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Sam dropped his banana.
This little corner of Idaho offered three gas stations, and Sam checked out two already with no luck. The clerk when he walked in had been a smiling, fortysomething blonde woman, but a shift change must have happened between then and his turn at the counter. Like lightning across an FM station, the familiar face behind the Gas'n Sip register scrambled his thoughts.
The thump of the fruit on the counter brought Castiel's eyes up. He stared. The familiar frown turned up, into a less familiar smile. "Sam. It's good to see you," he said.
"Hey," Sam said. He noticed the name on Castiel's tag was longer than three letters. "--Steve," he added a little lamely, "it's good to see you too."
"Another case?" Castiel's head tilted.
"Kind of. Dean mentioned you were out this way. So I dropped by."
"Just to say hello?" Castiel aimed his scanner gun at the bar code on the banana. The register beeped. "Not that I'm complaining. But it's a terrible risk."
Sam shifted his weight and ducked. "I know, I'm sorry. I wanted to know you were okay."
Castiel's smile faded in confusion. "I told Dean I was fine. I assumed he would have passed that along." Castiel punched a button on the register. "That'll be a dollar eighty-five."
"More or less. But I wanted to hear it from you. Are you? Do you need anything?" Sam asked. Behind him, he heard a gusty sigh. He turned to see a woman wearing a trucker cap and a surly frown. Sam whipped back to the counter and dug the change out his wallet.
"I don't need help. Don't worry about me," Castiel said firmly, "I'm doing fine on my own. Do you want your receipt?" The rip of the receipt was a punctuation. Castiel held out the little curl of paper. Transaction over.
"No, thanks. I'm good. Steve," Sam said. He saluted Castiel with his banana, and spun away for the door. The big plate glass window of the station yielded a perfect view of Castiel, when Sam glanced over his shoulder in the parking lot. Castiel was watching him, fenced in between the prices of beer, energy drinks, and cigarettes. They frowned at one another, and Castiel turned away.
Sam slammed the door of his stolen pickup and tossed his banana on the passenger seat. He rubbed his forehead with his thumb, trying to massage away the beginnings of a headache. None of this made sense. Both Castiel and Dean were acting cagey. Why did Castiel leave when the Bunker was the only defensible position? Dean said Castiel insisted. He said Castiel thought he'd bring more trouble down on them if he stayed. That decision didn't track - not the pragmatic commander of Heaven. Not if he had any other options left, or any hope.
Had he fought with Dean? It was the only solution that accounted for their behavior, but it had to be big to drive Castiel out of the Bunker. Not to mention, Dean let him leave. Something was missing. Something big.
The thought ran through Sam like rainwater down his collar; he shivered. Human, vulnerable and alone, Castiel was a target. Even accounting for Castiel's occasional whimsical decision making paradigms, he had to know that when he went out. Castiel's choices added up to a kind of math Sam didn't like.
He inhaled and exhaled, slow. There had to be a simpler explanation for all of this. But Castiel had a certain reputation for using Occam's Razor to slit his own throat.
His phone vibrated on the passenger seat. Sam turned it over, and a notification scrolled across the top of the screen.
It was Castiel, as if he'd heard Sam's thoughts. His shift was over at six, Castiel said. If Sam was willing to wait, Castiel had some questions.
Sam glanced from the text to the time on his phone. Ten minutes until he had Castiel to himself. Ten minutes until he had to figure out what to say. Not even enough time for a walk. Sam replied with an affirmative and let the phone drop.
Ten minutes later, Castiel appeared around the back of the building, two large trash bags in hand. Sam watched as Castiel struggled towards a dumpster twenty feet away, surrounded by weathered picket fence. He made a picture of irony: the celestial being; demon-slayer; world-savior, now fighting the inertia of maybe eighty pounds of garbage. As he lifted the lid of the dumpster to heave them inside, Sam's hand went to the door, to help.
Help? How? Sam knew what humping a service job was like. Doubtless, Castiel had already done this a hundred times since he landed here. He'd definitely take help the wrong way, and Sam already felt like he was waltzing on thin ice.
