreads them apart. Castiel's come is sticky white on his fingers, spreading into fine webs that catch the light from the novelty bedside lamps. “Cream pie,” Sam says, as innocently as he can manage as he blinks his eyes at his brother.
Dean rocks himself against Castiel one last time before he leans down to lick a dirty stripe up his throat. “Wait your turn,” Dean growls into Castiel's ear, his eyes getting dark and commanding. Castiel shivers at it the same way Sam does, crawling off the bed and resting his chin on his hands as he looks at Sam. Dean gives Castiel a nod of approval, turning back to look hungrily at Sam. “I got this one.”
Sam breathes in sharply at the words, looking up at Dean as he settles himself in between Sam's legs. Castiel's hand twines into his, fingers lacing together as they both watch Dean lean down to kiss Sam. He licks Sam's mouth open gently, parting his lips and claiming Sam's mouth as his while Sam shakes with more than arousal.
Sometimes Sam's heart feels too big for his chest, like he loves them both more than any human being can endure. Although Sam's been a little more than human for a long time now.
He can still remember, though, remember when it all seemed bleak and hopeless, when he was sure his only future lay at the barrel-end of a gun.
“Yeah,” Sam says softly, blinking his eyes clear and smiling before he pulls Dean down for another kiss. “I know you do.”
*
Before
“Sammy, I got this one. I'll do it.” The scratches stand out on Sam's face, a vicious red against the tear-stained flush of his skin.
“She asked me to,” Sam chokes out. Dean would do anything to never see Sam like this again.
“You don't have to.” Dean's chest tightens as Sam shakes his head, a fresh tear running down his cheek.
“Yes, I do. Please,” Sam says shakily, reaching out for the gun in Dean's hand. Dean hesitates for a moment, thinks about charging into the living room and doing it himself, but he knows Sam would never forgive him. Dean's own hand is shaking as he places the gun in Sam's hand.
“Just wait here.”
Tears stream down Sam's face, his eyes red and his lips trembling as he takes the gun back from Dean.
Dean curls his fist, a tear sliding down his cheek as he waits. He takes a deep breath to get himself back under control, eyes darting around the kitchen. He looks at the coffeemaker and the dishes in the sink and the notes stuck to the fridge, at the soft afternoon sunshine bathing all these mundane items that Madison will never get to use again. He can hear sobs from the next room.
He flinches as he hears the gun fire, teeth ground together as he takes a few slow steps towards the living room, his mind racing a million miles a second. They'll need to get her body out of the building without attracting attention. She's small, so at least they'll be able to fit her in the trunk with no trouble. They'll have to drive a few miles out of the city, but that's -
Dean's body reacts before his mind, back-up gun out of his waistband and in his hand as he races towards the strangled cry coming from the other room.
Sam's on the floor, Madison's body sprawled out beneath him. Dean sees the red stain spreading out across her chest, perfect shot to the heart that he knew Sam couldn't miss or he wouldn't have left him alone. It takes Dean a second to realize that the noise isn't coming from Madison.
One of Sam's hands is clamped over his shoulder, blood running out between his fingers. Five perfectly-spaced scratch marks slice through his shirtfront, blood flowing freely as Sam turns to Dean.
“Sammy, what the -” Dean clamps a fist over his mouth as Sam pulls his hand away from his shoulder, tears in his eyes as he draws in jagged breaths. “Oh god, no.”
Deep, needle-like punctures line Sam's shoulder. Dean's heart sinks at the sight. He knows what it is.
“Sammy,” Dean says gruffly, sinking down to his knees as he tucks his gun back, “Sammy, tell me what the fuck happened.”
Sam draws in a shaky breath and looks up at him. “She turned, right when I pulled the trigger. Went right for my neck before she ...” Sam trails off, hand gesturing towards Madison's lifeless body.
“She didn't mean it, Dean, she wouldn't ...” Sam starts to breathe faster, blood-stained hand grasping back over the bite on his shoulder like he's just realizing it's really there. “Dean, fuck, I'm...” Sam breaks off, mouth opening and closing as he stares at Dean.
Dean scrubs a hand over his face, panic tightening in his stomach. Why did he leave Sam? Of course she wasn't gonna go down easy, of course it couldn't be that simple. Even if the human part of her had wanted it, Madison hadn't really been human anymore, had she? That animal survival instinct must have taken over as Sam pulled the trigger.
“Dean, oh god, oh fuck fuck fuck,” Sam is mumbling incoherently, eyes darting around the room before they settle on the 0.45 on the floor. Sam goes still and reaches for it just as Dean grabs it, sliding it across the wooden floor and out of Sam's reach.
“No.”
“Dean.” Sam looks at him pleadingly. “You know I have to, I can't …” Sam trails off into a muffled sob, fist clenched at his side.
“No, Sam, no fucking way.” Dean shakes him a little until Sam looks him in the eyes. “Look, we failed Madison, alright? We fucked that up and I am sorry for that, Sammy, I am so fucking sorry. But I am not gonna fail you, you hear me?”
“Dean, you know there's no way. We would have found it.” Sam draws in a shaky breath. “I'll do it myself.”
“Jesus christ, no!” Dean smacks his hand against the floor. “Not you, too.” Sam looks up at him, tear-streaked face breaking Dean's heart in half. “I can't, Sammy.”
“Look, the full moon just ended, right? So we have a month.” Dean tries to force a smile on his face. “A whole month to find a cure, OK? We can fix this.”
Sam bites his lip and looks down at Madison's body.
“One month. That's it.” Sam wipes his face with the back of his hand. “You have to promise me...” He runs a hand through his hair.
“We have to get her out of here before the cops show up, Sam. And you need stitches.” Dean grabs Sam's hand in his and pulls him up to stand. Dean picks Madison's body up easily, heaving her over his shoulder. Sam does a quick wipe-down through the apartment. He's a little shaky on his feet, but Dean knows he needs to keep him moving.
“Watch the doors for me.” Sam nods and goes ahead of him, playing lookout until the coast is clear to get Madison's body in the car. The sun is blazing bright and cheerful as they drive out of San Francisco.
Sam passes out when they reach their motel room, equal parts shock and the copious amount of cheap whiskey Dean plied him with before stitching him up. Dean's happy to see him sleep, and even happier that Sam didn't press him about what he's going to do if they can't find a cure in a month.
Dean doesn't make promises he can't keep.
*
“If you walk out of that door with her, you are never coming back.” Zachariah stands in the hallway, lit from behind by the bare bulb dangling from the ceiling of their compound.
“She's sick.” Castiel grits his teeth together and tugs Meg to stand upright, supporting her weight on his shoulders along with the hastily-packed bag of supplies he'd managed to throw together. “How can you expect me to do nothing?” Castiel spares Zachariah a glance over his shoulder before urging Meg forward.
“Her kind always breed weak stock,” Zachariah sneers. “You should let her die in the woods like a true wolf.”
Castiel keeps moving forward, stopping when Meg almost collapses in one of the fits of coughing that have come to haunt Castiel's every waking thought.
“You'd like that, wouldn't -” Meg breaks off, her hacking cough echoing off the walls. “Wouldn't you, Z? Then you could cut my balls off and see what's it like to have a pair of your own for once.” Castiel can't help but smile at his mate. Even standing on death's door couldn't shut that perfect, wicked mouth of hers.
“You impudent bitch.” Zachariah crosses his arms over his chest. “Castiel, you've brought enough dishonor on this family by taking this half-breed as your mate. If you involve outsiders in our affairs, I will have no choice but to abjure your place in our pack.”
“Our affairs?” Castiel snarls over his shoulder, loud enough for the entire compound to hear him. “This isn't some tribal land negotiation, Zachariah. This is my mate, and she's sick, and if outsiders can help her, I'm taking her to the fucking outsiders.”
Uriel is standing at the doorway, a sad look on his face. He doesn't try to stop Castiel, but he won't offer any help either, merely standing aside as Castiel hauls Meg outside to their truck. Castiel throws the duffel in the flatbed before settling Meg in the passenger seat. She gives him one of those lop-sided grins, eyes half-open as she grabs his hand.
“He always was a fucking prick,” Meg wheezes, squeezing his hand. Castiel smiles tightly and slams the door.
“Cas.” Castiel turns and sees Anna materializing out of the trees, eyes darting towards the house as she throws a small bag at Castiel. She stays in the shadows as Castiel opens it. There's a thick wad of hundred-dollar bills, a cell phone and a folder filled with cards and papers.
“Thank you.” Castiel looks over at his sister, her bright eyes glinting in the darkness. “You know I have to go, Anna.”
Anna nods and looks at him balefully. “I'm so sorry. I'll make sure he doesn't find you.” Castiel rushes forward impulsively to give Anna a hug. He knows he'll never see her again.
Every breath Meg takes sounds like it's being sucked through a chewed-up straw. Castiel throws the small bag in the footwell between them and starts the truck.
“She was always sweet on me,” Meg jokes, rifling through the bag Anna had given them. “Oooooh, a gun!” Meg stifles a cough and pulls the beat-up 9 mm out, cocking it back and checking the chamber. “Do you even know how to use this? This isn't really,” she clears her throat and imitates Zachariah's gravitas, “the way the Angeli do things.”
Castiel throws the truck in reverse and makes a three-point turn to get out of the driveway. He catches one last glimpse of Zachariah in the door, arms folded over his chest and a smug, vicious smile on his face.
“I'm not an Angeli any more.” Castiel turns the truck down the long dirt road leading away from the compound. The headlights illuminate the oak trees that line the drive, deep scratches furrowed into each one to mark their territory.
They go in silence for some time, nothing but the rattling rhythm of Meg's breathing filling the cabin of the truck. When they make it to the highway, Meg turns to him and puts her hand on his leg.
“It'll be fine, Cas, don't worry. I'm a tough bitch.” Meg's mouth quirks up into a smile. Castiel loves her smile, her irreverent humor, the way nothing gets to her. She's able to hold it for a few seconds before a cough escapes from her lips. “I just hope they give me the really, really good drugs.”
“Of course, Meg. The doctors will know what to do, they'll know how to treat you and everything will be fine. We'll get you all better and go start over somewhere, maybe out west. You always liked warm weather.” Castiel squeezes her hand in his.
“Yeah, Cas. Yeah.” Meg looks at him sadly, her huge brown eyes shining in the darkness. “We'll be fine.”
They both know it's a lie, but sometimes that's all there is.
*
A month came and went, as did the other five. They had followed every lead they could get, blowing through Bobby's rolodex and burning out two sets of tires in search of a cure that Dean had realized months ago didn't exist. But still, after six months, he couldn't say that to Sam. So they kept searching.
This is how he and Sam live now, month to month, chasing one crazy lead after another. It's really not that different from hunting life, except for the three nights a month that Sam goes all Dances with Wolves. Those nights are definitely different.
They haven't been without their mild victories. Dean's first thought had been the hearts. He knew that werewolves need human hearts to live. That's why they went all crazy, right? Maybe if he could bring Sam human hearts he wouldn't need to shift. Although exactly how many hearts Sam needed was unclear – one a day, one for every day of the full moon, three hearts a day keeps the werewolf away. No one was really sure.
Dean's plan to go all Repo the Genetic Opera for Sam thankfully never came to fruition. One of their first leads was a hoodoo priestess friend of Bobby's, Pamela Barnes. She had a small shop in Jersey City.
She'd been sitting behind the counter, and Dean had blithely asked for Pamela as the older woman in a Ramones t-shirt and jeans so tight they almost looked painful sat and stared at him and Sam.
“I'm looking for Pamela Barnes. Hoodoo priestess supreme around these parts apparently? You can tell her we're old friends of Bobby Singer's.” Dean had flashed the “free pie and a BJ in the bathroom” smile to make sure she hopped to it.
The black-haired woman had just kept staring at them, eyes sliding back and forth between Dean and his brother like she could see things their habitual three-shirts-and-a-jacket look concealed. Dean hadn't felt so uncomfortable since that time he'd gone into a gay bar and run out feeling sorry for women.
“Pig hearts.” She had rested her chin on her hands, smiling pleasantly at Sam.
“Excuse me?” Sam had said softly.
“And I don't practice hoodoo, I practice Santeria. And I'm not a priestess. It's santera, Santera Pamela.” She had walked out from behind the counter and sidled up next to Dean. “I'm a psychic, too.” She had leaned in a little closer to Dean. “But I wouldn't have to be psychic to know that you give really good head, now would I, Dean?”
Dean had spluttered and blushed while Sam snickered. “Oh, don't worry, wolfie,” Pamela had turned her attention to Sam. “You're invited, too.”
They'd settled in her back room over some desperately-needed beers.
“There's not much I can do for you boys. Lycanthropy,” she'd used air-quotes for that one, “can't be cured. I don't care what you've heard.” She had cut Dean off as he valiantly attempted to argue with her. “But he doesn't need to kill anyone. Did you know that pigs share, like, 98% of our DNA?”
Dean had ditched the cannibal-bacon joke when Sam had nodded. “Yeah, and they transplant pig organs into humans sometimes.”
“Bingo. When I heard you boys were coming, I made a few calls. Friend of a friend of a kitsune of a bokor told me about a village that kept a turned girl alive for years. They'd lock her up during her change, throw her a couple of pig hearts.” Pamela had shrugged her shoulders.
“For years? How many years? What happened to her?” Sam had knitted his eyebrows together as Dean got a bad feeling in his gut.
“Well, she … she got out and, um, sort of killed her whole family.” Pamela had grimaced. “But I'm sure Dean over here can do a better job of tying you up.” She'd grinned lasciviously at both of them.
“How did you know we were coming?” Dean was suspicious of anyone who knew about Sam.
“Did you miss the part where I'm psychic?” She had looked at him and leaned forward. “Or were you too busy checking out my rack?”
She'd given them a bag full of herbs and careful instructions to make some compounds that would help weaken Sam when he was turned.
“I normally make these up for women who want to keep their husbands from sticking their dicks where they don't belong.” That had left both brothers speechless.
“Helps quell the animal instinct, dampens the primal urge. Has he turned yet?” Pamela had regarded Sam critically.
“No, no I haven't.” Sam had said to the floor. It had still made him uncomfortable to talk about it. Dean couldn't imagine how scared he was.
“Ah. I see.” Pamela had raised her eyebrows. “You'll probably feel a little … handsy a couple days beforehand.” She smirked at Dean. “Hope you two don't share a room.”
Dean hadn't bothered correcting her. Of course they shared a room – it was cheaper. And more efficient. And Sam had been … well, Sam had gotten sort of clingy ever since they'd buried Madison and headed to Bobby's. Which made sense, of course it did. Sam was scared, and Dean was the only family he had. It didn't have anything to do with handsyness, and what did that even really mean?
“We've all got a little beast in us, boys. Some of us more than others.” She'd sent them on their way with promises to make a sacrifice to Oshun.
Sam's first change had been brutal. Herbs and all, he still howled all night and clawed gashes into the walls of Bobby's panic room. Dean couldn't bring himself to watch.
