A/N: I wrote this because I promised I would if Jared won the poll for Portrait magazine's top 30 men under 30. Which, of course, he did. It was a really close call and the whole fandom on Tumblr (myself included) was up until very late just endlessly voting, and we managed to beat Joey Richter (sorry Starkids) by a few thousand.

So anyway. My first time writing wincestiel and anything above pg13 for Supernatural. :D Not beta-ed, sadly, but it'll be fine.

Warnings: I don't own the characters. Like 1000 words longer than originally intended. My inability to write porn without plot/reason.

Sometimes, in between jobs, Sam and Dean would get a day off—sometimes a week, if they were lucky.

When the chores are done, when the salt boxes are packed away and gasoline containers are pushed to a far corner in the hidden compartment of the Impala's trunk—Sam and Dean would drive to the nearest town and park their baby outside a decent motel. When the gravel road has been their only companion for too long, and the desire for a change of scenery, more than the craving of society's vibrancy, drive the boys' spirits to a standstill, they would reinvigorate themselves of excitement by putting everything down and living like two normal men with too much time on their hands.

It helps them remember what the world is like. That there are people aside from themselves, not ghosts, not werewolves. There are people with families, life schedules, life plans. There is paperwork, supervisors, bosses and promotions, and though none of that interest them, they feel it is important that they don't forget. Here is the city, dense and loud at night, neon signs in every which direction and the blaring beats that can be heard from bars with doors deliberately too thin. And when the moon rises above, there would be solid flesh, and the soft pink afterglow of silky skin fresh out of the shower. The towels fall, the lights go out, and fingers would wind themselves into the long locks of some bartender's hair.

But there would always be some deeper desire, some beneath-the-surface pleasure they seek that cannot be fulfilled through sex. And no matter what ways they go, who they meet, at the end of the day it's always just the two of them, Dean and Sam. It's always just been the two of them, so when for the first time Sam felt his brother's calloused fingers trace down his spine, he understands. Because a trip to the city only serves to remind them how they are not a part of this world anymore, and that they are so much beyond intoxicated with the wants of the corporeal flesh and sought something else instead. And whatever fucked up intimacy it turned out to be, they found it in each other.

It used to be just the two of them, until Castiel came along.

They are resting in a motel on the outskirts of Alabama, after a long day's work of tracking down a werewolf couple to no avail. "We let them slip past us again," Sam sighs, pacing the room with some documents in his hand. Dean watches his brother run his fingers through his hair, and notes that if it grows any longer he could perhaps prank him by tying his hair into pigtails with the rubber bands from the next Chinese take-out. The mattress below him buzzes, drowning out his thoughts with the steady hum of his beloved Magic Fingers. Castiel is sitting in a nearby chair, fingers laced across his lap, blue eyes focused on the figure on the queen sized bed. Queen sized because the receptionist lady had looked at the trio askance for a brief instant before saying "We've only got two queen rooms left." It was when Dean said they would only be needing one that she really stopped in polishing her nails, and actually looked at them.

"Give it a rest, Sammy," Dean mutters, a dumb smirk crossing his features, "you should really come try this." He pats the bed.

Sam raises an eyebrow, and Castiel's forehead wrinkles. Dean shakes his head. "After me." The vibration stops, and reluctantly Dean swings his legs off the side, reaching into his jacket pocket for another quarter. "You wanna…?" He looks to Sam, pointing towards the bed.

Sam shakes his head at Dean like he is hopeless. Dean in consequence shrugs, and murmurs Your loss before lying back down to the massaging pulsation.

But Sam takes his advice. He sheds his shirt after Castiel politely steps out of the room—to where, God knows—and tugs on the drawstrings of his sweatpants. He makes de his way to the showers in his boxers.

When Sam comes out, he finds Dean asleep with his limbs sprawled out on the bed. At first he contemplates waking him up, but seeing his brother with his eyelids closed and mouth turned up in a hint of a smile, he stops. Dean hasn't looked so peaceful in a long while, and the Magic Fingers sit still on the night stand, almost mocking him.

So okay, Dean gets a free pass for tonight, and Sam lets him keep his jeans and shirt on as he worms his way into the blanket.

Sam doesn't know it, but Dean is awake, and counting.

Second by second. He counts with the ticks of the clock, and each second the tension grows because he can feel eyes on his back, and some unspoken comment that has hovered over them ever since Sam's near shooting Dean in believing he was a shifter. And he thinks to himself now that he probably shouldn't have made that face, that face like he is torn because his brother pointed a gun at him, when all he was really thinking was What would happen to him if I'm gone?

At 344, he hears the blankets shuffle. At 346, he feels hands around his waist; 348, and they're beneath his shirt, and 351 Sam finally speaks.

"Dean," it's low, barely above a whisper.

Dean sighs, and Sam is not startled he is awake. "Sam…not now." Dean catches his hands, but doesn't protest when he feels Sam press up against him.

"I didn't mean t—"

"I'm not mad, I told you already." He stops talking when he feels his jeans button come loose. Dean bites his lips, "Sam, hey—Cas is still around somewhere, what if he—"

Suddenly the lights are on, and before neither of them have the chance to snap away, Castiel is standing over them, hand on the light switch.