He waved as Castiel turned around, beckoning him to the truck. Castiel climbed into the cab, looking neat as a pin in his blue sweater vest and white button-down. And fragile. Once Sam started looking, he couldn't seem to stop. The tan was new. So were the sleep-deprived purple bruises under his eyes. His face was thinner; planed down.
"We should go somewhere else before we're seen," Castiel said, "otherwise my manager will have questions."
"Your manager?"
"She worries about me. About my well-being. She thinks I'm homeless."
"Are you?"
Castiel shot him a frustrated look. "Yes, but I don't want her to know that. Can we go?"
Sam winced. "Sure Cas," he said. He palmed his own face, like somehow he could wipe the feelings away short of exposure. "Where to?"
"The taco place is good," Castiel replied, "but we can't eat there. Too many people know me. I want to know how the translation of the Angel Tablet is going, and it seems like a bad place to talk about that."
"Just tell them it's a Bible study," Sam suggested with a grin, "bet it wouldn't be the first time they've heard about fire and brimstone over burritos. Maybe they'll want to join. You could make friends."
Castiel looked pained. "I can't imagine 'God is an absent father and your souls have been locked out of Heaven by a misanthrope,' would be a popular group discussion," he said.
"Fair," Sam laughed, "not unless you're starting a cult. Takeout it is. You like hard shells or soft shells?"
"I like both," Castiel replied.
Sam opened the motel room door for Castiel and winced, then hurried to clear the second bed. A notebook, a sheaf of letters and a flurry of scanned book pages made a half circle around his laptop on the mattress. "Sorry," Sam sighed.
Castiel surveyed the process without moving, the plastic sack of foil-wrapped tacos dangling at his side. "This doesn't look like your typical case research," he observed.
"It's not," Sam agreed, gesturing to the stack of printed scans as he shifted the pile to the table, "I'm trying to help Kevin out. He's got his hands full, so I thought I'd take a crack at these. Kevin thought there might be some context in the journal these are from. I needed to get on the road, so I took them with me. Here, let me take that," Sam relieved Castiel of the bag of tacos and laid out the food, buffet style, on the dresser.
Freed, Castiel gravitated to the table. Sam watched from the corner of his eye as Castiel flipped through the scans. "This is Latin," he said, then squinted. "Late fourth century, I--wait, I know this handwriting. I thought all of Jerome's journals were destroyed. Where did you get these?"
A taco stopped halfway to Sam's mouth. "Charlie digitized them all; they're in the Men of Letters archives. You know Saint Jerome's handwriting?"
"Oh yes. I enjoyed watching him take notes," Castiel answered eagerly, then ducked. His smile turned shy. "I found his hands - and his illuminations - very beautiful. His ideas, less so."
Sam snickered. He transferred the taco to a paper plate instead and added a few packets of sauce. "Me too. Why was he so obsessed with virginity? Come to think of it, why is magic so obsessed with it? I have a filing cabinet full of spells I can't use without virgin parts. And a couple straight-up sacrifices." He'd considered burning the ones that required actual death, but the metaphysical magpie (or the paranormal doomsday prepper) in him couldn't quite do it.
Castiel shrugged. "Looking for answers in a patriarchal society. Virginity is a human construct, but if the supplicant or the sacrifice ascribes value to it, then it has value. Intent has a power of its own. So do firsts, generally; they are one of the purest acts of change. Change - or the potential for change - is powerful beyond measure." He put the journal scans down with care on the stack and joined Sam at the dresser full of takeaway Tex-Mex.
"I do know there are witches with similar questions," Castiel added, through a bite of taco as he filled his plate, "and I assume most virgins, as well." His eyes drifted closed as he made a soft, pleased sound. "I don't understand why my palate likes salt so much."
Because you're human, Sam thought. He put down his plate and turned to Castiel. "Look, I know you're doing fine on your own."
"Thank you for saying so."