The next five hadn't been much better. Pamela's herbs did seem to help, as they learned the third full moon when they ran out of black hellebore and didn't have time to restock it before Sam wolfed out. Dean had watched plaster dust fall from the ceiling as Sam threw himself against the door.
It wasn't perfect, but it had been working. Bobby's panic room was strong enough to do the job. Sam was still obsessed with finding a cure, and Dean let him research his heart out. They took some side jobs, hunting anything that didn't look like werewolf territory. Dean didn't want to drag Sam into a situation like that.
Today, however, things are far from perfect. They were already on their way back to Sioux Falls when Dean got a phone call from Bobby. He apologetically explained that he and Rufus had a high-level demon captured who might give up some info about yellow eyes and the other children. They'd need to keep it in the basement for at least another couple of days, which meant Sam was shit out of luck for a secure wolf-den. Dean had punched his car, immediately apologized to her, and then yelled at Bobby for barking up a tree that wasn't his in the first place.
Sam hadn't talked about it expressly, but Dean couldn't help but notice that his visions had completely stopped once he'd been bitten. It was like yellow eyes had just lost interest in him. Dean had enough fangs to worry about to keep him from looking a gift horse in the mouth.
But Bobby was stubborn, and Rufus was a million times worse. Dean had finally accepted that he'd have to find a place to lock Sam up, and find it soon. They only had two more days, which Dean would know even without consulting the lunar almanac he'd memorized. Sam got so fucking testy right before his “time of the month” that no amount of fraternal sympathy could keep Dean from making PMS jokes.
Dean smiles sweetly as the waitress pours him a refill on his coffee and settles a gorgeous slice of apple pie in front of him. “Thank you, darling,” he drawls out shamelessly, because “Hello my name is Marla” is totally adorable and totally into him and totally leaning down further than necessary to top Dean's caffeine off. God bless waitresses.
“Can I get a refill sometime this month?” Sam's bitchfaces have grown exponentially in both breadth and frequency in the past six months. Poor Marla almost spills the pot as she pours Sam's coffee and scurries off. Apparently epic cock-blocking is also one of Sam's new werewolf traits.
“Dude.” Dean shoots him a look as Sam just pouts back at him. At least the pie is still pleasant to be around. Sam had gotten less friendly with each passing moon, bristling every time a stranger showed either of them the slightest bit of attention. Dean figures misery loves company, and Sam can't stand to see anyone else walking around without a vagina full of sand.
“I just want to get going, Dean, OK? We've still got, like, eight hours to Montana.” Sam sighs and sips his coffee, grimacing as he stares into his mug.
“We'll make it with plenty of time, Sammy, I promise.” Dean lays his fork down, glancing forlornly at the half-eaten pie on his plate. “I'll even skip dessert. Because I am that fucking considerate. Of your needs.” Dean draws out that last word as he turns around.
“Marla, sweetheart, could we get our check, please?” Marla straightens up from behind the counter and smiles at him, pulling her pen from behind her ear to tally up their bill. Sam drinks the last dregs of his coffee and pulls out his wallet.
“Here you go, hope you'll come again soon,” Marla says, batting her eyelashes at Dean as she lays the check down in front of him. Scrawled out over the name of the diner is a phone number.
“Oh I intend to, Marla.” Dean raises an eyebrow and licks his lips at her, smiling as she sashays away with more sway in her hips than any human being really needs to walk.
Dean turns to Sam, sucking his teeth in satisfaction as he points his finger at Marla's phone number. He expects Sam to roll his eyes or make a face at him. Instead, Sam snatches the slip of paper from him, throws money down on the table and storms out of the restaurant like an angry sasquatch.
Snorting, Dean picks his fork back up and finishes his pie. Sam can just wait outside like an angry bitch-wolf if that's what he needs. What the fuck is up with him?
Avoiding Marla's confused look, Dean heads outside to find Sam leaning against the car and furiously biting his fingernails. Dean scrubs a hand over his face and opens the car door, sliding into the driver's seat and waiting for Sam.
“Can we just get going?” Sam clown-cars himself into the passenger seat and leans against the window. Dean puts her in drive and gets back on the highway, heading towards Montana and wondering if Sam is actually more pleasant when he's got his actual claws out instead of just his “I hate anyone who looks at Dean” ones.
Marla's number blows along the parking lot pavement, crumpled into a tight ball.
*
“It means crab, doesn't it?” Castiel is the first one to break the silence.
“Yes, yes it does.” Dr. Baring-Gould twists his hands for the millionth time. Castiel wonders if he's aware of the movement. “Hippocrates thought that tumorous growths resembled crabs.”
Meg snorts. “I don't eat anything with a shell.”
“Ms. Masters,” the doctor turns to her, head bobbing up and down with nervous energy. “I'm so sorry. I wish there was more I could offer you, but our only real options at this point are palliative.”
Castiel knows what all these words mean, these phrases that Dr. Baring-Gould had anxiously explained to them in the close confines of his office. Metastases, palliative, stage IV, terminal. He'd whispered them, glancing at the door like someone might overhear him, like his words might have more power if they were said with confidence.
“I would offer to admit you here, but, as I said, I don't think that would be advisable given your ...” Dr. Baring-Gould trails off, gesturing uselessly between Castiel and his mate. Meg bares her teeth and makes exaggerated clawing motions, making Dr. Baring-Gould look impossibly more uncomfortable than he already is.
“Yeah, I get it, doc. Don't need anyone getting all freaked out about some werewolf lab samples.” The doctor sighs with obvious relief, hands back to their customary wringing position.
It had taken a significant amount of money and old-fashioned teeth baring to get the name of one of the shadowy doctors that treated non-humans. Dr. Sabine Baring-Gould had a reputation for discretion and efficiency, despite his twitchy temperament. When Castiel had brought Meg to his “office,” a converted room in the basement of an Iowa hospital, Dr. Baring-Gould had almost jumped with fear at the sight of Meg. A second set of perpendicular eyelids had rapidly blinked open and closed, pinprick pupils darting back and forth between the two werewolves. Even now, Meg was a fearsome thing.
While Castiel didn't know exactly what type of non-human Dr. Baring-Gould was, he was clearly sensitive to alpha pheromones. He'd practically tripped over himself making Meg comfortable, apologizing for everything until Meg told him to shut the fuck up and tell her what was wrong. The CAT scans had only confirmed his suspicions.
Castiel leans back in the small plastic chair and looks up at the light-boxes on the walls, black-and-white film exposing all of the things that were slowly killing his alpha. He almost laughs, tracing over the shapes of the growths in her lungs, her liver, her bones, fucking everywhere.
Meg looks like she's filled with pearls. Castiel knows there's a joke in there about Meg being a real lady, and Meg would be the one to make it under other circumstances. Instead she just nods tightly, pulling her leather jacket back on as Castiel goes to help her up.
“You better give me some awesome fucking painkillers, doc.”
Meg dies in the woods, like a real wolf. Never mind that she isn't, that she can't shift into a true lupine form like Castiel can. She clutches her sharp claws into his fur, bloody rattle in her throat as Castiel licks her face and keens for the loss of her.
Castiel stays with her body until Meg's uncle can come and get her. Crowley hadn't always approved of Castiel, an Angeli and a beta at that, but beneath the smarmy face he puts on for his clan Castiel knows that Crowley truly cared for Meg. It's his right to dispose of her body, and Castiel knows he'll do it with respect.
“You have a place with us if you want it, Cas.” Crowley squeezes his shoulder. Castiel can't find the words to thank him, to tell him that he'd never fit anywhere until he found Meg. He suspects he'll never find that feeling again. Crowley gives him a sad look before he turns and leaves, Meg's body hanging so small in his arms as he walks away.
And finally, when Meg is gone and only the faint trace of her scent remains in the leaves beneath him, Castiel sits alone in the woods and cries for his alpha.
*
“This is stupid, Sam.” Dean glowers at his brother as they stand in front of the motel office. “We can just sleep at the cabin. We've got sleeping bags, Bobby said there's even a cot there.”
“Dean, I just …” Sam stops and sighs, running a hand through his hair. “I know I've been difficult, OK? But, please, I just really, really need to sleep somewhere comfortable tonight.”
Dean snorts. “What are you, the princess and the pea? Wrong fairytale, dude. And you grew up sleeping in the car for fuck's sake. What's up with you?”
“It hurts.” Sam sticks his hands in his pockets and looks at Dean. “Like, before I change. It hurts. A lot. I feel sore and achey and like someone beat the crap out of me. All the time.” Dean uncrosses his arms from his chest and sighs.
“Why don't you tell me this shit, Sammy?” Dean asks, throwing his hands up. “I can't help you if you don't tell me what's going on.”
“I think the herbs make it worse.” Sam furrows his brow and holds his hands up. “I'm still taking them, I promise, don't worry. Please. Just tonight. We'll go to Rufus' cabin first thing in the morning, ok?” Making a crack about Sam's puppy-dog eyes is really tempting right now, but Dean reins it in and heads inside to book a room.
“I'm so sorry, sir, all of our doubles are booked for the evening.” The greasy-haired motel attendant simpers at them. “But we have a king size available.”
“We'll take it,” Sam answers for them without even asking Dean, who just rolls his eyes and mutters about needing that sleeping bag anyway. They haul their stuff inside, Sam heading straight into the shower while Dean settles in. At least there's a couch.
Sadly, Dean has already watched every volume of Casa Erotica available on pay-per-view, so he busies himself cleaning his and Sam's weapons. When he's done he shucks his grungy jeans and settles on the couch in his boxers and a slightly-less-grungy t-shirt. They really needed to hit a laundromat soon.
Dean's too tired to shower, so he just sits there while Sam comes out and changes. Dean's not sure if he's imagining it or just never bothered looking before, but Sam's gotten jacked lately. Dean can still remember what a scrawny little kid Sam had been, and now Dean can see all the muscles rippling in his back as he pulls a tank top on. He even seems taller, which defies all the laws of physics and strikes Dean as just plain unfair.
Dean's always looked good enough to get laid and run away from monsters, and that was all he really asked of his body in exchange for the endless supply of cheeseburgers he lovingly fueled it with. Looking at Sam pull his shirt down, Dean wonders if he shouldn't start doing some sit-ups or something. Just to keep up appearances. That little cleft down the middle of Sam's stomach does look good, aesthetically good, like how art and stuff looks good.
Shaking his head and scratching the stubble on his chin, Dean heaves himself off the couch to at least shave his face before he passes out. On the couch. Thanks, Sam. He grabs his dopp kit and heads to the bathroom as Sam turns the TV on.
After he's as smooth as he can get, Dean goes to put his razor away and feels his fingers brush past a small jar in his kit. He pulls it out and smiles.
Sam had experienced terrible growing pains when he was a teenager, and not just of the emo pain in the ass variety. No one could grow as fast as Sam did without some discomfort. Dean remembers their father going through jar after jar of this stuff, rubbing it over Sam's legs to help ease his aches and pains.
“Dude, Tiger Balm.” Dean tosses the little jar to Sam on the bed. “Remember that stuff?”
Sam picks the jar up and smiles. “Yeah, Dad loved this crap.” Sam opens the jar and sniffs. “Is it weird that I sort of like the way it smells?”
“Naw, I like it, too. You ever put it on your balls?” Dean asks, raising his eyebrows and wrinkling his nose. Sam just gapes at him.
“You are not serious.” Sam blinks at him. “Oh my god, you're serious. What is wrong with you?”
Dean looks affronted. “Hey, someone dared me to. Seriously, though, don't do it.” Dean shudders as he recalls the horrible burning sensation. “This used to work for your growing pains, have you tried it for, you know, wolfing pains?”
Sam raises his eyebrows and smiles at him. “I actually hadn't thought of it.” He dips his finger in the jar and works some of it into his elbow. “It feels good.”
Soon the whole room smells like whatever the fuck is in Tiger Balm. It burns Dean's eyes but he's happy to see Sam get some relief.
“Want me to do your back?” Dean asks as he watches Sam wince and rub at his neck. “Yeah, thanks, man.” Dean sits down on the bed next to Sam, scooping out some ointment and waiting while Sam pulls his tank top off over his head and turns the broad expanse of his back to face Dean. Dean isn't sure when Sam had gotten so tan, either. Tan and muscled and powerful.
“Where does it hurt?” Dean watches Sam's back rise up and down in time with his breathing.
“My shoulder blades, and my lower back mostly.” Dean works some Tiger Balm over Sam's shoulders. He can feel Sam relaxing under his hands. The heavy, medicinal smell fills Dean's nostrils and makes his hands burn after a while, but he keeps massaging Sam's back until Sam is breathing deeply and sighing with contentment.
Dean notices Sam rolling his neck so he scoops up another dime-sized amount of ointment and spreads it over his fingers. Dean's own shoulders are starting to ache from rubbing Sam's back, so Dean settles up onto his knees to give himself a better angle. He closes his right hand over Sam's neck, squeezing firmly and digging his thumb into the upper knob of Sam's spine. That's where Dean always gets sore, so he's sure it'll feel good.
And jesus christ, it must feel even better for Sam. His brother completely tenses up for a second when Dean's hand closes over his neck, just to relax again as Sam lets out a long, deep moan that Dean generally associates with sticking his fingers in a very different part of a very different sort of person. Sam ducks his head and rolls his shoulders forward, almost whining when Dean pulls his hand away.
“Did, um … did I hurt you?” Dean hesitates, not sure what to make of Sam's reaction. He's oddly relieved when Sam turns back to look at him, high flush on his cheeks which must be from the Tiger Balm, and softly says, “Please.” He ducks his head back down and draws in a shaky breath.
Dean looks down at Sam, muscles standing out on his back, skin all soft and shiny from the balm. Swallowing thickly, Dean tentatively puts his hand back on Sam's neck and lets it rest there. It feels … Dean isn't quite sure what it feels like, just that it somehow feels right. Sam looks good like this, and he feels good, strong muscles going soft and pliant under Dean's fingers.
Sam shivers as Dean massages his neck, softly at first and then harder as Sam starts to let out a steady string of pleased sounds. From his vantage point up on his knees, Dean can just see over the crest of Sam's shoulder. The fact that Sam is straining hard against his sweatpants should really freak Dean out and spur him on to crack the millions of jokes that he can feel hovering somewhere in the back of his mind.
Instead, Dean just grips Sam's neck a little harder and brings his other hand up. He swirls his fingers around the nape of Sam's neck, right where that little V of his hairline starts. Sam's hair is so soft, and it feels so good in Dean's hands. Slowly, Dean runs his fingers through it, twirling it into tight little knots as his other hand digs into the meat of Sam's neck.
Sam keeps tilting his head back into Dean's hands, his moans rising in pitch as Dean tugs a little harder. Dean's stomach clenches with every breathy little whimper Sam lets out until Dean's biting his lip to keep himself from adding to the chorus of wildly inappropriate noises filling the motel room.
