Sam thinks Castiel's house is the biggest house in the world.

He's been in it for three months and he still finds new rooms every time he goes for a walk. The gardens are huge, the hallways so long that he can't see to the end of them and the dining room is massive, a table so long that he would tire from running the length of it.

His and Dean's room is bigger than their house. The bed alone is three times the size of their old pallet, with proper sheets and a silk coverlet. It has four giant posts and curtains that make the bed its own room.

His clothes are different to. Still the plain shirts and dark slacks he used to wear, but now made of better stuff and thick enough to keep out the cold, as if there could be a draft here in this place.

He knows that Castiel has his own room somewhere, and that it must be finer even than the bedroom Sam shares with Dean. There's also the other room, the one he doesn't go into because it's always locked. The one Dean shares with Castiel most nights, before coming back to share the bed he occupies with Sam.

Sam's not stupid, young yes, but not naive. He knows that Dean used to have sex with people for food money, and now he has sex with Castiel and they live in his house. But he likes Castiel, he's not scary anymore like he was when Sam first met him. He's nice and quiet and he doesn't do bad things to Dean like some of the others did. Dean is happy in Castiel's house, and he doesn't refuse to take his clothes off in front of Sam like he used to do when he had bruises or bites on him. He comes to bed smelling like the same soap that Castiel uses, hair still wet from bathing.

Sam likes the library the best, so he spends a lot of time there, reading. Castiel has promised to get him a tutor so that Sam won't have to go away to school and leave Dean.

Sam gets used to eating with Dean and Castiel, watching his brother and the older man talk about the society gossip and whispering other things between them that Sam can't here. After a few weeks they stop trying to pretend that they aren't having sex, they curl up on the couches in the salon and Sam sits on the floor reading and shaking his head when Dean slips a hand under Castiel's shirt, and asks Sam if it bothers him.

Sam thinks Castiel is probably the best thing that's ever happened to his brother.

Dean doesn't think there's a part of Castiel he hasn't touched, licked, sucked or been inside of after the first three months of living with him.

In their locked room, spread out on a generously sized bed and with candles burning low in the wall sconces, he takes Castiel apart and breaks apart himself. He's never had access to this much bared flesh on a man, taking his clients quickly and mostly clothed in alleys. A man has never tasted this good to him, like rose oil and salt and wine instead of beer and week old sweat.

Castiel touches him like he's a person, like he's something holy and beautiful. He is kind and never holds Dean down, calling him a whore or pulling his hair. He's quiet and wondering as if each time Dean pushes inside of him is the first time, as if he can't believe how good it feels just to be with him.

They are by no means chaste lovers. They couple openly on the mussed bed, obscenely bare and moving with muscle binding force, Castiel on hands and knees with Dean jerking into him from behind, Dean on his back with Castiel riding him into the floor, hands braced on the couch above them. Any way to join their needy flesh is tried, hours of slipping over each other naked, like curls of smoke or pools of oil. He watches Castiel come a hundred times, hears him beg and moan and scream even as he loses his mind over him, swears, pleads and professes every scattered endearment he can process.

They fuck like whores let loose on each other, like lovers reuniting, like old marrieds in their dowdy bed and virgins full of nerves and delight. They come together brutally like enemies who want to take and take and friends who would give everything and receive so much in return.

In the face of so much variety, change and excitement, Dean begins to lose his harder edges.

He begins to like Castiel's face, even when it isn't rapt with pleasure or moulded to the curve of his sweating throat, praying wordlessly for deeper, faster, more.

He likes the smiles he gives when Sam reads some dusty tome from the library.

He likes the frown that creases his forehead as he goes over his accounts.

He loves the sound of his voice when it says 'Dean' even if he's just calling for his company on a walk in the grounds.

He craves the tender skin behind his ears and the insides of his wrists.

Dean begins to move Castiel onto his back on the bed, taking him face to face so that he can watch and be watched. He kisses him and means it, more than just eating at his mouth in desperation, but softer, more refined.

He lies with him on Castiel's actual bed, in his bedroom, and they talk about their parents (dead) their siblings (Sam and Gabriel) and their proclivities (troubling and shrouded in secrecy).

One night, sweating and lying with his softening cock against his belly, soaked in oil and Castiel's cooling come, he brushes the hair from his employers face and realises he has acquired a lover, a partner.

Castiel holds on to him and breaths softly against his skin.

They love and are loved. Dean slips his fingers through Castiel's and tethers them together.