"But you don't have to. If you're worried about putting us in danger, we can handle it."
Castiel stopped chewing. He gave Sam an unreadable look. "Is that what Dean told you?"
"Yeah. Which didn't make any sense," Sam said with a shake of his head, "and to be honest, it has me worried. Did you guys fight or something?"
"I wouldn't call it a fight," Castiel paused before he answered. A pause that definitely sounded like something, but not an explanation.
"Okay, good," Sam said, "I mean, I know you leaving without saying goodbye isn't all that weird, but right before I left the room you seemed - I don't know. Happy, I guess? Safe? Then you were gone. I don't know what went down, or what Dean said to you, but if it made you leave, it's wrong. We don't leave people like this. Not people we love."
Sam smoothed down imaginary wrinkles in his shirt and shifted in place, shoulders hunching up towards his ears. What was he, fifteen and caught shoplifting? Loving Castiel wasn't a lie and it wasn't wrong to admit. Years of dodging the subject had pared down the confession's sharpest truths, anyway. He straightened his spine.
Castiel put his plate aside. He took Sam's hand. The warmth and strength of his touch made Sam's pulse surge.
"I appreciate your kindness," Castiel said, "please, trust me when I say that I didn't leave by choice."
"So come home with me," Sam pleaded, "you don't have to do this by yourself."
Castiel shook his head. "I can't."
"Why? I'm behind you, Cas, I promise - but I don't understand. You're still figuring this human thing out, and the Bunker is safe."
The silence spread out between them, while Castiel stared at Sam's chest like he could see the skittish, hammering heart inside. When he looked up, his expression was smooth. Determined. "Maybe, but the Bunker is not going to help me figure this out. While I didn't want to leave at first, being out here has taught me that if I'm going to spend the..." Castiel swallowed, "the next forty or fifty years this way, I need to learn about the human experience. Unless and until I find Metatron and my Grace, this is my life. And frankly, it's my penance. Even if my work doesn't meet certain standards of success, I can still help. I can get things right." He released Sam's hand and went back to his meal.
Sam knew the end of a discussion when he heard one. He nodded, and let it drop.
Dinner was quiet. They talked, in fits and starts. About Saint Jerome's journals. About Kevin's progress with the Angel Tablet. Sam avoided mentioning Crowley's translations. He wanted independent verification before he accepted decrees like 'irreversible' from the likes of a demon. Especially given the context. Crowley might keep his deals, but he also didn't take kindly to being collared in the Winchester family dungeon. If there was a loophole to the Elamite cuneiform that - according to Crowley - spelled out Castiel's doom, Sam would exploit it.
He tried not to brood, but Castiel's refusal replayed in his mind, again and again. He was right, something had happened. Castiel didn't want to leave, and said he hadn't fought with Dean, but also seemed to imply that Dean's story wasn't the truth. And what did he mean by 'penance,' and 'certain standards of success'? Dean hadn't been too talkative about his last run-in with Castiel, other than to say it happened. If anything, Sam's understanding of the whole business was even murkier than when he started.
He elected not to push it for now.
As Sam guided the conversation carefully to lighter topics, he was gratified to see Castiel slowly relax. Sam stretched out, and Castiel mirrored his pose on the spare bed. He propped against the pillows with his ankles crossed, head back. "I'm no longer confused by your insomnia. I wish I had your constitution. Sleep is such an inefficient process."
Sam flopped his arms. "I know. It takes forever, and even when I get to sleep, most of the time I wake up tired."
"Or in pain," Castiel added, folding his hands on his stomach, "at first I tried to ignore sleep. I understood it was necessary, but I don't like how vulnerable it makes me. And the nightmares..."
"You too, huh?"
Castiel nodded.
"Eventually your body just does whatever it wants, though," Sam said with a shrug.
"Almost universally, yes," Castiel answered, with a sigh so deep and long-suffering that Sam could hear it from across the room. It startled a laugh out of him. He turned onto his side to see Castiel watching him.