When Dean unfurls his hand just to rake it through Sam's hair again, he feels something settle inside of him, something desperate and curious and strange. He inches himself closer, bedspread bunching up around his knees as he grabs a hank of Sam's hair and pulls. It's hard enough that Dean knows it hurts a little, knows that Sam should shrug him off and make him stop.
Instead Sam just opens his mouth and lets out a high whine that goes right to Dean's cock. Dean had never been much of a hair-puller in bed, but that desperate, wanton keening noise is the sweetest thing he's ever heard.
Dean might be dreaming, or he might be possessed, or he might be a host of other things that leave his self-control lying somewhere next to the bed. All Dean knows is that the only sensible thing to do right now, the only thing he can do, is to mold himself against Sam's back and pull.
Sam doesn't fight him, his head falling back to look up at Dean. Dean's so hard it's starting to throb with every beat of his heart. He opens his legs and juts his hips forward, gasping as his cock brushes against Sam's back. Sam lets out another whine from deep in his throat, teeth gritted together as Dean tightens his grip in Sam's hair.
Everything in the room feels heavy and tense, the hard pull of Dean's hand in his brother's hair matched by the sweet relief of his cock pressing against Sam's back. Every breath Dean takes feels laborious and thick; all the air squeezed out as Dean rocks his hips and slowly slides himself up and down against Sam.
Sam's eyes are slanted half-shut, pupils eating up all that pretty hazel as Dean pulls harder. Dean's other hand is still gripped around the back of Sam's neck, and the heavy weight of Sam's skull pressing down against it is starting to make his fingers cramp. When Dean withdraws his hand, Sam slowly arches his head as far back as it can go. Dean's eyes are instantly drawn to the column of Sam's throat, bared up at him and flexing as Sam wordlessly opens and closes his mouth.
Dean feels like he's watching someone else's hand slide around Sam's neck, some other set of callused fingers spreading over the arched line of Sam's throat. He presses gently, feeling the joints of his fingers slot up with the ridged line of Sam's windpipe. His thumb slides to rest under the curve of Sam's jaw, rubbing against it as Sam's lips start to tremble.
Sam's hands are gripped into the sheets so tightly that his knuckles are white, a matched pair to Dean's fist in his hair. Dean can feel every sound Sam makes echoing through his hand at Sam's throat, and it takes him a moment to realize that the heavy panting noises filling the air are coming from his own mouth. Everything is hazy and hot and Dean's vision feels clouded, especially when he looks down past Sam's rapturous face to see the wet spot forming on his sweatpants, dampening the light gray material where the head of Sam's cock is tenting it obscenely.
I did that. The thought hits Dean out of nowhere, and it washes over him like a shot of whiskey, burning in his throat and seeping into his cock as he ruts himself against the dip of Sam's spine. Sam gasps as Dean picks up speed, grunting in time with his thrusts as he feels his balls tighten up until he spills his load against his brother. Dean pants against Sam's forehead, feeling his come soak through his boxers to dampen Sam's back.
Sam peers up at him, jaw hanging slack as he releases his hold on the wrinkled bedspread. Without taking his eyes off Dean, he slides a hand into his waistband while the other one lays itself over Dean's hand at his throat. Dean's head is still reeling from his orgasm, and he can only vaguely comprehend that Sam is pressing his hand harder against his throat. Sam looks so needy and desperate and scared, scared of what Dean isn't sure, so he tries to give Sam what he needs.
Dean's hand shakes as he grips Sam's throat, cutting off his brother's air as Sam artlessly jerks his dick with the desperate fumbling of a teenager. It only takes a few seconds before Sam tenses up and jerks against him, strangled keen running out of his mouth as he comes. Dean loosens his grip and watches the wet spread of Sam's release as it soaks through his pants.
The whole room stinks of sex and Tiger Balm and sweat and something deeper, something Dean doesn't want to try and understand right now. Sam doesn't fight as Dean pulls him to lie down, flicking off the light before he presses his chest to Sam's back and closes his eyes. Sam falls asleep first, snuggling back against Dean like they've done this a million times. Dean listens to the sound of his soft snores and tries to block out everything else.
They don't talk about it when they wake up, which is a relief. Dean wouldn't know what to say anyway. They stock up on food and beer and head to Rufus' cabin. Dean notices that Sam seems calmer. He's in a better mood than he's been in for days, smiling at their waiter and offering to drive so Dean can rest. Sam even lets him pick the music.
If Dean is good at one thing, it's compartmentalizing his feelings and focusing on getting the job done. Dean doesn't question the deep thrill of satisfaction he feels when Sam doesn't shower that morning, and he doesn't prod at the warmth that spreads through him when Sam offers to get him coffee and pie at every gas station they pass. All that can wait for later. Right now, Dean needs to take care of Sam and keep them safe.
Nothing could feel more natural to Dean.
*
Castiel spends two months in the woods where Meg died. It's easier to bear when he's shifted. The emptiness is still there, that hollow ache inside of him that he doubts will ever truly leave. But it's dampened when he's the wolf, instead of the grieving man who cries himself to sleep at night.
Sometimes Castiel wakes up, naked and human and hurting, and reaches out for a warm body that isn't curled against his chest the way it's supposed to be. Meg had always complained about being the little spoon, but even if she fell asleep pressed to his back and running her hands along his hips, she would wake up with his nose against the nape of her neck.
When Castiel can't remember what she smelled like, he knows it's time to leave. Having successfully cut himself off from one of the largest packs in the country, and having no desire to take up with Crowley, his options are limited to heading to Canada or going west. Anna made sure he had the papers to leave the country if he needed to, but Castiel knows leaving the country carries its own set of problems. Crossing the border means paperwork, and paperwork means one less alias Castiel can use.
Like most Angeli, Castiel didn't exist legally. He'd been delivered by his father and raised away from humans, with no social security number, no birth certificate, and no pesky blood tests. The intense secrecy of his family was designed to keep them safe from the hunters who sought their hides and the warring clans who sought their land.
But no one could exist in a vacuum, and contact with the outside world was necessary for their survival. Castiel and Anna had always been the go-betweens for their pack. Most of their siblings were too hot-headed or too plain snobby to successfully interact with humans. Castiel was pretty sure the only reason Zachariah hadn't abjured him on the spot for bringing Meg home was because of his proficiency in passing for human. Meg was half-human, and her were-half was the wrong half as far as most of his pack was concerned. That humanity was what had made Meg so special, so different from anyone he'd ever met.
It's not that Castiel was exceptionally human. Much of their behavior mystified him, and he was aware that his own actions were often met with confusion and guarded hostility by most people. But humans fascinated Castiel. These weak, fragile things, with nothing to protect them but their brains and a set of opposable thumbs, walked through life with their heads held high and spent their brief lives creating things.
Castiel remembers the first time he'd gone to a movie. It had opened with a logo, a roaring lion with the words “Ars Gratia Artis” underneath. Castiel had looked those words up, and he thought they perfectly encapsulated everything that made human beings so unfathomably special: Art for art's sake.
That's what Castiel had loved in Meg, that irreverent spark. She did things for their own sake, not because it was her duty or her obligation, but just for the joy of blasting music in his truck or making out all afternoon. Castiel knew her alpha nature had made her headstrong and difficult, but it had also made her so free and unafraid to be herself.
Castiel turns the radio on as he pulls his truck out and heads west to the pack in Washington. He figures he'll skirt north to stay in sparsely-populated areas. He knows it'll take him some time to reacclimatize to social interaction. Part of him wants to disappear into the woods, go feral and stay lost for the rest of his life. But he knows that isn't what Meg would have wanted. He thinks of all the things she loved about the world; pizza and music and beer and warm summer nights.
Castiel smiles as he pulls out the small tube of Chapstick from the glovebox. Meg had always chided him for his split lips. It tastes like honey.
The pack in Olympia might not accept him, but Castiel has to try. After all, Castiel was a beta, and while he was stronger than most, he knew he wasn't suited for life alone. He'd never find an alpha like Meg, but the warmth of a pack would do more to heal him than anything else.
He turns his truck on to the highway and heads west, the sun at his back and a strange new world spread out before him.
*
The restraints were Sam's idea.
“Sam, I know a thing or two about tying up mon... things, OK?” Dean silently scolds himself for the “m-word” slip-up.
“I just don't want to take any risks. I've never had to do this outside of Bobby's and I just … I don't want to hurt anyone.” Sam sighs and hauls himself out of the car. “Do you want anything?”
Dean shakes his head and watches Sam walk into the post office, which in a town this small also functioned as the general store and the bait and tackle shop. Sam had ordered the restraints from some medical supply place that catered to prisons and loony bins. Dean was pretty sure Sam was stronger than even the craziest crazy, but he didn't have the strength to argue with him.
Rufus' cabin is pretty much everything Dean expects it to be. Sam helps Dean clear all the furniture in the basement over to one side. Dean had wanted to tie Sam to a bed so he could at least get some sleep, but Sam had sensibly pointed out that he'd only feel worse if he tore Rufus' mattress to shreds. Thankfully, Rufus has a sturdy metal chair that Sam thinks will be strong enough. They leave the cooler full of pig hearts in the corner.
They eat a light meal and knock back a few beers. Dean brews a huge pot of coffee for himself and puts the kettle on to start brewing Pamela's wolf-taming herbs. It'll be dark soon.
Sam grimaces with distaste as he swallows down the foul-smelling tea. The smell of it makes even Dean feel a little green around the gills, so he can only imagine how gross it must taste to Sam. Sam gulps back a generous swill of Rufus' Wild Turkey before he heads down to the basement.
After he settles his pot of coffee and a mug on an old dresser, Dean rolls his sleeves up and faces Sam. Grabbing the repurposed peanut butter jar full of Pamela's nasty “time of the month” concoction, he comes to stand in front of Sam.
“Should we do this first?” Dean asks quietly, watching Sam's nostrils flare as he opens the jar. Sam nods and grits his teeth, scooping up a finger-full of yellowish goo and rubbing it into his hands. He hisses at the contact, wincing as he tries to rub it in. It was supposed to delay Sam's claws from coming out, and make him less coordinated once they did.
Dean wordlessly takes the jar and kneels down in front of Sam, grabbing one of his huge paws (which, fuck, that joke just didn't sound as funny any more) and working the goopy cream in himself. It makes the Tiger Balm smell like heaven. While it only feels like sticky petroleum to Dean, it obviously hurts Sam. His brother bites his lip and scrunches his eyes shut until Dean's finished.
The restraints are sitting in a box next to the chair. They're padded leather, in that institutional shade of beige that always makes Dean feel rebellious, like he's stuck back in every junior-high-hallway he's ever known. They even come with their own duffel bag, a nondescript blue canvas number with “Posey Crisis Kit” printed on it in small white letters. Sam won't meet his eye as Dean buckles them around his wrists and ankles. All the faux-medical jargon on earth can't make this feel anything less than creepy.
“Need you to stay awake for me for a little while longer, OK, Sammy?” Dean leans in to Sam's face and looks at him. His eyes are unfocused, bleary from the tea and ointment. He nods at Dean, mouth falling slack like he's drunk. Sam's safe until he falls asleep, and the last thing Dean needs is Sam conking out before he's trussed up all pretty.
And that … was not the thought Dean had intended to have. Squeezing Sam's shoulder, Dean blinks his eyes a few times before he comes behind Sam. He buckles the thick canvas webbing to each restraint with the heavy-duty carabiners. Kneeling down to grasp the cinch-line, Dean starts pulling the slack through until he can feel the strap tightening as it draws Sam's hands and feet closer together. At the first tug of resistance, Sam rolls his head to the side and whines.
Dean drops the thick strap and claps a hand over his mouth, rolling back on his heels. It's bad enough that he's strapping his barely-conscious baby brother to a chair so he can't kill people when he turns into a fucking werewolf. There's enough wrong with this situation just as it is. Dean really doesn't need to be thinking about the fact that he's got a fucking boner while he's doing it. But, god, those sounds, that throaty whimper that Sam makes when Dean tugs the straps a little tighter is like a fucking drug.
Biting his lip, Dean pulls the loose end one last time, drawing it as taut as it can go. Sam's hands are drawn together tightly behind his back, the strap pulling his feet back under the chair. Dean can hear Sam breathing, deep breaths in and out through his mouth punctuated by intermittent soft whinges. Dean runs his hands over Sam's wrist cuffs, checking to make sure they're tight enough, that Sam can't leave him, can't go anywhere Dean doesn't want him to.
Dean huffs out a breath and scrubs his hand over his face. What had happened last night had been … it wasn't supposed to happen, that was for sure. Dean isn't supposed to feel a phantom ache in his hand as he flexes his fist, imagining soft brown hair running through his fingers. Dean isn't supposed to feel that throbbing pressure in his jeans, or think about how good it would feel to slide around into Sam's lap, to hold him there and run his lips along Sam's bared throat.
Dean almost falls over when Sam clenches his fists and growls, body twitching as he lets out a pained cry that Dean recognizes. He stumbles onto his feet and retreats back, glad that Sam's back is to him. Dean turns to face the dresser and pours himself a cup of coffee, black and strong. He sits down and cups the mug in his hands, staring into his inky reflection as he listens to Sam shift into some sharper and more dangerous version of himself.
At least Sam had turned into the kind of monster you could see on the outside. Dean didn't know what he was becoming, but he knew it should scare him a lot more than it did.
*
Castiel has missed pancakes. They're completely superfluous to his diet, a perfect ars gratia artis of sugary indulgence. He's been living on nothing but meat for so long that he feels a little giddy from the sugar-high.
Montana is beautiful, and Castiel almost wishes there was a pack that he could approach here. The air is so clean, untainted with all the smells that hang over more densely-populated areas. And Castiel couldn't ask for better hunting grounds.
Castiel thinks of Meg at her first hunt with his pack, how she'd thumbed her nose at tradition and let Castiel eat the heart of her first kill, a beautiful roe buck, even though he was a beta. He smiles and watches the drizzle of syrup over his pancakes. It's the same deep brown of Meg's eyes. Castiel still grieves, but it hurts a little less each day.
“I just want some coffee.” Castiel sniffs, stops mid-chew and holds his fork above his plate.
“Sam, you gotta eat something, jesus. It's getting embarrassing.” Castiel sits stock-still as the two men walk past him. There's no mistaking it. One of them is a wolf, an Eidolon like Meg was.
He watches as they take their seats in a booth a few rows down from Castiel's. The taller one sits facing Castiel. He pulls out a newspaper and spreads it over the table.
Castiel doesn't have to get close to them to tell that he's the were, and he's not well. He has dark circles under his eyes, and his mouth has the slight pinch of someone who experiences constant low-level pain. He orders a coffee from the waitress without looking up from the paper while the other one, a human, orders a bacon omelette with a side of sausage and “a western omelette for my brother.” Curious.