"Dean?" He asks, "I heard you call…"

Oh, he thinks for a moment. Is this their way of making up? He has been sensing something strange the entire day.

"I'm—um. I'm sorry, I won't bother you guys. I'll just—"

"No, Cas, wait."

Deam isn't really sure why he said that. He can see the clear widening of Castiel's eyes, and can imagine the surprise of his brother. But there is something about him that looks off, something like the fact that his hair is a mess and his tie is undone and cheeks are reddened by the city's autumn chill. But maybe he himself is possessed, because something made him climb out from the covers and walk to Castiel, who backs up like he's almost frightened, and catches his arm and says No, stay, as he turns off the light once more.

Suddenly they are in the dark, and nobody speaks, but the silence says enough. With a gentle tug, Castiel is led to the bed, and he doesn't even have time to think about what he's signing up for before his coat is gone. He searches for Sam in the darkness, and hopes that from the silence this means he isn't imposing on their privacy, but he or his vessel doesn't seem to care because he is already naked and on the bed before he can leave and truthfully, he doesn't think he wants to leave.

It starts with hands. Hands, nobody knows whose, in the dark and silence; hands that slide across bed sheets, hands that roam the surface of someone else's body, the tentative touch of fingertips as it traces down a chest, a thigh. Sam can tell now, and so can Dean, and Castiel's hands are hesitant, shy, as they slid over Dean's hip and the crook of Sam's neck.

An arm hooks around his waist, and a body presses into his back. Castiel's spine arches, his frame shuttering as the soft skin of his chest is met by equally soft lips. He moans, involuntarily, and leans his head back, involuntarily. By this time those lips are ghosting over his stomach, a new pair of hands gripped his legs, the hips that brushed against him from behind had picked up pace and he had his fingers dug into the nape of someone's neck, he is trying so fucking hard not to utter a word. And fuck, because now Sam's lips—or maybe Dean's, he couldn't tell—are all over his erection, and he groans and gasps at the bites on his neck and thinks though all this haze that he should do something with his hands, so he reaches behind and grabs hold of the cock that slip-slides against his entrance. He grabs it so hard that Dean near fucking growls in his ear, and Castiel is so close to just losing it.

But somehow long limbs slide with ease, and he's being pushed onto his back so gently that for a second he forgets who he is with. A streak of light is thrown through the crack in the curtains, and Castiel sees in the pale glow Sam above him, his tousled hair and work-hardened features, and thinks Yes, these are the Winchesters, and it is their rough, calloused hands spreading apart his legs, so painstakingly gentle on his skin like they're afraid of somehow bruising him.

But that is just why, isn't it? Because he knows it's not the first time the brothers have touched one another, but it is the first time in a long time they have held a body so tender, so new, with fingertips and backs of hands that won't bruise the skin. They hold him now like he's something divine, clinging, almost desperate. He feels someone cup his face, and a kiss so deep that it draws the breath out of his lungs makes him want to hold them and say "I'm here, I'm here."

He feels something pressing in, something foreign, tight and heated between his legs and—God it's so good!—and he feels Dean's stubble slide like sandpaper over his throat and bite down on his collarbone, and with that he loses control of his voice. Suddenly it's wild, he's cussing and Sam is bucking his hips and—"Fuck, Cas!"—he is working his mouth fervently on Dean's erection, and somewhere along the way of this wild sexing, Dean's fingers have somehow found their way laced into his. With his free arm he grips the sheets, and when Sam lifts his hips off the bed, he is brushing that sinful thing inside him with every thrust, and Dean's sucking vigorously on his chest that it makes him want to scream "take me, take it all." It isn't long until the room is filled with "Dean!" and "Sam, oh yes!", and he's rattling and trembling so hard Castiel can't fucking breathe. So when a hand so harshly strokes his erection and the heat between his legs is too much to bear, Castiel comes harder than he's ever imagined with a raw-throated cry, clinging so tightly to Sam's back with his legs.

He feels his heartbeats calm, feels the coolness of the night for the first time on his bare skin, and feels the jolt of Sam's body as he releases with a long, drawn out groan. He is vaguely aware when Dean comes all over his chest, and the last thing he remembers is the soft press of a pair of lips on his own, before his eyelids drop, only to open to the golden glow of the noon sun splashed across the blanket.

They don't talk about it. Neither of the brothers mention anything about it, and Cas doesn't either, except when he sometimes winces in his chair, Dean and Sam seem to look away. He's grateful for the nonchalance, because honestly he doesn't know how he would respond if one of them were to say "Hey, how was last night for you?" He's also glad he woke up to Dean and Sam discussing the case over some takeout food, and that the gloom seems to have lifted.

The one thing that does change, after that night, is that they seem to see him as even more fragile, taking whatever work off his shoulders whenever they can, sitting him down in front of the TV when they sharpen the blades and clean the guns, and sometimes when they brush by shoulders, their hands would accidentally graze.

He catches Dean staring at him more often out of the corner of his eyes. Castiel doesn't know why, but there is something raw behind the gaze, like he is looking at something almost precious, with a hint of longing, maybe, melancholy. And sometime there's that purse in the lips before he looks away, and if Castiel doesn't know better, he would have guessed it is envy.

He thinks, as he sips the hot chocolate in his hand, that he's become a symbol of something, and that's fine with him. He doesn't really want to know, anyway.