"Is that funny?" Castiel asked, looking aggrieved. He waved his hands at his vessel, somehow taking in the entirety of mortal existence with a gesture. "How do you stand it, Sam? I commanded the armies of Heaven. Now, I can't even command this."
Sam tried and failed to calm his giggles. Maybe he was a little punchy. Maybe a fraction of the last year's trauma was starting to decompress. He apologized between chuckles. "I'm not laughing at you, Cas. I promise. I don't like it either. The alternative is being mad, and what's the point?"
At that, Castiel tipped his head. He gave a thoughtful nod. "I suppose you're right. It's just... constant. If I don't meet its completely arcane dietary needs, it shuts down. It floods with fear at every loud noise. It emits all manner of substances without my permission, most of them offensive. And this is one of the worst offenders." At the word, Castiel pointed at his crotch. Like his crotch was a disobedient dog. "What good does this do? Sudden erections in public spaces are not conducive to furthering your species. This is a considerable design flaw."
Wiping his eyes with his thumbs, Sam gave an emphatic nod. "And they always happen where you can't do anything about them. I promise it gets easier, kind of. Eventually. I think pretty much everyone with a dick has this problem at some point."
"Yes, I've heard it makes adolescence miserable for humans," Castiel replied, "but what do you mean, 'do something about them,' Sam? Do you mean masturbate? I've researched guides, and I haven't had much success."
An uncomfortable scenario slipped through Sam's thoughts. He felt the beginnings of a flush, blooming pink and hot across his chest and neck. "Not, not in public, though, right? Like when it happens in public, you don't--"
Castiel rolled his eyes. "Sam, I've been witnessing your species mate since Caine was conceived. I know how to behave within societal rules."
Relieved but not at all comforted, Sam let it go. He took a deep breath and refocused. "Okay, maybe masturbation just doesn't do it for you. I think that's pretty normal. Lots of people don't get release from touching themselves. When I said I couldn't do anything about it, though, that wasn't exactly what I meant. Cold showers help. So does thinking about something else, like, something weird or funny. There's a couple other things you can do in an emergency, but I mean, you can look them up."
He saw Castiel nod with what seemed like acceptance. The topic trailed off, and Sam relaxed. He understood Castiel's discomfort with a disobedient body. While Sam might not be ashamed of it, might even enjoy parts of it from time to time, he wasn't sure he was up to frank discussions about sexuality right now. Especially not when his own feelings made him question his motives. Castiel could do his own research, clearly. If he had questions he couldn't find the answers to, he'd ask.
"Sam, I have a question," Castiel said.
Sam closed his eyes and let his head smack the pillow. "Yeah?" He asked, trying not to sigh.
"If there are specific methods that you enjoy, would you teach me?"
Sam's eyes popped open again. His mind colored with bright, heady assumptions, which he banished. "Ways to make a hard-on go away?"
Beside him, he heard the soft, nervous clearing of a throat. "Ah, no. Well, yes. You--I like what you called it. Touching myself."
The saddest part of it all was, Sam wasn't even shocked. Maybe he was just too tired. The universe seemed to take a certain perverse pleasure in fucking with his relationships, so why not this. Why not be propositioned for lessons in jacking off for Castiel's academic curiosity, or pragmatism, or whatever other reasons that didn't involve Sam except as a potential instructor?
But there he went, making assumptions again. Sam didn't actually know Castiel's reasons, other than what he'd already stated. Maybe he did get what it meant; maybe he wanted that too.
Saying yes would be so easy. Castiel trusted him. Sam knew that, as certainly as he knew how deeply he trusted Castiel, these days. If he said yes, he'd get something he wanted, and Castiel would, too.
Except he already had enough trouble looking at himself in the mirror. He could find sex if he wanted it, somewhere else. It might not be Castiel, but a stranger came with a one-night-only understanding that wouldn't leave him holding a broken heart. It wouldn't risk the friendship that he wasn't sure he wanted to live without.
"That's maybe something you should experiment with on your own, Cas," Sam said with a steadying breath, as the act of saying 'no' made his stomach bob.