Placing his fork down carefully, Castiel tilts his head and inhales. It's harder in the close, smoky diner, but he manages to glean what he can from the were's scent. He's a beta, despite his size, and he's been poisoned. That's the only solution Castiel can theorize for the acrid cloud of hellebore and wolfsbane wafting off him. The hairs on the back of Castiel's neck bristle as he wonders who could have done this. Is his brother keeping him prisoner? Nothing in their body language suggests it, but why else would the hazel-eyed were have toxins in his blood?
He closes his eyes to read all the information his nose is taking in. They're clearly related, Castiel can smell that, but there's something else making their scents intermingle, almost like they're … Castiel opens his eyes and opens them a little wider as the smaller one turns to catch the waitress' attention. Fraternal mates aren't unheard of, but Castiel didn't think humans generally did things like that.
It's a pleasing concept to consider, and Castiel feels a little thrill as the green-eyed one smiles lazily at the waitress. He's beautiful, even with the pallor of exhaustion and over-caffeination dampening his natural radiance.
He's a human, so Castiel can't tell much from his scent. They all smell mostly the same, much in the way pancakes all generally smell the same. You don't know if you're gotten a really good one until it's in your mouth. But Castiel can just get the hint of it, curling through the greasy air to settle somewhere at the base of his spine. Alpha.
“Thank you, darling,” he says to the waitress, turning back to his brother and looking at a spot on the newspaper. “Huh. Sounds promising.”
The were sips his coffee. “Yeah, definitely our kind of thing. Ghouls?”
Castiel isn't sure he heard him correctly. But if he did … these two just get curiouser and curiouser.
Castiel keeps his eyes on the beta, amazed that he hasn't spotted another were yet. A new customer walks into the diner, bringing a gust of autumn air with him. The breeze flows past Castiel and carries his scent to their table. He watches the beta's nostrils flare, his head tilting up with a confused look on his face.
Castiel sits calmly and waits. Surely the were will acknowledge him once he realizes Castiel is present. The were's eyes narrow as he scans the diner, sniffing the air as his hand tightens around his coffee mug. His brother is still talking and pointing at the newspaper as his eyes alight on Castiel.
“Sam... Sam? Hello?” Sam, apparently, meets Castiel's unwavering gaze and holds it for a few brief moments. Instead of the nod of greeting or the waved hand Castiel is expecting, he simply furrows his forehead with what looks like confusion and worry. His sense of smell must be dulled by the herbs but still, how could he not know?
“Yeah, sorry, Dean... still pretty tired.” Sam shakes his head and looks down at whatever his brother is pointing at. They continue to talk quietly as Castiel takes a thoughtful bite of his pancakes. He's not sure what to do. It's common custom for any were to acknowledge another, especially if they were from different packs.
Unless you weren't in a pack and had only turned recently. A lone wolf, mated to his human brother. That would explain a lot, although Castiel still can't imagine why he reeks of poison. Surely he isn't dosing himself with it. Castiel shudders at the idea.
He watches the two leave the diner, ducking his head when they walk by. He inhales deeply, memorizing the beta's scent as well as the human's. Castiel's sex drive had been minimal in the past months, and he's startled to feel himself stirring as he breathes in the combined scents of the brothers. He stares at the puddle of syrup on his plate and thinks of all the bawdy jokes Meg would be making.
The beta, Sam, pulls on a sweatshirt as the other one slides into the driver's seat. Castiel tilts his head and observes their body language, noting the slight duck to the taller one's shoulders as he approaches the car. Castiel's own head ducks sympathetically, remembering the comforting thrill of Meg's teeth on the back of his neck.
A few days out of his slow meander to Washington wouldn't make a difference. Meg had always called him a sucker for charity cases, and Castiel feels an inexplicable sympathy for the lost-looking beta. He'll have to be careful, but he knows he can help them.
He waits until they pull out of the parking lot. There's no need to alert them yet. He can wait, and watch, and follow them until the time is right. Castiel finishes his pancakes and heads outside to his truck.
Castiel stops with his hand on the door-handle of his truck when it hits him. That can't be right...
He closes his eyes and follows his nose. He takes a few steps back and scans the parking lot until he can trace the scent. His eyes settle on a beat-up red El Camino. It stinks of diesel fuel and wolfsbane. Castiel swallows down his distaste and forces himself to focus.
This can't be a coincidence. Castiel has heard of hunters, of course, but he wasn't the kind of were they came after. Castiel has never killed a human being, just like the thousands of other weres that lived under the radar all over the world. He ate a heart every month, ideally a boar but he could get by on a deer or an elk.
He thinks of the lanky were in the diner. Only those turned as humans craved human flesh. And those were the killings that got hunters on your trail. He can't be positive, but Castiel is sure he would have known if Sam had been feeding on humans. The drugs in his system were a sure mark that he, or someone else, was trying to keep his urges under control.
Castiel closes his eyes and tries to recall Sam's scent, separating out the threads that wove through it like a tapestry of bone and blood and meat. Pigs. He'd been eating pig hearts.
A lone Eidolon had once stumbled into their compound, half-mad and reeking of human blood. Castiel had killed him on sight, and considered it an act of mercy. No one was fit to live like that.
Sam wasn't like that, though. He'd looked ill and haunted, yes, but not with the guilt of what he'd done. He'd looked like a man afraid of what he might do.
Steeling himself against the noxious stench of wolfsbane, Castiel slowly walks past the red car. Pretending to drop something, he stoops down and inhales deeply, almost choking as the scent hits him. It's overlaid with the cordite scent of firearms and the ripe adrenaline of the rage-fueled owner of the vehicle, but it's unmistakable. Castiel feels his stomach curl in on itself, and he has to fight every muscle in his body not to flee.
Silver nitrate. Castiel has only smelled it twice in his lifetime, and once was more than enough to ensure he'd never forget it. It smells like death.
While there were many things that could harm a werewolf, there were few things that could actually kill one. There was the obvious silver to the heart, and Castiel was pretty sure a were wouldn't survive having its heart ripped out or its head cut off. They were mortal and prone to the same terminal illnesses as human beings, as Castiel knew all too well, and would eventually die of old age. But if you wanted to kill a werewolf in the most excruciatingly cruel way possible, you shot it up with silver nitrate and watched it cook from the inside out.
Swallowing the nauseous saliva pooling in his mouth, Castiel staggers back to his feet and scans the parking lot. He doesn't see anyone coming, so he chances a look into the car. The footwell is littered with empty coffee cups and small bottles of energy supplements. There's nothing else of interest, but Castiel is able to get a firm fix on the man's scent. It tastes bitter in his mouth. This is a man driven by hatred and fueled by bloodlust.
Castiel is sure this man would kill him without a second thought. And he's sure this man is planning to kill Sam, and probably Dean as well. Castiel is too good at covering his tracks for the man to be hunting him.
He knows that he could walk away, that it was just chance that led him to this lone wolf and his brother. If they knew about ghouls they were probably capable of defending themselves. But Castiel thinks of Sam's face, his sad expression laced with pain, and feels a twinge in his heart. He can help them, he can make them pack and show them how to survive. He can show them how to do a lot of things.
Castiel waits in his truck until the El Camino's owner returns from the gas station bathroom. He's a stocky black man with the charming smile of a very proficient sociopath. Castiel watches him settle into the driver's seat, placing his coffee cup in the holder before checking his phone. He squints at it for a moment before nodding and smiling. Castiel waits five minutes before pulling the truck out and following the red car.
Castiel might be a wolf, but he's never seen a smile more predatory.
*
Handsy. Dean now officially knows the meaning of the word “handsy.” Pamela was wrong about one thing, though. Sam isn't the only one.
It had happened again last night. Dean had come inside from cleaning out the cooler to find Sam sitting on the bed, shirt off and the little jar of Tiger Balm sitting next to him. Dean knew Sam was hurting, and he told himself he'd just rub Sam's back until he could fall asleep, that was all.
Dean worries one of his cuticles between his teeth as he tries not to think about how he'd ended the night rubbing himself off against Sam's leg like a teenager, his fingers digging into Sam's neck as his brother came all over his belly.
It was like he was drugged when he did it, watching from the outside as his brain shut down and his body took over. And his body was getting more insistent about taking the driver's seat. He can feel himself chubbing up as he watches Sam bend over to pull a sweatshirt out of the trunk.
Even more than Dean wants to run his hands all over Sam and memorize every inch of him, he worries about him. He just wants Sam to sleep, to eat, to smile for him. Sam had caught the scent of a case two states over, and Dean was happy to chase after ghouls if it would distract Sam. But he knew it was just a ruse, that there was always this driving fear bubbling beneath the surface. Sam was falling apart while he watched, and Dean didn't know what to do.
Sam might be the one with fangs and claws, but all Dean can think about is how he needs to take care of him more than ever.
They stop in a small college town at the eastern edge of Montana. Shock of all shocks, Sam is in a mood. He'd been distracted the whole drive, staring out the window with even more emo-boy intensity than usual. Dean isn't surprised when Sam drops his duffel and turns right around to head out to the local coffee shop, despite Dean's protests.
“Are you sure that's a good idea, Sammy?” Dean knows it's natural for Sam to want some space, especially after being cooped up in the car for two days. Normally Dean would jokingly kick him out, tell him to go stretch his sasquatch legs and try to get laid. Dean doesn't want to say any of those things rights now.
“I just want to go and sit and drink some crappy coffee and read a book. You know,” Sam snorts bitterly, “pretend to be normal.”
Dean sits on the bed and watches him leave. He should want Sam to get out, enjoy himself a little bit. Dean had spent half of his life trying to get Sam to have some fucking fun once in a while. And now all he wants is Sam pressed close to him, hot under his hands as he whimpers for Dean like a good little-
Jesus christ. Dean isn't exactly the king of appropriate thoughts, but this is fucked up even for him. It was just the werewolf thing. Handsy. Handsyness. Werewolf handsyitis. It's not like Dean wanted to fuck Sam, wanted to hear all the punched-out little noises Sam would make when Dean-
“You need to watch some porn, and chill the fuck out,” Dean mutters to himself, pinching the bridge of his nose and reaching over for the TV remote. That was it, that's all this was. Dean hadn't gotten laid in … fuck, really? Had he really not slept with anyone since Sam got bitten? No wonder he was humping anything in sight.
“Jesus, they're up to volume 14?” Dean punches in the code to pay for Casa Erotica and settles back against the headboard. He smiles as he hears the opening bars of horrible synth-porno music. His dick starts wooding up like Pavlov's dog just at the sound of it.
It's the generic, two-pretty-blondes-and-a-dude porn that Dean has spent hundreds of hours of his life jerking off to, always does the trick.
Dean has a method for jerking off when he's by himself. The majority of his life has been spent trying to rub one out in under 10 seconds, sometimes in the direct vicinity of two of his male family members. When he actually has the privacy and the time to spread out and jack off, he likes to take his time.
He doesn't even take his pants off to start, just rests his head on his arms and watches the girl-on-girl makeout scene. He likes feeling himself get hard, likes the way his dick starts to strain against his jeans until he can see the hard line of it against his fly.
He settles one hand over his bulge, pressing his palm against it and rubbing slowly. He bites his lip and closes his eyes, just listening to the wet kissing noises Tara and Brandi or whatever the fuck their names are keep making as he grinds the heel of his hand against his hard-on. He does it until he can't stand it anymore, until his cock starts to throb under his hand.
He hisses when he unzips his jeans and slides them off his legs. Every brush of his dick against his pre-come-soaked boxers is almost too much, the head tender and leaking wet. He hums with relief as he frees his cock, tugging the elastic down to rest under his balls. Wrapping his right hand around his cock as his left hand cups his balls, he squeezes gently, looking down to watch as a clear drop of pre-come oozes out of the slit. He swirls his thumb over it, bringing it up to his mouth to suck on it as he tugs at his nuts.
Replacing his hand, he pushes out another drop and spreads it over the head of his cock, slowly stroking himself as his half-lidded eyes watch blonde #1 suck a dick like she's getting paid for it. He rolls his balls and licks his lips, working his speed up until he's got a steady rhythm going.
Blowjob #1 turns into blowjob #2 turns into double blowjob, Dean's favorite part. He fists his cock firmly and starts to stroke himself faster, pressing his index finger into that sensitive spot right behind his balls. He'll be coming in no time, biting his lip in anticipation as he watches both girls take a face-full of come and start licking it off each other.
Yep, coming in no time, any second now. Dean works his dick a little faster, twisting it at the head every few strokes. “That's right, just like that, lick it off each other,” Dean starts mumbling, closing his eyes as he concentrates, “yeah, that's good, suck that fucking cock, that's right, you dirty little bitch, come on, come on...” Dean keeps muttering a stream of encouraging filth and pulling out every handy trick he knows. Any second now, almost there...
Son of a bitch. Dean glares at his dick and blows a frustrated breath across his lips. This is just monumentally unfair. Dean's just tired, that's all, tired and bored with pay-per-view porn. And it's dry in here, that's it, the air's dry. He just needs a little lubrication.
Dean scoots down to the edge of the bed and rifles through his bag, pulling out his dopp kit and fishing around for the good jerk-off lotion. His fingers brush against some shaving cream, an emergency bottle of oxycontin and a small jar of...
Fuck. Dean knows it's a bad idea before he even does it, but his hand closes around the Tiger Balm before he can even think it through. He twists it open, careful not to get any of it on his fingers as he takes a tentative sniff. Dean's nostrils fill with the burning smell of eucalyptus while his head starts to swim with images of Sam, his strong back pressed against Dean's dick, the desperate little whines he makes when Dean gets a hand in his hair, that long throat laid bare for Dean's mouth.
It doesn't feel dry in the room anymore as Dean feels little pinpricks of sweat break out on his forehead. God, this is fucked. Dean's just tired and he hasn't gotten laid in forever and he just needs to bust a nut and go the fuck to sleep, not feel his dick sweating out pre-come like a whore in church as he thinks about Sam bound to that chair, muscles straining as Dean cinched his restraints tighter, not going anywhere, Sammy, all mine...
This is not Dean's fault, it just can't be. It's Sam's fault, Sam and his crazy werewolf mood swings and hormones and fucking hell, Dean's probably synched up with Sam's wolfie-PMS or something. That's all it is, he just needs to get it out of his system. Just think about it a little bit, just let himself have one good fantasy and let it all go, that's all. He won't want to think about Sam bending over the trunk of the car again, how his ass sticks up in the air as his shirt rides up, exposing his back, all covered with Dean's come like it's supposed to be...
Dean hadn't even noticed that he'd started stroking his cock again, but he starts to move his hand faster as he pictures Sam, his arms tied behind his back, feet bound together as he kneels on the floor. Fuck he'd look good like that, feel so good to grab a handful of his hair and tug, pull his head back as far as it'd go.
“Gonna suck my cock,” Dean mumbles, tasting the words in his mouth and liking it. “Suck me off on your knees like a good little bitch.” He presses his lips together as he runs his thumb through the bead of precome shining at the head of his cock, smearing it over his length as he works himself faster.
