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Right now, the lives of many innocent people hang in the balance… and Sam Winchester's laptop has no WIFI.

"Quit whining, geekbait," Dean says, elbows propped on a tabletop littered with disassembled gun and rifles. Living long enough around Dean, he keeps count of it: every other day or three days, Dean spreads out the contents of their weapons box on every available flat surface, and takes apart whatever little pieces there are to scrub and oil them all down.

It's usually a two person job to go through but Dean seems to apply meditation to the ritual; he's not on edge, he's got something else to concentrate on besides a doomsday and bloodshed, and Sam's willing to let him have that temporary peace of mind. It's beneficial otherwise; nothing has been corroded or jammed yet in their arsenal — not counting the cursed rabbit foot luck. "It's not raining fire and brimstone yet, so take a chill pill, alright?"

It doesn't mean that Dean ever stops being an asshole.

"You're an idiot," Sam grumbles from the king-sized motel bed. He roughly claps shut the lid of his laptop with his palm.

"Rubber and glue, Sammy. Rubber and glue."

Dean wipes his hands on a tattered rag and passes him. Sam's nose wrinkles and he chokes when Dean's hand, smelling heavily of noxious fumes from the cleaning solvent, slides over his face. "Oh god, fucker—" The socked heel of Sam's foot kicks the lower space of Dean's back, and it's a twinge of hope that there is some pain to accompany the hit, as his older brother jolts away from him and snickers. "You're also apparently four," Sam snaps at him.

"Last week I was three, I'm taking that as a good sign." Dean's fist bangs several times on the closed bathroom door.

The swirly, multi-colored flower décor on the walls and Easter egg pastels light fixtures really… well, anyone who wasn't suffering from massive brain damage would call it butt ugly — but the going rates were decent. And credit card fraud ain't exactly cheap.

Make matters even better, they've got an angel-not-an-angel on their hands to drag around now.

And, who… suddenly desired physical contact a lot more than usual, especially when they were all in public places.

During the car rides, Castiel sat quietly in the backseat unless the rest of them were discussing their next plan of action, bright blue eyes staring impassively out his side window, hands neatly folded without compliant. Soon as everyone got out of the Chevy, either one of Dean or Sam's hands were immediately claimed as victims to his overly sweaty, soft-flesh grip. While Dean ordered their human angel to let him go, to fish out his wallet for the room, Castiel cocked his head at him like he didn't quite understand.

He then did the same to the fresh-faced woman behind the reception desk, who smiled close-lipped but didn't go for small talk. She thankfully didn't try asking why three grown men were traveling around and ordering for one motel room with only one large bed to it.

("You see, my brother and I hunt monsters for a living and we're also considering a serious relationship with an angel of the Lord, how has been your day, ma'am?")

Castiel had burrowed his lonely fingers into the back of Dean's rugged blue shirt as that Winchester signed a receipt, and Sam accepted the sensation of Castiel's hand wrapping hurriedly around his. "Clingy" was an improvement to Castiel's other moods popping up at random. Sam can't really blame him… if he was in Castiel's position, he'd be knee-deep in blatant frustration with an extra side order of borderline depression.

Top the night off with the whole disastrous business of learning to not overdo eating portions, and it's a goddamn winner.

Dean tries banging again when the sink inside the bathroom turns off and a toilet flushes. "You still alive in there, Cas?" he yells.

A blank moment of silence before the bathroom door swings in, revealing the pinch-faced, wincing man.

"Yelling is not necessary," Castiel informs Dean in his customary gruffness.

Like he hasn't just vomited up helping after helping of spicy bean burrito special — Dean's brilliant idea.

"I can hear fine," he adds as a confirmation.

Dean frowns. "Go lay down for a bit, dude. You look like crap run over twice."

"Your euphemisms are… confusing."

There comes a gentle squeeze to the top of Castiel's shoulder and Dean passes him in the entranceway, staking his right to the bathroom. Sam watches Castiel navigates his way to the king-sized bed, not as unsteady as the porridge color of his face might suggest, and he curls up into a semi-formed ball, head resting in Sam's lap as the other man sets his laptop on the nightstand. A small, keening murmur passes Castiel's lips when Sam's fingers thread his hair gently in route to his forehead, cupping it.

"You're warm but I think it's from earlier," Sam says down on him, keeping a soft voice, "How's it now?"

A moment allowed for consideration.

Sam's hand moves around to stroke up Castiel's back, pushing up the material of Dean's grey/green borrowed shirt, fingerpads soothing heat to exposed skin. He groans aloud, holding his abdomen. "Crap…run over twice," Castiel breathes out, squirming when a thumb finds the silky, warm line of his spine.