Sam heard Castiel shift and sigh on the bed across from him.
"I'll admit I'm not an expert at how this goes," Castiel said, soft and mumbling, as if he wanted to swallow the words before they got away, "Maybe I should reframe my invitation."
"Invitation's a little different from a teaching gig," Sam replied.
Castiel nodded. His eyes cut to Sam, and the fire in them made Sam hold his breath. "I'm not asking for your expertise. I'm asking for your partnership. I'm sure I could learn on my own in time, if I keep trying. But I'd like it to be you. With--with as full an understanding as I currently have, of the kind of intimacy it entails. If you're interested, of course."
And there it was: everything he wanted. The whole shebang. Or was it? The confession sat between them, glowing with potential.
Sam went still. "Just to clarify, you're asking to have sex."
"Yes. And I have had sex before, Sam. I know April-- deceived me. But I'm aware of the feelings that come with the act, with someone I trust. I want that, with you."
Sam thought he might catch fire. His skin felt too warm, and the adrenaline pumping through him made his heart gallop. He balanced on the precipice of the decision, knowing what either side meant, knowing what he wanted, and sinking with guilt at wanting it. How did Castiel want him? Did Castiel really want him? Or was he a (Dean-adjacent) convenience? He'd studied Castiel watching Dean so many times, that if he was any kind of artist, he could paint it from memory. The quiet, earnest face, highlighted by the strokes of loyalty and devotion that Dean couldn't seem to see.
"Why me?" Sam asked, without meaning to.
Castiel shot him a confused look. "Isn't, isn't wanting you enough?"
The sound of the words in Castiel's deep, passionate basso made Sam's stomach flip harder than a drop on a rollercoaster. He scrabbled for thought while the back of his brain gibbered, he said it, he said it, he said it.
"More than enough," Sam said with a shake of his head, "it's not important."
Castiel's eyes narrowed with doubt. He squinted at Sam like the fine print on a contract, before his expression smoothed into understanding, then sorrow.
Uh oh.
"You and your brother," Castiel sighed, "I swear."
The apologies started writing themselves in Sam's chest. He tried to cough them up, to get them out before he could feel angry, or exposed, or heartbroken, or any of the other thousand and one horrible feelings spiraling up out of himself. If he was going to feel anything with Castiel right now, he'd rather it was sorry. Sorry, at least, he could control.
He felt the bed dip, as Castiel sat down beside him.
Gentle fingers pushed Sam's hair away from his forehead, and slid down to stroke his cheek. "Sam, I don't know how this will complicate things," Castiel said.
Sam leaned into his touch, startled by his own passion. He felt a little pop of shock, too. Like the sting of touching a faulty electrical wire: powerful and foreign, and gone in a blink. Too preoccupied to care, he brushed it away and slid his fingers down Castiel's wrist.
"This is new to me," Castiel said, as their eyes met, "I know you asked me why. The way you compelled me was always strong, but over the years, the nuance has changed. You have always had my attention. As I came to know you, you had my devotion, too. When you were curious, so was I. When you trusted, I tried to trust. When you showed compassion, I did my best to see through your eyes. And you--you saw me as a person, long before I was human. I've come to care for you, more deeply than I could have ever guessed I was capable. You are worthy of devotion, Sam Winchester. You deserve it."
Castiel's hand slid further into Sam's hair, and Sam leaned into it. Let it lead him, draw him down as Castiel stretched up into the softest of kisses. That, too, brought a shock, but a familiar kind. Kissing Castiel felt like walking the spinning tunnel at a funhouse. The world shifted on its axis, tilting and rearranging around him, as this new reality where Castiel loved him back replaced the old.
The back of his mind whispered warnings. Too perfect. Too good to be true. Maybe this was a dream. Maybe this was the part where Lucifer yanked him back. Sam felt adrenaline dripping into his blood again. He pulled back, forehead resting gently against Castiel's as he tried to breathe.