He closes his eyes and sees Sam before him, hands pulling against the handcuffs holding him to the headboard. His face is flushed and hot, sweat beading on his chest as he writhes under Dean's hands. “Spread those pretty legs for me,” Dean says gruffly, digging his hands into the meat of Sam's thighs and pulling. “Show me your tight little ooooh fuck, fuck,” Dean pants, feeling his nuts draw up tight and he really is going to fucking come any second now.
“Show me your tight little hole, fuck, Sammy,” Dean whispers, gritting his teeth as he feels heat coil up his spine, “come in your ass, Sammy, make you mine, all mine, Sammy, fuck, fuck,” Dean groans and shoots all over his fist, hot come running down the sides of his wrist as he gasps.
Dean collapses down onto the pillow and holds his hand up above his mouth, watching with his eyes half-open as a cloudy drop falls down. It leaves behind a shiny tendril and hits his lips just as Dean murmurs, “Oh, fuck, Sammy...” Dean licks his lips and savors the salty taste of himself as he nods off.
The lights are still on when Dean wakes up and he feels disoriented. He rubs his eyes and starts with surprise, until he remembers that he passed out without washing his hand and just managed to rub his own spunk into his eye.
“At least buy a girl dinner first,” Dean jokes to himself as he stumbles into the bathroom. He splashes some cold water onto his face and drinks some straight from the tap. He wanders out of the bathroom, wiping his face with a scratchy hand-towel.
Where the fuck is Sam? Dean can't have been asleep that long if Sam isn't back yet. Dean was pretty sure coffee shops in Montana didn't stay open past eleven, college town or not.
Fuck, they definitely didn't stay open past 3 AM. Was that right? Dean grabs his phone off the side table and checks the screen. It is definitely 3 AM, and there is no way Sam is still drinking coffee and reading.
It's fine, Dean thinks. Sam probably met some cute girl and went back to her dorm room. The only reason Dean is borderline furious at the thought of that is just because Sam didn't call and he's worried. That's all.
And Sam isn't answering his phone because he's probably busy getting laid, like he's supposed to, like Dean would have told him to if he wasn't all fucked in the head from Sam's contagious werewolf handsy PMS. That's all.
Dean sits on the edge of the bed and stares at his phone. Sam always texts if he isn't coming back. That's just part of the code, like the sock on the door or “always get pie.” He calls Sam again.
This is definitely not right. Sam's phone is going straight to voicemail, which means it's either dead or turned off, both of which are so un-Sam-like that Dean feels a warning tendril of anxiety coiling through his gut. Dean knows better than to ignore that feeling.
Dean takes a deep breath and gets the laptop out of Sam's bag. They'd agreed to keep the GPS on both their phones active after Sam had turned. He brings up the tracking site on the computer and punches in the number, nervously chewing on a hang-nail as he waits for it to load.
OK. Sam isn't that far away. In fact, he's only a few blocks away. Dean heads out the door, praying that he hits a dorm room or sorority house with a passed-out Sam in it.
Dean feels his heart sink when he hits a deserted alleyway. Does anything good ever happen in alleyways? Well, maybe sometimes, but that doesn't make Dean feel much better.
Reaching his hand into his jacket, Dean settles his hand over his gun. This does not feel right. “Sam?” Dean whispers, squinting his eyes to see in the dim light cast by the single streetlamp. He takes a few steps forward and stops with a lurch as he hears something crackle under his boot. Oh fuck, no...
Dean sinks to one knee and picks up the crushed cell phone. It looks like it was broken before Dean stepped on it, which can only mean one thing. Someone took Sam. Someone took Sam while Dean was a few blocks away, coming in his hand while he thought about his little brother trussed up like a Christmas ham.
“M'so sorry Sammy, fuck,” Dean whispers against the fist he's pressed to his mouth. Panic is rising in his chest, mingling with the bitter taste of fear and loathing coating his tongue.
“I'll find you, Sammy.” Dean stumbles to his feet, tucking the remnants of Sam's phone into his jacket pocket.
He'll find whoever took Sam, and when he does, Dean will be the one ripping some throats out with his teeth.
*
“We should have fucking killed you,” Sam coughs and spits out a wad of bloody phlegm, “when we had the chance.”
“I don't disagree with that statement.” Gordon smiles and holds up a gleaming silver needle. “By the time I'm done with you, you'll wish you had.”
Gordon Walker. Of all the loose ends in Sam's life, he would be one that came back to bite him in the ass. Or, as the case may be, wait in ambush for Sam in a dark alleyway and jump him with a silver net and a syringe full of wolfsbane.
“Why don't you just fucking kill me?” Sam tugs against the restraints holding him to the chair. He hisses as the wet ropes burn his skin, filling his nose with the stench of hellebore and burnt flesh.
“Oh I will,” Gordon answers calmly. He picks a small plastic bottle up from the crate that he's set up as a makeshift table for his … supplies. Sam shudders as Gordon pops the cap open and wafts it under Sam's nose. What the fuck is that smell? It's a thousand times worse than any of Pamela's herbs.
“But it's not just you, is it Sammy?” Gordon bites off the nickname like he's tearing into a juicy steak. “Where Sam goes, so goes Dean. He'll come for you.” Sam shrinks away from the liquid in Gordon's hand, tears forming in his eyes from the noxious fumes.
“Might take him a while, though. So, in the meantime,” Gordon withdraws the bottle and holds it steady as he dips the needle in it, “I thought I'd try out some new … techniques I've been developing.”
Sam can feel the shift starting to take hold of him, the familiar sharp pains in his joints, the burning ache in his jaw as his teeth resettle. Apparently his fight-or-flight response now includes fangs, full moon or not.
“This is called silver nitrate.” Gordon withdraws the needle and watches a few clear drops fall back into the bottle. “Now, I know a 10 mL syringe of this will kill you. It'll kill you slowly, and painfully, but it'll kill you. But I wonder,” Gordon sets the bottle down and holds the needle between his thumb and forefinger, “what one drop will do. Let's find out, shall we?”
Sam feels a fresh set of angry tears well up in his eyes as Gordon crouches down by his arm. Even that one drop is enough to make Sam's body recoil, straining against the burning ropes as he feels himself start to shift. His growl sounds fearsome, but Sam's only sensation is the pain singing in him as the sharpness breaks through his skin. Tooth and claw slice through him as his bones shift and swell, blind from the pain as his eyes morph into bleached-blue slits. The dim light of the barn is agonizing as he blinks back the wetness in his eyes and stifles another howl.
“Good, got your game face on. That's what I like to see.” Gordon grasps his arm and steadies the needle. “You might have everyone else fooled, Sam, but I know what you really are. You're a monster.”
In another life, the thin prick of the needle into his flesh would have barely registered on Sam's radar. Sam had set his own broken bones in the back of the Impala before he turned 16. He could give himself stitches with the steady hand of a surgeon while Dean flew down the highway at 90 miles an hour. But that was another Sam, one that seems like a dim memory as the silver sliver breaks his skin and sets Sam's body on fire.
Sam isn't sure if he's conscious any more, if he's actually making all those vicious noises he hears in his head. All Sam can feel is pain, blinding white and crystal clear in every cell of his body. He doesn't notice that his teeth have cut through his lips, or the way his claws have gouged holes in his own palms as he seizes up in agony. All Sam is aware of is the one thing he wants most.
Dean.
“Do you even feel pain?” Gordon's words sound slow and strange, filtered through the molasses of Sam's sluggish consciousness. “Like the pain of being left for three days,” Gordon jabs the needle in deeper, “tied to a chair, while some vamp bitch gets to run free because you two assholes couldn't handle the job?”
Dean's arms around him, Dean's scent all over him, Dean's heartbeat in his ears, Dean's hand on his neck...
“I track you for months, and then I get the big prize. Sam motherfucking Winchester, a werewolf. It's almost poetic, isn't it?” Sam feels a fresh burst of pain as Gordon slowly draws the poisoned needle out of his arm. He stands up and leans against the crate.
“Do you even have a soul anymore? Not that it matters. What happens after I kill you ain't my problem,” Gordon says with sociopathic cheer, settling the bottle of silver nitrate down and picking up a gleaming knife. “Now this is someth-”
The lights cut out and everything goes red.
Sam can still feel the silver nitrate burning through his blood, making it difficult to focus on anything else. He can see perfectly in the dark now, slitted pupils of his eyes spreading wide to take in everything before him. But Sam's not sure he can trust his eyes right now, because what he's seeing makes no sense.
Dean had told him about the reaper that had appeared to him in the hospital. Perhaps Gordon was right, and Sam doesn't have a soul any more. Perhaps Sam is dying, and this is his reaper.
The wolf is bigger than any Sam has ever seen, blacker than the darkness around it as it moves through the air like an inky blur. It's powerful and fierce and the most beautiful thing Sam has ever seen. Will it eat what remains of Sam's soul? Sam regards it with the curious disinterest of someone in too much pain.
Something isn't right, though, even through the haze of fire in his veins he can see that. Surely Gordon shouldn't be able to see his wolf-reaper, shouldn't squint at it as he draws his gun with the instinctive movements of a hunter. The flare of the shot blinds Sam while the sound of it deafens him, and everything is a blur of blood and screams.
*
Castiel was never a heavy drinker. It took so much alcohol to even get him drunk that he'd never really bothered. And if he did consume enough to actually get drunk, it was out of his system so quickly that he'd never known what a hangover felt like.
Likewise, Castiel isn't susceptible to the bugs and flus that plagued most humans. His body's recovery time was simply too quick. When it was clear that Meg was sick, Castiel had read a book about the human immune system and the cell-receptor specificity of bacteria and viruses. He suspected his cells were just different enough to deter any infection that could make him sick. The cancer that killed Meg was a mutation, something written into her DNA long before Castiel knew her.
While human childhoods are marked by an endless array of immune-bolstering illnesses and subsequent recoveries, Castiel had never known a runny nose or an upset tummy. Thus, it is with the horror of the unknown that Castiel wakes up, shudders, and barfs all over the worn carpeting of the motel room floor.
“He's awake, Sam, get up.”
Castiel hears a gruff voice before he feels his eyes water and his guts clench. Surely this is what dying feels like. Castiel sobs with misery as he feels another swell of sickness in his mouth.
“Hey, it's OK, you're OK.” Castiel feels a hand on his back, warm and firm against his shoulder as his body heaves. It subsides eventually and Castiel sits up fully, taking deep breaths and slowly remembering how he got here as the sunflower-patterned wallpaper swims before his eyes. Everything is filtering into his memory through a haze, disjointed images flowing out of sequence.
“What happened?” Castiel turns to the man sitting next to him, recognizing him as Sam. Castiel had tried to save him, had tracked him and that vicious hunter to an abandoned barn. He'd cut the lights to give himself the advantage. There'd been a shot, a flare of pain … Castiel brings a hand up to his shoulder as it starts to ache at the memory, finding a thick wad of gauze taped from his neck to his bicep.
“We were sort of hoping you could fill us in on that.” This is Dean, the mate. He crosses his arms over his chest and looks Castiel over warily. “What were you doing there?”
“What my brother,” Sam shoots a look at the other man, “means to say is thank you for saving me.” Sam hands Castiel a glass of water. “How did you know I was in trouble?”
Castiel takes the water gratefully. “I followed you.” Sam stares at him blankly while Dean narrows his eyes. “From the diner. In Montana? Surely you must remember me?” He tilts his head to the side and looks at Sam. “I saw you catch my scent.”
Sam runs a hand through his hair. “Oh god, of course, that's what that was. I'd never...”
“OK, hold the fucking werewolf phone.” Dean makes an exasperated face and holds a hand up. “His scent? What the fuck is he talking about, Sam?”
Castiel sees the conflicted look on Sam's face and turns to regard Dean. “All weres have a unique scent, sort of like a fingerprint. Once I caught yours and Sam's it was easy to follow you. When I noticed the hunter's car in the parking lot, I feared the worst. Clearly I was right.” Castiel winces as he tries to move his shoulder. He can recall the flash from the muzzle as the hunter took aim at him. The bullet must have grazed him deeply enough to poison him, which would explain the hateful illness slowly working its way back into his stomach.
“Hang on... do I have a scent?” Dean asks.
“Yes,” Sam and Castiel both respond, although Sam whispers it and blushes as Dean looks at him.
“But I'm not a... hey, what are you, anyway? I know you're not just Cas-tile Masters from Iowa.” Castiel grimaces a little at Dean's mangling of his name. Dean must have gone through his wallet and found the ID Anna had made for him.
“I'm an Angeli.” Dean and Sam both stare at him. “We're sometimes called the 'true form' or the 'pure race'?”
“You, um, you looked different than I do,” Sam says quietly. “You're a wolf.”
“Yes, of course. And you're an Eidolon.” Another set of blank stares. Had no one explained these things to them?
“So you're telling me there's more than one kind of werewolf?” Dean says slowly, rubbing his hand over his face with the well-worn patience of a person who's already seen too much.
“As far as I know, just the two.” Castiel groans as he feels his mouth start to water and his throat thicken. “I'm afraid I'm going to be sick again.” At least this time he'll be able to make it to the bathroom. He pushes himself up and gasps as he attempts to put weight on his left leg. “What the-”
“Oh, yeah, sorry about that.” Dean says. “I sort of, um, shot you.” It's Castiel's turn to stare blankly. “I'm sorry, I didn't know you were, you know, a good werewolf. It was dark and I ran in just as you were jumping Gordon.”
Castiel would laugh if he wasn't trying to keep himself from throwing up. Fucking alphas, always shoot first and ask questions later.
“We're really sorry, Cas,” Sam says, hooking Castiel's arm over his shoulder to help him stand up. “But it was just a normal bullet. You pushed it out in, like, an hour. It was kind of gross. And cool.” Sam helps him stagger to the bathroom as Castiel starts making disgusting gulping sounds. Surely human beings deserved some sort of special recognition for surviving this kind of trauma on a regular basis.
“Yes, well, just tell your mate not to shoot me again and we'll be fine,” Castiel says testily, making it to the sink before he starts retching again.
“My...” Sam trails off as Castiel starts alternating between every curse word he's ever heard in his life and a sort of choked bleating noise that would humiliate him under normal circumstances. When Castiel is finally finished, Sam helps him back to the bed.
“I think you should try to eat something,” Sam says apologetically. Dean nods tightly and grabs a set of keys off the dresser, returning a while later with some soup for the three of them.
Sam tells Castiel the story of his change, of the beautiful werewolf girl and her tragic end. Castiel can tell that Dean is uncomfortable with him, but anyone could see the relief on Sam's face as he shares his tale. It must be an incredible burden for him to bear.
Sam tells him that he has more questions, but they can wait until morning. Castiel can feel the exhaustion settling into his bones as he heals.
“Looks like you're stuck with me for the night, Sammy,” Dean says with forced ruefulness, which Castiel finds funny. Perhaps Dean fears that Castiel would judge them for mating. Humans are so odd sometimes.