A smile tugs Sam's lips. "Must be bad if you're quoting Dean," he comments.

"Human physiology is unnecessary."

"You're not wrong."

Castiel's nose presses down against the inseam thigh of thick denim. If he continues to nuzzle that area, Sam may have to shift him back onto the mattress before the beginnings of an erection decides to poke him in the temple. Poking other places would be fine.

Better than fine, sex would be fantastic for unwinding, if everyone was onboard with it later. Castiel didn't seem like he was in the mood…

Sam's fingers trace down, nudging between the white, elastic waistband of his partner's underwear and more warm skin, and the response is promising — Castiel arches his hips a little towards the familiar shape of Sam's hand, towards the experimental kneading of a muscular buttock. He growls faintly, bright color rinding dark pupils, "Sam…" At the same moment, Dean returns, hands sopping with wet suds, wiping them with bits of toilet paper, flecking globs on the candy-green carpet.

He doesn't spare a glance for them and goes for the end table, checking over the handful of guns he reassembled.

"Can't keep using the same rag, Dean," Sam announces, smile lengthening, hand still down the seat of Castiel's pants.

Dean snorts. "Nothing gets past you, college boy," he replies, back still facing them.

Castiel sits up, hands splayed to the covers, expression reading curiosity when Sam wordlessly taps the ridge of his shoulder blade and stands, walking for his brother. Sam folds his arms, clearing his throat slightly and coming around the other side of the tabletop, glancing at the floral, frilly curtains and then Dean's face.

"Can you afford a break from the cleaning?" he asks, voice neutral.

Dean mumbles, sweeping the edge of cotton cloth over the metal barrel of the 9mm pistol, "After this last set gets lubed up, don't see why not."

Sam rolls his eyes a little, good-humoredly. He catches the flash of Dean's mischievous grin. "Nice choice of words."

"Speaking up, we stocked up on the slick?"

"Last I checked."

Dean nods. "Good," he says, situating the unloaded pistol in its original spot, between .45 caliber Smith and Wesson and the sawed-off double barrel shotgun. The wet tip of Dean's tongue slits his ruddy pink lips. Sam's betting they taste like the lemon meringue pie from the diner.

"…'cause I'm gonna enjoy watching your ass get spread tonight."

Sam's eyebrows tic up in genuine but very brief surprise.

That was Dean for you — a big fan of the dirty talk and being straightforward as possible while doing it. If Sam wasn't on his way to popping a stiff one before, there's definitely one now with the mental images. Dean's eye trail down when his younger brother adjusts himself inside his jeans, catches that wrist with his own hand and yanks Sam closer.

Lemon meringue and the tang of beef. Dean's cheeseburger.

Flavors that Sam's mouth and taste buds pick up on as their mouth collide harshly, noisily; Dean's teeth crash his. His tongue lightly swipes the flat of his palate, feeling for where another tongue pushes for access, and Sam grants it — clawing for the front of a brown military jacket, Dean's coat anchoring reality.

"You like this, Cas," Dean addresses the bed's occupant, separating from Sam's mouth. "Me and my brother getting horny as fuck for each other? You wanna watch us?"

Dean's clearly baiting him — hell, he's baiting everyone, including himself, and Castiel rasps, voice tempered as Dean's comes out gritty and lustful, "You're going to be the one to observe, Dean." The authority, the deliberation in God's servant acknowledging this and knowing that no one is going to argue, and if so — not for very long.

"Sam," he calls out, pale knees rubbing through the threadbare holes in Dean's jeans and scooting the fabric coverlet. Sam untangles himself from his brother and settles down next to him with widening, eager to please eyes; Castiel's docile grip on the bulge of his upper arm.

Ever since Sam was a kid, he's prayed; he's worshipped the images of angels and the thought of salvation for what he thinks is unforgivable about himself. Sam thinks Castiel finds him untouchable. Too soiled in his nature to be cherished, to be loved with pure intentions; too soiled for being saved.

"Sam," Castiel repeats, a fraction of his tone softer, empathetic, and he feels his eyes well up for a split second.

Rustling in the background; a belt buckle coming apart.

One of Dean's kneeling legs drops its weight on the further side of the bed. Guess the oiling could wait after all.

"You're going to take my fingers inside yourself because I asked to pleasure you." God yes. Sam swallows down a thrilled explanation as Castiel adds, that odd and calmly perceptive gaze staring right at him, "Do you agree to this?" He nods, grunting and stripping off his plaid shirt, keeping upright as smaller, paler fingers lock around his neck.

He doesn't roll over when the rest of his clothing pushes off, the fingers in one of Castiel's hands still in place and signaling him stay. Dean swears lowly, also shirtless and pressing against Castiel's back, shoving off the two layers from Castiel's upper body when the human angel lifts his arms obediently.