No, this world was real. The awkwardness and discomfort - Lucifer had never been creative enough to build those things into Sam's illusions of paradise. He'd come through this anxiety so many times since reclaiming his memories of Hell. Every time the fear passed, and left him here.
If Castiel only knew, how many times he'd been the solution to Sam's downward spirals. The scenes he painted in his thoughts were one part condemnation to three parts fantasy; three parts absolution to one part forgiveness. He'd had so many conversations with Castiel in his head.
Maybe he could have them in person now.
"You, uh," Sam whispered, "still want to learn?"
Castiel's breath gusted against his lips. "If you'll have me."
And what a lucky break it was, that both of them were here on one bed. Sam smiled, and closed his eyes against another familiar surge of feeling.
Anticipation.
"Okay," Sam said, "Come on over, and lay down next to me. On your back."
"Do I need to undress?"
"If you want to," Sam answered, "might get your jeans messy, otherwise."
Castiel looked down at his jeans. He ran a hand down his thigh. "I think I'd better. Cleaning up is expensive."
He stood up to take them off, followed by his vest. Sam watched, facing yet another moment of paradigm shift as he realized he'd never even seen Castiel take off his coat before. It was odd enough to see Castiel in jeans, let alone watch the jeans slide down his bare thighs and puddle on a dingy motel rug.
Sam's breathing steadied. He huffed a laugh at himself. Now he knew it was real for sure. Lucifer wasn't creative enough to add basic human struggle to his illusions; he damn sure wasn't imaginative enough to remember the damp, filthy motel carpets. "You'll wanna toss your pants on the other bed," Sam said.
Castiel looked up at him, shirttails crinkled around his bare thighs. "Why?" He asked, but stepped out of the concertina folds anyway, and draped his jeans on the empty bed.
"I'll explain later," Sam said with a shrug. Then Castiel was beside him, tucking in next to Sam while the cheap mattress bounced. Like his confession had drained away every ounce of hesitance, Castiel moved like a man on a mission. Apparently he'd given this a little thought of his own.
Sam propped himself on one elbow. His other palm spread on Castiel's chest, feeling the rise and fall of breath. "So, show me what you've been doing so far," he said. He wasn't quite sure if it was the right thing to say. All of this felt like flying blind. Castiel might need him to be explicit; to lay out the steps in minute detail. Sam's heart bobbed as he groped after the right words. When he found them, his skin flushed hot.
Castiel, however, seemed to need no further prompting. His body leaned heavy into Sam, one thigh lax against Sam's hips as he drew his knees up and let them fall open. One hand roamed down Castiel's shirt, fingertips following the buttons, like he'd never touched the fabric before. It rustled as he rucked up his shirttail to his navel, and took his slowly swelling erection in hand.
The motion exposed more of Castiel's skin than Sam had ever seen before, including a complex tattoo on the left side of Castiel's stomach. Curiosity about the mark saved his brain from completely shorting out. He touched it, gently.
"Didn't know you had this," Sam said, smiling, "does it mean something?"
It took a moment or two for the question to register. Castiel's head lolled towards Sam, eyes already heavy and dark. "It's protection," he said, "my brothers can't scry for me, now."
"You just had this done?" Sam peered at the script, tracing the letters with his fingertips.
Castiel's breath washed in and out like waves on a stormy beach. "Right before April," he confirmed, "it's... still sensitive. Please, don't stop doing that."
"Touching you?"
"Yes."
Sam couldn't remember his own first explorations well, but he remembered the curiosity and the sensitivity. The pressure that built in his belly and the sharp, perfect sparks that came too fast to control. He remembered that he spent a lot of extra time rinsing down the motel shower walls that autumn, and that for once the following winter (what he could recall, which was hazy with hormones) didn't crawl.
"How does it feel?" Sam asked, as he watched Castiel's cupped hand slide back and forth. The human penis wasn't a terribly utilitarian device, but somehow Castiel made jerking off look as interesting as pouring out a bowl of corn flakes. It was like he'd taken the universal gesture for jacking off and actually applied it. Sam had never seen someone treat a dick like this, and he'd seen plenty of disinterested porn.