While he sleeps well, he envies the comfort of the two brothers sharing a bed. He wakes later that night to the heavy scent of Dean in the air and the muffled snores of Sam. Castiel rolls onto his side and breathes deeply, imagining the comfort of two large bodies pressed against him.
*
“You're going to kill yourself.”
Sam hadn't even realized that Castiel was awake. He'd been preparing his tea while Dean was out getting them food. He didn't like taking it when Dean could see. It was easier to choke down when he didn't have to hide the grimace of pain as it burned its way down his throat.
Castiel had been recovering slowly but surely, puking and sweating out the wolfsbane while Dean grumbled about the mess. It had taken all of Sam's tricks to convince Dean to let Castiel stay, at least until he was better.
“Very much in the wanting-to-live club, Cas, I assure you.”
Sam gulps back the remainder of his cup and digs his fingernails into his palm, clenching his teeth as he fights his body's natural urge to gag. Sam wasn't sure if it was worse on days like this, with the full moon three days away, or just worse in general. His body ached all over, and Dean hadn't been … helping him with the Tiger Balm since Castiel showed up.
“I'm not referring to an immediate act of suicide, Sam, but rather the slow poisoning that you're currently performing on yourself.” Castiel manages to look judgmental from his nest of blankets despite the sheen of sweat on his brow.
“I don't really have a choice, Cas. This might be easy for you, but I can't risk hurting anyone.” Sam sighs and puts his mug in the small sink. “Especially Dean.”
“Why on earth would you hurt anyone?” Castiel asks him like he's speaking to a child, which in a way Sam is. Castiel has had his whole life to deal with this. Sam can barely make it month to month without feeling like he's going to lose his mind.
“Because I'm a fucking werewolf? Because once a month I turn into a killing machine? Because I'm a monster?” Sam grips his hands against the counter until his knuckles are white.
“I see.” Castiel sits in silence for a moment as Sam takes a deep breath and turns to face him.
“You know, Sam,” Castiel says calmly, “we have our own legends, just like humans do. I grew up listening to the elders tell us the old stories.”
Sam sinks down into the mangy armchair in the corner of the room, absently picking at the exposed foam stuffing at the arm as he listens to Castiel.
“My favorite one was one of the old creation myths. God created men and wolves at the same time, and sat back to see who would rule the earth. At first they existed peacefully together, but after a time wars began to break out. The men took one half of the earth, while the wolves took the other. God watched and waited. After a time, the men became indolent and lazy, prey to their own petty in-fighting and desire for wealth. The wolves fared no better, sinking into vicious, bestial cruelty, challenging one another to constant rivalries for dominance. God watched as his creatures destroyed themselves, and he pitied them. He realized that he had made a mistake. So God took one man and one wolf and joined them, soul-to-soul, and fashioned a new being. Her name was Leto, and she was the first werewolf. She had the best traits of both creatures, and God watched her children spread out over the earth, and he was happy.”
Sam feels himself still under Castiel's gaze.
“We can't fight what we are, Sam.” Castiel peels back the blankets and hisses as the air hits his skin. “The wolf is just as much a part of us as the man.”
Castiel stands up shakily, motioning for Sam to stay when he tries to get up to help him. Sam feels the heat rise in his cheeks as Castiel unceremoniously shucks the pajama bottoms Dean had begrudgingly lent him. He stands there completely naked as Sam tries not to look at anything but his face, tries to ignore the inviting curve of his hipbones, the flat plane of his stomach.
And then, so quickly Sam can barely register it, he's staring at an enormous black wolf. The tilt of its head as it regards Sam with bright blue eyes is a perfect match for Castiel's human posture. Sam can't bring himself to feel afraid, just curious.
The wolf crosses the room in two loping bounds, coming to sit before Sam. While it's unmistakably canine, Sam feels no desire to scratch it behind the ear. It bares its teeth in a parody of a grin that gives Sam chills. He can't help but recoil when it rears back and rests its forepaws on Sam's knees.
And just as quickly, it's gone, leaving behind a naked Castiel on his knees in front of Sam.
“If you treat the wolf like a beast, that's how it will behave.” Castiel's hands are resting just above Sam's knees, warm pressure radiating out through Sam's jeans. “If you treat it like it's part of you, it will make you stronger.”
Sam should really, really move right now, stand up and end this before it gets weird.
“I can show you, Sam,” Cas says in his hoarse whisper, “show you how to control it, to make it part of you.” Sam digs his fingers deeper into the armrests as Cas slides his hands up Sam's thighs. “You can't fight it, Sam,” he says. “Let me help you.”
Sam knows he should get up, knows he shouldn't let his knees fall open so Cas can press himself in closer. Sam bites his lip as he feels himself getting hard. “But Dean...” Sam says weakly, not even knowing what he means to say.
“We could be a pack, you and Dean and I. You know what Dean is, Sam, I know you can feel it just like I can.”
Sam can feel his heart pounding in his chest, skin going prickly as Cas bears down on him. Cas' words curl around him like honey, warm and tempting as he imagines himself running through the woods with him. Sam can feel the phantom ache of his fangs as he thinks of sharing a fresh kill with his packmate, of the pleased look on Dean's face when they bring him the choicest bits, Dean's hand pulling his head back to praise him with a kiss.
“I had a mate, Sam, an alpha. Her name was Meg, and she was beautiful and strong and when we made love she'd wrap her hands around my throat and I'd know that I was hers, that I was safe and loved and marked for everyone to know.” Castiel traces a fingertip up the quivering line of Sam's throat, dragging it along Sam's jaw. “Isn't that how Dean makes you feel, when he touches you?”
They hadn't talked about it, not that Sam would know what to say. He couldn't explain what had changed, couldn't precisely recall the moment when Dean had gone from his brother to something more, something Sam knew he needed but couldn't articulate. Dean had always taken care of him, had always made Sam feel safe.
Since he'd been bitten, Sam's thoughts about his brother bordered on obsessive. He hated seeing Dean flirt with women, found his hackles going up at every waitress who smiled at him. He craved Dean's touch so much it hurt, those strong hands kneading into him the only thing that eased the constant ache in his bones. The only moments of calm Sam could count on any more were when Dean was holding him tight, a hand on his throat blocking everything else out.
Dean had always been the one in charge. Sam had never realized how much he needed that.
“I know what you need because I'm the same.” Castiel is so close to his face Sam can feel his breath ghosting over his own lips. Sam watches the shape of Castiel's mouth as he starts to say something else, words dying as they both hear the car rumble back into the motel parking lot. Castiel is off him in a second, and by the time Dean opens the door and walks in with a bag of take-out Chinese he's back in his bed.
“Oh, what the fuck...” Dean pauses with the door open, mouth hanging ajar as he stares at the giant wolf stretched out on Castiel's bed.
Castiel is back to his human form in the blink of an eye, naked as the day is long and languidly stretched out on the bed as he looks Dean up and down.
“Oh, good. I'm hungry.”
*
Dean doesn't trust Castiel. It's just that simple. Just because Sam is a werewolf doesn't mean anyone who can wolf out gets a free pass.
And god, but he was bitchy. Dean was starting to suspect that his werewolf PMS theory was totally sound. No, of course the local diner food wasn't good enough for Cas anymore, he had to have wonton soup. And of course Sam had found a way to make Dean feel like an awful person for complaining about the 45-minute drive to Missoula.
“Come on, Dean, he saved my life.” That shit was getting old. Of course Dean knew that. It wasn't like he was going to forget the sight of a gigantic fucking wolf tearing Gordon's throat out. But saving Sam's life was Dean's job. Dean didn't feel appreciative so much as royally pissed off that he wasn't the first one there.
Dean steadies the bag of food on the seat next to him as he turns onto the exit for their motel. The last thing he needs is wonton soup all over his Baby. Never mind that it had taken him two days to get Castiel's blood off the backseat.
Dean remembers when this used to be easy. Well, fine, it was never easy, but there was a time when he didn't have to spend every waking hour trying not to think about fucking his little brother. Dean knows he can't control what his brain does when he's asleep, but that doesn't make him any less embarrassed when he wakes up with a hard-on and lingering images of Sam tied up like a pretty present. Dean knows that idea should sicken him; knows it would have made him ill just joking about it a year ago. He tries not to think about it too much, to resist the pull of it like the incoming tide.
Dean had always been pretty flexible on the sexual-orientation scale. A life of truck stops and back roads made for some interesting bed-fellows, and as Dean had joked more than once, a hummer's a hummer. But generally, if given a choice, Dean went in for tits and hips over pecs and a rock-hard ass.
Well, he used to. Dean had woken up in the middle of the night with his dick slotted into the cleft of Sam's ass, which in and of itself wasn't even that unusual any more. And if Sam appeared to be jerking himself off while Dean thigh-fucked him like he was a Catholic schoolgirl, that shit had gotten pretty common, too, if Dean was being honest.
What had really done a number on his head had been what he was dreaming about. The naked, begging, tied-up Sam with Dean's come leaking out of his ass was familiar at this point, but what was new was Castiel, blue-eyed and swollen-lipped as he gazed up at Dean. Dean's hand had been knotted into his hair, pressing his face forward until all Dean could hear were the wet slurping noises Castiel made as he cleaned Sam up just like Dean told him to. Dean had come off like a shot with his hand gripped into Sam's hair, panting and sweating and completely fucking freaked out.
There was no part of this that was good.
Dean stops at the liquor store on the way to the motel. If Dean was gonna feel out of his head with crazy gay sex dreams, he was at least gonna make sure he had enough whiskey to last the night.
Dean's hand hovers over the ignition in the liquor store parking lot. The whole car smells like goddamn Chinese food, fucking Castiel and his soup and his Sam-saving, I-know-everything-about-werewolves fucking ass. “Fuck this,” Dean mutters, sliding the brown paper bag down the neck of the bottle and popping the cap off. The familiar burn settles him a bit as he leans his head back against the seat.
Nope, definitely not trustworthy. The thought hovers in the back of his mind, ugly and bitter and unpleasantly familiar. They're gonna take Sammy away, Dean. It didn't matter who the bogeyman was, not really. Whether it was his dad warning him about CPS or the college acceptance letter Sam never realized Dean had intercepted or Jess or Madison or yellow-eyes or fucking blue-eyes waiting back in the motel room. Dean had been waiting for the other shoe to drop since Sam was six, and he'd felt its kick more than once.
Sam needed him, now more than ever. Sam couldn't leave any more, not the way he was. Dean hated to see him suffer, hated watching him choke down that vile-smelling tea. But Dean can't hide from the truth, not under the universally-soul-baring glare of liquor-store fluorescent lights. It felt good, seeing Sam bound up in front of him, dependent on Dean to save him from himself. Dean squeezes his eyes shut and tries to wash the shameful taste out of his mouth with another deep pull from the bottle of Jack.
The food's been cold for a while, so Dean figures a few extra minutes won't make a difference. Castiel can just deal with it.
Dean hasn't felt like his head was his own for months now. It was a constant battle between reason and duty and his mounting obsession with Sam. Castiel had only made it worse. Dean didn't know what he wanted from Castiel – he wanted him to leave and let them get back to the fucked-up little routine they'd carved out; he wanted to hear what Castiel would sound like choking on his dick while he kissed Sam. He wanted to go back to being a normal person who didn't hide in his car with a bottle of booze and a bag of cold Chinese food.
Backing out of the driveway and merging with the street back to the motel, Dean bites nervously at his lip and fiddles with the radio to distract himself. Castiel was healing quickly, and soon he'd be gone and Dean could go back to humping his brother and pretending he was thinking about gumby girl from Cicero while he jerked off.
The gravel crunches under his tires as he rolls into the motel parking lot. It's a bitch to get the door open with the food and the whiskey, but Dean manages, grumbling to himself, “Thanks for the help, guys.”
If Dean hadn't gotten so inured to seeing weird shit, he probably would have dropped the food the second he stepped into the room and saw a raven-black wolf stretched out on Castiel's bed. Instead he just freezes, bag of Chinese food forgotten as he holds it in mid-air.
“Oh, what the fuck...” Dean wishes he could say that it's the sight of the sharp-toothed killing machine occupying Castiel's bed that gets his hackles up. That would be enough to set anyone on edge. But what really gets him is the feeling hanging in the air itself, thick and heady and eerily familiar.
Dean knows this feeling, knows the look on Sam's face, too, that pink flush spreading up his neck. Sam's eyes are wide like he's been caught at something, breath coming in short as he shifts uncomfortably in the armchair.
“Oh, good. I'm hungry.” Castiel is human again, human and naked and excited about a lot more than Chinese food by the looks of him. Dean calmly sets the food down on the table, taking deep breaths to try and calm himself down.
They weren't. They wouldn't. Sam couldn't.
Dean feels himself raking his eyes over Castiel's naked body. God, he's gorgeous, lean and smooth where Sam is chiseled and tan. His hips jut out across the flat plane of his stomach like an invitation to Dean's teeth. Castiel catches him looking and licks his lips, tilting his head to the side and smirking.
“What the fuck is going on here?” Dean says, his jaw tight and tense as he holds himself still.
Castiel stands up and saunters over to Dean, cock bobbing in front of him as he comes to look Dean in the eye. He's still feverish, but the bright shine in his eyes only makes him look more beautiful.
“Sam can't take those herbs any more, Dean. They're going to kill him,” Castiel says softly, stepping in closer until Dean can almost feel the heat radiating off his skin. Dean looks over at Sam, who just bites his lip and looks at Dean balefully.
“He needs to run free, Dean.” Castiel moves forward, Dean stepping back instinctively. “I can show him how to control it, how to shift when he wants to.” Dean feels like everything is falling out from under him, like the wallpaper is swirling of its own volition and taking Dean's world with it. “I can make him a real wolf.”
Dean is used to acting on instinct. It's saved his life more than once, and it's become second-nature. Pamela had said that everyone has a little beast in them, and right now Dean's beast is slamming Castiel against the wall and gripping him by the throat.
“You're not taking him away from me,” Dean growls. Castiel's eyes widen as Dean leans in to him, pressing his full weight against the blue-eyed werewolf. Dean's running on blind rage, and he barely notices that he's hard until he feels the hot line of his cock pressing against Castiel's.
“Dean, let him go!” Sam tries to pull his arm back, his fingers digging into Dean's bicep. Only Sam's quick reflexes save him from getting an elbow to the face as Dean swings back at him, turning to snarl at him. “Back off, Sammy.” Sam staggers back and clenches his fists by his sides.
“I would never take your mate from you, Dean,” Castiel gasps. “But I'll be yours if you'll have me.” He rolls his hips forward, pressing his answering hard-on against Dean's. There's a tight smile on his face as he arches his head back against the wall, offering his neck to Dean in submission. Castiel draws in a jagged breath as Dean releases his hold on him and staggers back.
Submission. The thought washes over him in a hot wave that makes his skin tingle. Dean plants his palm against the wall to hold himself up as he looks over at Sam, who's standing frozen in place.