The flick of a bottle cap opening. Cool, slickened fingers nudge him open, locating the muscled rim, spearing in cautiously.

"Fuck, Sam—" Dean breathes, brushing his parting lips to the side of Cas's ear, eyes a feverish shade of darkening green as Sam's body shivers under the attention, as he works two of Castiel's fingers in deep, the tip of his dick oozing and twitching at the short jabs at his prostate. "Sammy—"

"Shh," Castiel whispers, reaching up, lightly stroking his fingertips over the visible handprint on Dean's shoulder.

It does the opposite effect of calming him. The other man ruts against him, burying his face into the dark nest of Castiel's hair, moaning and sliding his clothed penis hot and heavy against Castiel. Dean's hand wraps, circling teasingly just beneath the head of Castiel's dick.

"Don't shh me," Dean whispers back, not slowing himself with the tortuous grinding against Castiel's backside. A nebulous form of amusement creeps over Castiel's normally mellow features, and Sam's sure enough that there's gotta be a shit-eating grin on Dean's face buried away, even if Sam can't see it from his angle.

The fingers inside him crook, and Sam whines his approval, accepts Castiel's pleased kiss, the slight burn of scratch-stubble below Castiel's bottom lip.

Their breathing quickens; the spongy hollow of Castiel's inner cheek faintly tastes like peppermint mouthwash where Sam's tongue sweeps against it. Dean loudly sucks the nape of Castiel's neck, his long arch of throat, where marks redden to the surface. It's obscenely possessive, feral, adding with the husky growls escaping, and Sam's gut rides with the intensifying heat, of wanting and needing to come.

"Tell me," lovingly passes Castiel's nipped, puffy lips. "Sam… tell me."

"Please," Sam exhales tightly.

He whines again, garbling up some cross of a plea and a name when Castiel's hand tugs him a few times, bringing him to a quick, satisfying orgasm, coating Castiel's palm and wrist. Breathing hard, dizzily, he shuts his eyes and feels someone's lips affectionately on the bridge of his nose. Sam reopens them — Dean's leaning back out with an easy, winking smirk and his fingers rhythmically pump Castiel's shaft. "I've gotcha, Cas," he reassures, mopping the come on his sandy-haired thigh as Castiel goes boneless with a soft groan, slackens in Dean's half-embrace, tilting his head against the crook of Dean's neck.

Sam hunches down, bowing his head down until his long, brown bangs hang over his eyes. Dean forgets sometimes that he's not supposed to call them girly because then Dean gets a punch in a sensitive nerve somewhere on his body, and ends up rubbing at it and bitching for another hour. Nothing alarmingly different in their lives.

Castiel jerks back to life, stiffening against Dean as Sam lifts his thick, red dick with a loose fist and laps up the mess of remaining come in small, bathing licks. He smoothly engulfs what he can of Castiel into his gaping mouth and back of his throat, drinking down what was left from the quivering organ. A shuddery, sharp hiss above from Dean; it must have been a spectacular enough move to get his older brother to cream his boxers.

"Jesus christ, Sammy," Dean says, croakily, as Sam wipes his lips on his tanned arm. "I could watch you do that all day."

One of Castiel's eyebrows raise — whether at the progressing blasphemy or at the possible concept of Sam sucking him off for all hours — but he says nothing, sleepily arranging himself in Dean's one-arm hold until Dean's legs cradle against him. He tucks his entire face into a warm, muscular crook of neck, snuggling both arms lazily around Dean's sinewy waist, mewling at the hand petting his hair.

Sam asks, chuckling, "Suck another guy's dick?"

"Stuffing yourself with dick was the general direction I was going," Dean elaborates with a so-so look, comfortably knotting his freckle-dusted fingers in sweaty, black hair.

"Maybe I'll let you one day," Sam says, eyeing their companion.

"Always knew you wanted to be my bottom bitch."

Dean gloats.

Sam rolls his eyes again.

Castiel ignores the both of them.

Nothing alarmingly different in their lives.

Sam's toes playfully shove at Dean's ankle closest to him.

"Go fuck yourself, jerk."

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Supernatural is not, not, nooooooooot mine in any shape or form. I would say I would make Wincestiel if that was the case... but it already is, c'mon. -snickers- Overdue story request from my dearest Vladbride who needed more smutty Wincestiel with Cas as the middle of the Winchester sandwich (and I didn't get to add the wing kink, aaaaaaand you're glaring at me right now... I can feel it). And as you all know full well, bwahaha, comments always appreciated! Threesomes are the best kind of kink to write, I swear.