In a few moments, Castiel's hand stilled. He glanced up at Sam. "Fine," he said, in the exact tone Sam used for indifferent diner salads. Sam swallowed a sympathetic smile with an effort.
Castiel studied the ceiling. "When I was with April, I remember there being, um, a crescendo. Of sorts. Pressure built, very fast, Until the pressure released. Is this it? Do I just keep going? Because if this is it, I honestly don't understand why humans are so rhapsodic about it."
The smile escaped, as Sam shook his head. "No, there's more than that, I promise," he said. "Uh, you know what? I have an idea. Wait right here."
Sam peeled away from Castiel with difficulty and lunged into the bathroom. The room felt colder than ever, as Castiel's body heat leached away from Sam's skin. He doused a hand towel in warm water, squeezed off most of it, and slipped back to bed. Sure, he had lube - in his nightstand at home, for the odd good mood. It was probably a couple years out of date, since these days he was more inclined to fix the problem with a cold shower than anything else.
If this went anywhere, maybe--
Sam tore his attention away from that thought. His six-moves-ahead chess brain might want to chew on the possibilities, but Castiel was pressed tight to his belly again, warm and actually wanting him, right here and now.
He pressed the damp towel into Castiel's hand. "Try this. Keep your grip light. If more friction feels better, you can tighten it up - just go slow."
At Castiel's puzzled expression, Sam gently closed his hand around Castiel's fist, and guided both back to his dick.
"Probably easier to show you," Sam murmured.
Castiel's breath hitched under Sam's hand as the warm, wet terrycloth closed around him. In a burst of inspiration, Sam kept his fingers gently around Castiel's, guiding him into slow, soft pulls.
The positive feedback came swift. Sam watched Castiel harden; watched his eyes close and his lips part as the pleasure began to crest. His hips made small rolls, pressing up into the circle of his own fist as he stroked himself. He murmured Sam's name, the single soft syllable an invitation and a summons.
Sam leaned over him a little, lips down close to Castiel's ear. "Feels nice?" he whispered, rewarded with a sharp gasp.
Castiel arched his neck against the pillow. "Very," he said breathlessly.
"You want to keep going?"
The question seemed to surprise Castiel. His eyes popped open and he turned a little to Sam. "What do I need to do?"
"Just follow your body," Sam said, "let it do what it wants."
"Don't you-- don't you want to be touched?"
"After," Sam replied with a smile, "I like what I'm seeing right now."
And he did. The reality of Castiel, vulnerable and flushed, was better than any of his daydreams. Castiel's body followed Sam's touch like he'd been attuned to it; like he couldn't get enough of Sam on his skin. Every brush of Sam's lips on Castiel's temple and jaw elicited a groan in the back of his throat. When their joined hands made a soft, wet pass down Castiel's dick, Sam felt his stomach clench as his hips thrust with more urgency.
Sam could have watched him forever. He was beautiful, open in a new way. He took the act of giving in to desire and made it gorgeous, enticing, and fearless. Fresh heat spun up in Sam's belly with the familiarity of a favorite song. He savored the arousal, let it build. If Castiel could be fearless about letting go, mortal and vulnerable and hunted as he was, so could Sam. When Castiel was ready, Sam would dive in with him.
Castiel moaned his name. His free hand found its way into Sam's hair and gripped tight and oh, okay, Sam was into that with a stab of breathless surprise. He breathed encouragement into Castiel's ear. God, Castiel was doing good. He was doing so good. In the past, Sam wondered if the newness of being touched would get under Castiel's stony self-control. He just wasn't prepared for the earth-shattering intensity. For the heat of his own response, and the way his whole being tensed in sympathy as Castiel's voice and body went taut.