“He's not my fucking mate, why do you keep saying that?” Dean yells, smacking his hand against the wall as much to bring his point home as to feel the sting of pain it gives him. At least that makes sense.
“Yes, you are, Dean.” Castiel and Dean both turn to stare at Sam. “I don't … I don't even really know what that means, but it just...” Sam lets out a long breath and runs a hand through his hair. “It's true. And you know it.”
Dean just gapes at him, trying to find it in himself to deny it and failing.
“We're pack animals, Dean,” Castiel says softly. “And every pack needs a leader. It's who you are.”
Sam takes a few steps closer to Dean. “He's right, Dean. I know you feel it, too. I know I'm not the only one who thinks about it.” Dean backs up as Sam approaches him, stopping when his back hits the wall. Castiel crowds into one side of him while Sam stands directly in front of him.
“It feels good, doesn't it, Dean?” Castiel whispers in his ear. “Tying him up? Seeing him on his knees in front of you?” Dean's hands are pressed flat against the wall behind him, shaking with the effort of holding himself back and trying to make sense of the million different emotions flickering through him.
“You're an alpha, Dean.” Castiel's voice sounds far away, everything in the room narrowed down to Sam in front of him. His brother's eyes are wide and black, his lips parted open as he stares at Dean. “Sam is like me, a beta.” Sam looks so needy and scared as he watches Dean's face.
“You need to take care of him.” Dean barely hears it over the rush of blood in his ears as Castiel takes his hand and leads it to Sam's crotch, his brother's dick hard under his hand as Castiel presses it forward. Dean feels the weight of this moment bearing down on him, all the sweaty, tortured nights rubbing up against Sam, all the secret thoughts in his head as he jerked off, all of it leading to this one moment. This one last decision that Dean has to make.
“Dean. I need you.”
Dean never really had a choice.
For all the times Dean has dreamed of kissing Sam, nothing could have prepared him for this. Everything just disappears as he presses his lips to Sam's.
They stumble backwards, Dean's body leading the way even as his mind reels. Dean's touched Sam before, knows the feeling of every muscle in his back, but somehow it all feels brand new as he pulls Sam's t-shirt off, hating even the nanosecond it takes to pull the fabric over his head as it breaks their kiss.
The back of Sam's legs hit the bed first, and they both tumble down onto it gracelessly. Dean hastily tugs his shirts off as Sam scrambles to undo the fly of his jeans. Dean silently blesses Sam's preference for baggy jeans as he tugs them off Sam's legs, the denim sliding off easily compared to the way Dean has to wriggle out of his own tight Levis.
Dean wants to taste every inch of Sam, snaking his tongue out to dip it into the hollow underneath Sam's ear, trace it along the arch of his jaw and memorize the long column of his neck. Sam moans at every stroke of Dean's tongue, arching off the bed to chase Dean's mouth wherever it roams.
Sam's hand spans the width of Dean's skull as he presses his mouth in closer, sucking a wet bruise onto Sam's neck. Dean goes gently at first, delicately nipping at the flesh between his teeth as Sam writhes under him. Each little bite at Sam's neck makes him rock his hips up into Dean, pressing his hard cock against his brother's. The whine building in Sam's throat seeps into Dean's mouth, steady and pleading and clearer than words.
Dean grinds his cock against Sam's one last time, bringing his legs out to fully straddle Sam's hips as he rears up. Sam follows right after him, his mouth hungrily chasing Dean's until Sam is leaning up on his elbows. Dean doesn't have time to appreciate the irony that he's using a maneuver their father taught them, he just swings his leg over and pins an entirely-willing Sam on his stomach. He wrenches Sam's arms behind his back and holds them there with one hand, knees astride Sam's ass as he bucks back to grind it against Dean's cock.
Sam isn't struggling to get away; he's struggling to get more contact. He wants Dean inside of him. The thought makes Dean dizzy. He takes a deep breath and closes his eyes, feeling a small well of panic rising in his chest. What was he doing? Dean blinks his eyes open. That's when he catches sight of Castiel.
Dean had almost forgotten he was in the room. Castiel clearly hasn't forgotten about them, though. He's sitting on the floor on the other side of the bed Dean currently has Sam pinned to. The flush on his face and the swollen pupils of his eyes put the lie to his calm expression. Dean doesn't need to see his dick to know that he'll be leaking hard. But he sits still, elbows resting on the mattress as he sits patiently, like … fuck, like he's waiting his turn.
Dean knows that should creep him out, this guy he barely knows watching him hump his brother. It just makes his dick throb and his hand circle tighter around Sam's wrists. He locks his eyes on Castiel's and rolls his hips slowly, grunting softly with each jut of his dick against Sam's ass while Sam moans for it. Castiel bites his lip and flares his nostrils, eyes flashing as Dean bears down on his brother.
If Castiel wants a place under Dean, he'll have to wait for it.
Dean leans down with his eyes trained on Castiel, trapping Sam's arms under his chest as he traces the shell of Sam's ear with his tongue. “Look at you, rubbing your ass against me like a little bitch in heat, Sammy,” Dean says thickly, the filthy words new to his mouth even if he's said them in his head a thousand times. “Want me to fuck you, Sammy?” Dean grinds his cock hard against the cleft of Sam's ass. “That what you want?”
“Yes, Dean, please,” Sam says desperately. “Need y-” Dean cuts off whatever Sam was going to say with two fingers in Sam's mouth. Sam sucks them into his mouth, tongue swirling around Dean's fingers until Dean pulls them back with a wet pop. Shifting his hips to make some space, Dean reached down to run his fingers around the tight furl of Sam's hole. It's hot and impossibly small next to Dean's probing fingers.
Castiel looks a wreck as he watches both of them. His eyes are fever-bright and lust-blown, the pink flush on his face making them stand out even more than usual. His chest heaves with every breath and he hasn't taken his eyes off Dean's once.
Sam moans as Dean presses the tip of his index finger slowly but surely against his hole. Dean breaks his eye contact with Cas to look down, watching the shudder and give of Sam's rim around his finger. Sam's hole is hot and fluttering as Dean works a second finger in. Dean can feel his cock leaking a steady stream of precome onto Sam's thigh. Sam feels so tight, and Dean knows he's gonna need more than spit to make this feel good for him, too.
“Fuck, I need lube,” Dean mutters, gritting his teeth to quell the urge to get inside of Sam now. He almost misses Sam's mumbling as he tries to think of what to do. “There's some,” Sam gasps, heaving in a breath as Dean pulls his fingers out, “there's some in my bag.”
Well, damn, Sammy. Dean smiles against his brother's neck. “Kinky little bitch,” he chuckles against Sam's ear, tracing his finger around the red-hot ring of Sam's hole. “Been playing with yourself?” The thought of that makes Dean pull his hand back from Sam's ass so he can clamp it around the base of his own dick.
“Thought about you,” Sam whispers throatily. His whole body looks desperate for it, hips stuttering forwards to hump against the bed while he keeps his arms clamped behind his back even without Dean's hand there. He needs you. Dean leans forward to lick a stripe up the side of Sam's neck before settling his gaze on Castiel over the mess of Sam's hair.
“Find it.”
Castiel responds to the order, and there's really nothing else to call it, with startled efficiency. He leans to the side and pulls Sam's bag over, rifling around until he pulls out a small bottle from the side compartment. It's clear with a purple label, and as Castiel holds it up Dean can see that it's only two-thirds full.
“Fuck, Sammy, so goddamn hot thinking about you fucking yourself,” Dean groans as he takes the bottle of lube from Castiel. He drizzles a generous amount on his fingers before returning them to Sam's hole. They slide in easily, muscle parting willingly under Dean's gentle pressure.
Dean wants to take his time, wants to hear Sam beg for it like he's heard him do in his head so many times. But Dean's gonna bust a nut in about five seconds if Sam keeps moaning and bucking back onto his hand like that, and the breathy sighs Castiel keeps letting out aren't helping. He preps Sam the best he can, and he's relieved to see that Sam's just as eager as he is.
“You ready?” Dean's already lining himself up; his legs straddled over one of Sam's thighs while the other bends to the side. He fists his cock with one hand and steadies himself with a firm grip on Sam's ass, nudging the head of his cock against Sam's entrance.
“God, Dean, just do it.” Sam sounds so bitchy Dean has to smile. He almost wishes Sam were on his back so he could see what Bitchface #49, “Sammy-needs-a-dick-in-his-ass”, looks like. Instead he just presses the head of his cock past the first muscle of Sam's rim, biting his teeth at the hot grip pulling him in. He wants to grab Sam by the hips and start fucking him furiously, but Dean's played catch enough times to know that isn't a good idea, even if Sam is squirming and moaning for it like a five-buck whore.
Dean pushes in slowly, every excruciating inch making his heart stutter in his chest as everything slows down. Seconds stretch out like an eternity, the dull thud of Sam's heartbeat reverberating through his body as Dean sinks into him in slow motion. Everything is tight heat and velvet grip, familiar and brand new all at once, like sliding into his Baby after he built her back up from scratch.
When he's fully seated Dean leans forward, molding his chest to Sam's back to soak in the warmth of him. Sam is hot and tight and inescapable, writhing his hips back to wordlessly beg Dean to move as Dean holds him still. He can feel Sam stretching around him, flexing and opening to let him in. It steals his breath and burns in his chest like a double shot of whiskey. This is right, this is where he's supposed to be, this is who he is.
He rolls his hips as roughly as he dares, afraid to hurt Sam almost as much as he's scared to break the spell of the moment. Sam's answering guttural moan washes over him like a wave, lighting up neurons and muscles he never knew he had. He lets his body take over, his hands closing over Sam's hips and pulling him back to meet each thrust of his hips. It's like he knows all the rules to a game he's never even heard of. He knows what Sam needs, knows how to give it to him.
He buries himself as deep in his brother as he can get, leaning his head down to close his teeth over the back of Sam's neck. This isn't a gentle love nibble or a teasing hickey. Dean recognizes it for what it is: a claiming. Sam is his, always will be, and no one else gets him without Dean's say-so.
He's lost track of time, lost track of anything that isn't the feeling of Sam all around him, Sam tight on his dick, Sam's skin in his mouth, Sam's hair knotted into his hand. The punched-out cry Sam lets out right before he comes blindsides Dean, and the grasping pull of his rim around Dean's cock hits him like a blow. It's all too much, too good, too tight, too perfect to last. Dean comes with his mouth on Sam's neck, and he won't realize until later that he's mumbling, “Love you, Sammy, love you,” over and over again.
He stays inside of Sam for as long as he can, both of them whining at the lost connection as Dean slips out sticky-wet and soft. Dean rolls over onto his back and pulls Sam with him, bringing his brother's head to rest on his chest as they both catch their breath and come back down to earth.
The sight of Castiel sitting cross-legged on the floor and complacently watching them startles Dean. He'd forgotten he was there, again. Dean feels none of the things that he would expect to feel. He just feels a bone-deep, intoxicating sense of satisfaction as he looks down at Castiel's shining eyes and leaking hard cock. Good boy.
Dean doesn't know what compels him, but he motions for Castiel to stand up with a quick wave of his hand. Sam looks up at him and smiles, sex-doped and sloe-eyed and gorgeous. Dean tucks him closer under his arm and turns back to look at Castiel. If this is what happens when Dean lets his Id take the reins, he's letting it happen a lot more often.
“Not tonight,” Dean says softly. Castiel nods his understanding, looking like he hadn't expected it anyway. Dean rakes his eyes over Castiel's body, settling on his cock. “But I want to watch you play with yourself.”
Sam and Castiel both inhale with sharp surprise. Dean thinks it's a sound he could get used to.
*
“Two days.” Dean looks back and forth between Sam, shirtless in his basketball shorts, and Cas, naked as the day he was born. Assuming he was born a human and not, like, a puppy or something. Dean adds that to the “weird questions to ask later” list and shakes his head. “You really think this can work in two days?”
Sam shrugs his shoulders and gives Dean a toothy, forced smile. Castiel glides forward, putting his hand on Sam's shoulder. “He can do it. If you believe in him.”
Dean nods tightly and looks at Sam's face. He looks nervous and scared and more than anything like he doesn't want to let Dean down. Dean can relate. He wants this to work.
“Now Sam, just relax and focus. It shouldn't be too hard with the moon so close,” Castiel instructs Sam. Sam gives Dean one last look before he turns to Castiel. He takes a deep breath and closes his eyes.
Nothing happens.
“Sam, I can hear your heartbeat.” Castiel reaches out for Sam's hands. “I know you're worried, but you don't have to be. If anything happens, Dean's here. And so am I.”
Sam visibly relaxes at the mention of Dean's name. He nods at Castiel, squeezes his hand and focuses. Dean feels it before he hears it, the deep-throated growl Sam is making. It scares him, but it also makes him acutely aware of his new relationship with Sam as his jeans start to strain a little tight. He squeezes the syringe full of sedatives in his palm, just in case. He wants this to work, but he's not taking any chances.
Sam crouches down on the motel room floor facing away from Dean. Dean watches his back rise and fall as he breathes. He can see the tension mounting in his shoulders, the ripple of his lats as his fingernails dig into the carpeting. Sam's left hand is just visible, and Dean watches with bated breath as the nails lengthen and extend, razor-sharp and painful to watch.
Dean had wanted to keep Sam restrained while he did this, but Castiel had insisted that it wouldn't work unless Sam was really on his own. So Sam turns, unencumbered and scary as shit, to look at Dean. His eyes are the same luminous white-blue they always are when he turns, but there's something different in them today. Something like recognition.
Dean and Sam both jump as they hear the deep grumble. Dean had been so intent on watching Sam he hadn't even noticed Castiel changing. The black wolf comes next to Sam, laying its huge head on Sam's shoulder. Sam growls but doesn't go to move, while Dean stays frozen still, clenching and unclenching his hand around the syringe.
Sam looks like he's ready to explode, every muscle taut under his skin as he stays crouched on the floor. He's fully shifted but Dean can sense that he's holding himself back, that he's waiting for something. His nails are dug so deep into the carpet Dean can't see them any more, and Sam's face is turned away from him. Dean can hear the growl in his throat, deep and threatening even as Sam stays still.
Castiel nudges his nose under Sam's chin, giving Sam a firm poke before he shifts back to his human form. He's starting intently at Sam, his body poised with a different kind of tension. “Sam, you have to shift back,” Castiel says, his voice low and commanding. Dean rubs his thumb over the depressor of the syringe. “You can do it, Sam. Come on,” Dean says shakily, trying not to sound desperate. Castiel stands up and moves to Dean's side. “Make him,” he whispers, keeping his eyes on Sam as he puts his hand on the small of Dean's back and pushes him forward.
Dean swallows thickly, stepping forward as he folds the hand holding the syringe behind his back. “Sam,” he says, raising his voice to say it again. “Sam. You have to do this. I need you to do this.” Dean takes another step forward, confidence growing as he traces his eyes over the muscles in Sam's back, sees the purple marks he'd left behind on Sam's neck. Dean's marks.
“Do it, Sammy,” Dean says gruffly, tuning out the doubt and worry in his mind and letting his body take over. He reaches his hand down and runs it through Sam's hair, getting a firm grip to pull Sam's head back until his brother is looking up at him. His fangs are bared and his eyes are wide as he stares up at Dean. Dean knows he's either going to die, or he's going to change their lives forever.
He hears Castiel inhale as Sam closes his eyes, feels the weight of the moment bearing down on him. He takes a deep breath and tugs on Sam's hair harder, pushing him until Sam goes limp under his hand. The sharp bits disappear, Sam shifting back to human until Dean is just left with his brother, breathing in jagged breaths and turning to hug Dean's legs. Dean keeps his hand in his hair and just strokes him, staring at Castiel with shock in his eyes as Sam buries his face in Dean's leg and laughs.
“Holy shit,” Dean mumbles, feeling the grin spread across his face before his emotions can even catch up. “Holy shit, holy shit, holy shit.” Sam looks up at him and smiles, his eyes shining a little brighter than usual, but then, so are Dean's.
“Are you alright?” Dean asks, blinking his eyes a few times. “Can you remember?” Sam had always claimed he didn't remember the times when he was turned, just like Madison.
“Yeah, I'm OK.” Sam says it like he almost can't believe it. “It was weird, like I had to fight to stay conscious, but I was awake. I knew who you were.” He turns to look at Cas. “Both of you.” He takes a deep breath and looks back at Dean. “I did it.”
Dean nods and smiles, biting his lip to keep himself from overflowing with the million emotions running through him. This meant so much, meant things that Dean hadn't let himself think of since Sam had been turned.
He looks over at Castiel, standing off to the side and letting him and Sam have their moment. But he's the whole reason this moment exists, and Dean has the strange thought that the motel room would feel a lot emptier without his unobtrusive presence. Dean looks Cas in the eyes and nods his head in invitation.
“Thank you,” Dean says softly, putting his arm around Castiel's waist to draw him in closer. His eyes close when Dean touches him, and he turns his face up to Dean expectantly. Dean glances down at Sam, his eyebrows drawn together as he seeks out Sam's final approval. Sam just rolls his eyes and makes a “hurry the fuck up already” hand gesture like he's getting tired of waiting. Dean mentally catalogues Bitchface #50, “I'm sick of waiting for my brother to make out with this werewolf dude”, before he turns back to Castiel's waiting lips.
Castiel's mouth is plush and warm, and he kisses as softly as Dean expects him to. At least at first. Soon he's got his hand in Dean's hair and another on his waist, and all three of them are stumbling back to the bed before Dean knows what's happening.
Dean's not sure whose mouth is where at any given time, and he doesn't really care because it all feels so goddamn good. He closes his eyes and tries to tell the difference, to feel Sam's larger hands with their rougher grip, Castiel's mouth softer and more tentative than Sam's bruising kisses.
Sam pulls him back to lay against his chest, his hard-on pressing into the small of Dean's back, long legs splayed open on either side of Dean's waist. Castiel kisses a trail down Dean's chest, slowly unzipping Dean's pants as he runs his tongue over Dean's nipples.
Sam slides his hands down the side of Dean's waist as Dean hikes his hips up. Castiel tugs his jeans down his legs and buries his face in Dean's crotch, breathing hot and heavy against Dean's boxer briefs as he nuzzles his nose against Dean's balls. It tickles and makes Dean's stomach tighten in anticipation.
Dean can feel Sam rolling his hips to rut himself against Dean's back, slicked up with Dean's sweat and the wet spot of precome Dean can feel against his skin. Sam seems very much OK with all of this. Dean's not sure if it's a werewolf thing or if Sam's just really that much of a kinky bastard, but the way he's breathing in Dean's ear makes Dean believe Sam's enjoying this just as much as Dean is.
And they both have a great view as Castiel looks up at them, the color standing out on his cheeks, his lips spit-wet and shining. He tilts his head and smiles, not the lascivious smirk Dean would have expected, but the warm grin of someone who wants to be exactly where he is. He licks his lips and lowers his head, curling his fingers into the elastic of Dean's shorts to tug them down far enough to free his cock. It slaps up against his belly and Dean jerks in surprise as Castiel bypasses it entirely to lick a hot stripe up the seam of Dean's balls.
He can feel Castiel's spit running down the crack of his ass, hot and wet against his skin. Sam pants against his neck as Castiel trades one of Dean's nuts for the other in his mouth, back and forth until Dean's cock is leaking precome in a thin, clear line down the underside.
Dean shivers when Castiel finally traces the trail of slick up his cock, lapping it up in short little strokes that make Dean's teeth grit together. Sam brings his hand up and rolls Dean's nipple between his fingers, harder than Dean would have thought he'd like but it's perfect, better than perfect as Sam tugs on it at the precise moment Castiel closes his lips around Dean's cock.
Dean's hips buck up of their own volition, trying to get Castiel to take him all the way down. Sam just plants a hand on Dean's hip and pushes him back down, holding him in place as Castiel rolls his tongue along the underside of Dean's dick. He's making what are possibly the wettest, filthiest, most beautiful sounds Dean has ever heard.
Sam answers every dirty-wet suck of Castiel's lips with the hard jut of his dick against Dean's back, and every restrained movement Dean makes under his hand makes him moan against Dean's neck. Dean bites his lip and curls his fingers into the faded-yellow motel sheets, gasping as Castiel swallows his cock to the base.
Dean might be fucking his brother and their new, werewolf-boyfriend-packmate whatever-the-fuck Castiel was gonna be, but Dean still considered himself a gentleman, and if he didn't put his hand on a girl's head the first time she sucked his dick he definitely wasn't gonna do it to Castiel. That is, until he feels Castiel's fingers closing around his wrist, pulling his hand down to thread it through his unruly black hair.
“Fuck,” Dean moans, resisting for about 0.002 seconds before he closes his fingers in Castiel's hair. He pushes gently at first, letting Castiel take the lead as he bobs up and down on Dean's cock. Dean can feel him gagging when he takes it all the way down, his throat fluttering around Dean's dick deliciously. There's something novel about the way Castiel sucks dick, like he's all enthusiasm and zero technique.
Sam lets out a long, “Fuck,” of his own when Dean pulls Castiel off, holding him to hover over his cock, shiny strings of spit running from his swollen lips in a rope-bridge to Dean's cock.
“Cas, fuck,” Dean grates out, watching Castiel draw in uneven breaths, eyes wide and barely focused. He's fucking beautiful.
“Fuck his face.” Dean groans when he hears Sam say it, his voice all rough and strung-out as he grinds his dick against his brother. “Cas, do you...” Castiel just looks up at Dean, his eyes darkening and his mouth falling open further as he nods.
“Yeah, yeah,” Dean barely hears himself say, fingers knotting into that mess of black curls. He pushes Castiel's head down slowly, rolling his eyes as he feels Castiel's throat open for him. Holding him there for a heartbeat, Dean turns his head to the side, looking up and back at Sam. Sam's eyes are narrowed down to gold-green slits, the pink flush on his face deepening into the swollen red of his lips.
“Do it,” Sam whispers, grazing those swollen lips over Dean's. Dean nods against his brother's mouth before he turns back to Castiel, whose eyes are already rolling back in his head like he's high. Dean digs his fingers into Castiel's hair and goes for it, bringing him down until his nose is tickling Dean's pubes and small tears push out of the corners of his eyes.
Castiel goes boneless in his hands, barely holding himself up as Dean pulls him off his cock just to slam him back down. Even if they look like men, the room sounds like it's full of animals, all choking-wet moans and deep, filthy grunts and growls. Sam's hand is digging into his hip hard enough to bruise, pleasure-pain counterpoint to every thrust of his cock into Castiel's wet, welcoming mouth.
Dean's back is soaked, his sweat mingling with his brother's, running in rivulets down to Sam's pre-come-slicked dick rubbing against him fast enough that Dean can hear it. Sam grips his fingers into Dean's hipbones and goes tense, forearms straining against Dean's stomach as Dean hears the tell-tale whine building in Sam's throat. He pulls a hand free from Castiel's hair to bring it up to Sam's, pulling him down for an awkward kiss, all teeth and tongue as Sam comes against his back.
Dean doesn't last much longer, pulling Castiel half-way up so he can feel his tongue working around the head of his dick. Sam's still grinding his hips forward, spreading the sticky mess of his own spend into Dean's skin, sweeping his tongue against Dean's. Sam swallows Dean's visceral groan as he comes, shooting hot and hard onto Castiel's waiting tongue. Dean's senses kick into overdrive until he swears he can taste Sam's heartbeat and smell Castiel swallowing his come and hear his own sweat running off his forehead to hit the wet, rumpled sheets.
There are hands all over him, Sam's in his hair, sliding across his chest, Castiel's gripping his legs and spreading over his stomach as Dean softens in his mouth. Everything's hazy and buzzing around him, and he watches in soft focus as Castiel lays his head on Dean's thigh. Sam pants against his ear, his breath soft and warm against Dean's skin.
Dean's heart is still skittering in his chest, because even the endorphin-high of his orgasm isn't strong enough to wash away how new this all is. Castiel is looking up at Dean expectantly. Some part of Dean understands, feels the soul-deep satisfaction of being in charge, but the reins still chafe unaccustomed in his hands. Dean doesn't know how he's gonna handle this in the morning, the expectations, the mind-boggling strangeness of everything that's happened.
All Dean knows right now is that there are three people in bed together, and only two of them have gotten off. He can fix this.
His hand is still in Castiel's hair, and it only takes the faintest tug to bring him crawling up Dean's body. It's awkward with Sam's redwood-tree legs sprawled all over the place, but Castiel manages to make a place for himself. He ends up straddling both brothers' left legs, his butt resting against Dean's hip as Dean pulls him down for a kiss.
He licks the taste of himself out of Castiel's mouth, feeling Sam's contented sigh vibrating against his back. Castiel's lips are swollen-hot and rough against Dean's. Sliding a hand down his flat, smooth stomach, Dean gets a sweaty fist around Castiel's dick and starts to stroke him. Castiel pants softly with each twist of Dean's wrist, soft little “unh” noises that rub up against Dean like a kitten.
Dean has to move to the side and crane his neck, but it's worth it to see Sam lean over him and swallow up all those soft little sounds from Castiel's mouth. Castiel hums against him and jerks his hips up into each stroke. Dean watches his hips roll as Castiel kisses Sam, and he feels himself start to chub up again at the thought that he's gonna fuck Cas like this next time, watch him ride his dick and take Sam in his mouth.
Dean pulls Castiel back to himself, rougher than he means to but apparently it does the trick. Castiel throws his head back into Dean's hand and shoots all over his fist, coating Dean's wrist and stomach with sticky-white ropes of spunk.
Dean kisses him through the aftershocks, savoring each clench of Castiel's ass against his leg. When Castiel's breathing calms down, Dean moves him to the side. He peels himself off of Sam's chest, inching his ass over until he's settled in between both of them. The bed is barely big enough for them, and Sam and Cas both have to turn on their sides to fit.
“So,” Dean says, slurred and cheerful as he holds his come-wet hand out in front of them, “who's gonna clean me up?”
Dean may be making up the rules as he goes along, but he's pretty sure he can get used to figuring this out.
*
Now
It hadn't been easy, or instantaneous, but they'd all settled down into a life together that was both familiar and nothing like Dean had even imagined. Saving people, hunting things, curling up at night between two men he loved more than anything. The family business.
There'd been huge changes, and plenty of fights and tears and screaming matches that echoed off of motel room walls across the country. Bobby had accepted Castiel with his usual gruff resignation. Castiel giving Bobby the truck had probably sweetened the deal.
But Dean knew he was in the right place. Even if this stupid fucking town only had rhubarb pie.
They both look gorgeous, spread out against the horrible green plaid comforter. Even the hideous lumberjack-pea-soup-green motel room can't disguise how good Sam looks after he's been fucked by both of them, double load of spunk leaking out of him as Castiel pulls off of Dean's mouth and settles in between Sam's legs. Dean presses himself against Sam's side and nuzzles at his neck, breathing in Sam's scent and the deep moans Sam makes as Castiel licks him out.
Sam's cock is hard and arching up to his belly, leaving shiny little trails of precome behind every time it hits his skin. Dean rubs his palm against the tacky lines and gets a firm grip on Sam's dick, jerking him off as Castiel sucks wet and dirty at Sam's hole. Sam's eyes are wide and unfocused, his body jerking at the sensation overload as Dean picks up his pace.
Dean can sense the moment before Sam comes, subtle shift as his body tenses up and his eyes roll back. Dean leans down quickly to close his lips around the crown of Sam's dick, catching his brother's come on his tongue. Sam's taste is salty and well-known by now, as familiar as the needy little groan Castiel makes.
Dean takes Castiel bent over the bed, tangled black head resting on Sam's thigh as they both stroke through his hair and tell him they love him. Dean's knees dig into the scratchy carpeting, the bed creaking with every thrust of his hips as the pie sits forgotten on the counter.
Sam's hand comes to rest over his, their fingers twined together in Castiel's hair as Dean sinks his teeth into the back of Castiel's neck and comes. Dean runs his thumb over the calluses on Sam's hand as he kisses over the half-moon bites on Castiel's neck, holding him close until they all start to shiver from the cold. They pile onto the bed and snuggle in together, Sam winding up in the middle this time.
“It's fucking freezing,” Sam says through exaggeratedly chattering teeth, pulling Bitchface #19, Sammy's-cold-and-whiny bitchface. Admittedly, the thin comforter does little to keep out the North Dakota winter. The heater sputters and coughs out a meager puff of lukewarm air as if on cue.
“Dean and I can keep you warm, Sam,” Castiel says, raising an eyebrow at Dean. Sam turns his head for Castiel's kiss, closing his eyes for the ritual they go through every time. They only kiss when they're human. By the time Sam opens his eyes, he's got six feet of black fur pressed up against his side. Blue eyes blink up at Sam and Dean before they close down to slits, Castiel's tongue lolling out of his mouth as he settles his head on Sam's chest with a grin on his maw.
Sam turns to Dean, stroking his free hand through the soft spikes of Dean's hair. They kiss one last time, deep and sweet and lingering. Dean pulls away and settles his head down on Sam's shoulder, closing his eyes.
Sam sighs as they both cuddle into his sides. Sam scratches his fingers through Castiel's inky fur, rubbing an ear between his thumb and forefinger as his wolf stretches contentedly and sighs against his neck.
Sam can hear their hearts beating, smell the deep, musky scent of satisfaction permeating the room. This is his family now, tooth and claw and warmth and love all tumbled together into one big pile. He wouldn't have it any other way.
A streak of moonlight washes in through the window, catching on jet-black fur and honey-tanned skin. Tonight they'll sleep dreamlessly, waking in a tangle of limbs and hard-ons and messy sheets so they can do it all over again.
Hopefully, the next town will have better pie.
THE END