He relaxed his grip, riding Castiel's hand instead of guiding the motion. The slide of knuckles under his palm picked up speed, and Castiel's voice roughened. He was doing it on his own, but his cries were still Sam's name, his free hand still clutched in Sam's hair. He came like that, every muscle gripped tight, and when it was over he sank in against Sam with a long, shivering exhale.
Sam grinned like an idiot, whether he had any right to at the moment or not. He looked down at Castiel. "You okay?"
Castiel's eyes were still closed; expression beatific. "Yes. Are you?"
"I'm good. I think you got it."
"I think so, too."
Quiet minutes passed. Sam listened to Castiel's breath, slowing. Cars hummed by the motel, their headlights sliding across the ceiling through the crack in the curtains. The fingers curled in his hair released, and carded through the ends in idle fascination. The sensation played sunshine tingles up and down his spine.
Eventually, however, Sam needed to undress. Even with the arousal heat still flickering in his blood, sleep seemed inside his reach for the first time in an age. He took the towel from Castiel's grip and lobbed it in the vicinity of the bathroom.
"I don't expect this to change your plans," Sam said, sitting up, "but, can you stay? Tonight, at least? Or you could even ride with me for a few days."
He glanced over his shoulder to see Castiel's drowsy frown. "My manager complains quite often about employees who leave without two weeks' notice."
"Do you want to come back here after? We could tell her it's a family emergency. Your aunt died or something."
The suggestion was followed by a lengthy pause. Sam rose, bending for the tiny motel trash can to sweep in the remains of their dinner.
He was halfway through brushing his teeth before the answer came. Sam started up at the sound of Castiel's voice so close to his shoulder, and met his eyes in the mirror - or tried to. Whitened to seaglass by the strong lights of the vanity, Castiel's gaze didn't meet his immediately. It dragged up, instead, torn from a spot somewhere between Sam's shoulderblades.
"No," Castiel said, "I don't think I want to come back here." His gaze slipped down to Sam's back with the still focus of a hunting cat. Sam twitched his shoulders. The pointed gaze made his skin itch.
Sam spit out his toothpaste. "What is it? Is there a spider on me or something?" he asked.
Castiel blinked, the aperture of his attention refocused. All traces of the ambushing feline vanished, and he settled back into himself. "What? No. I thought I saw--but it's nothing. My imagination, probably; I never would have claimed to possess one until losing my Grace."
Sam relaxed, though not quite all the way. He turned around and leaned back against the counter of the vanity. "Heh, sure. Well, you're talking to the right guy if you need some tips. I know what that's like. Dean's never been hot on working an eight-to-five, but I got tired of hustling pool. There's plenty of places we can look, depending on what you want to do."
Castiel nodded. "Nora is kind, but if I stay much longer, she'll need answers I don't have. And it's been hard to find other work. The face I wear belongs to a dead man, and that's been its own challenge. But are you sure? I am a target. My siblings could be anywhere."
With a loose shrug, Sam caught the loose folds of Castiel's button-down and towed him close. "I've faced worse than a bunch of angry angels."
"No, you haven't," Castiel protested, hands soft on Sam's hips, "they've nearly killed you multiple times."
Trust him to be blunt. "All right, okay," Sam laughed, "I'm still sure." He'd dodge angels all day long if it gave them the chance to figure this out.
"Do you need me to hang around a couple days, so you don't feel too guilty about quitting?" Sam asked, as he led Castiel back to bed.
Castiel looked relieved. He helped Sam out of his clothes and tucked in close with an ease that was the inverse of his earlier tension. "I'd like that," he said, "although it's going to make tomorrow's shift drag even longer than usual."
"Why, because you'll miss me?" Sam teased - or tried to. There was too much optimism in the room for that, right now.
He felt Castiel's snort of laughter brush his chest. Fingers swept along Sam's belly, light and careful under the sheet. "Anticipation," he said.
Sam shivered as the touches trailed down his inner thigh. He reached up to snap off the light, and squinted at the clock. "When's your next shift?"
Castiel's fingertips found their mark, and Sam gasped. "Five-thirty," Castiel answered.
"Bet we can fit in one more lesson."