There's a dull ringing in Sam's head.

He's not disorientated enough to miss when Castiel's arms crowd him on either side, seeming to trap him to stand in place. Or miss the glint of steely blue through eyelashes. Smaller, thick fingers rake painfully hard into Sam's hair when one of Castiel's arms stiffly reaches up, yanking Sam's head down, and the angel's lips are cold.

But, really, there's no damn way anyone on the second-story of Fallon County's public library could miss the booming noise of impact, their bodies creating a groan from the solid oak. Or the tumble of preciously acquired and now aimlessly skewed books onto the damasked pattern-carpet floor.

Sam's hands clench in themselves, shock flooding him.

It's not like it hasn't been a fantasy of his — someone else maneuvering him against the stacks, forceful hands and stolen glances (Jess would dig the ends of her nails into his scalp without mercy, whimpering his name against the hot seal of their mouths, Sam's thumb rocking up and pushing tiny, unsteady circles where her panties were already damp at the crotch). But… that had been worlds away from now. It had been a different Sam, framed to conceal his past and the memories of his family. A "normal" Sam, the college student who wanted to get away from it all, and start fresh before the opportunity would escape him. Someone who imagined getting a big, floppy dog like a collie and paying off mortgages and his college bills once out of Stanford, owning a house with his girlfriend and picking out a matching, white-picket fence like the rest of their neighbors in pleasantly crowded and overly friendly suburbia. The kind of shit he would secretly daydream about as a kid, when he got sick of constantly moving, or when Dean never answer his questions about Mom or Dad or their childhood home in Kansas and just gave him this awful look that old men would give the youth, when they had seen the true carnage that the world had to offer.

And then, Sam decided he would forget everything else — how to disassemble a Mossberg shotgun, the sensation of ghoul blood tacking under his dirtied, chipped fingernails, the soggy and sour odor of caking graveyard soil. But as it turns out, "normal" wasn't in the cards. But he had his time to agonize over it. And time to move on.

The patchy, uneven feel of Jimmy's day-old scruff, it rubs and prickles Sam's cheek. Another fumbling, softly growling kiss and god help him, Sam goes with it, accepting the warm, slick pressure of Castiel's tongue prodding inside his mouth. Pinned and pressed up against a huge book stack had always been a good sexual fantasy.

It's just with the wrong person.

His brother's sort of, sort of not boyfriend.

"Cas," Sam mumbles out, regaining control, gripping ferociously onto Castiel's arm still leaning on the wobbling stack. A layer of sweat gathers and dries clinging around his shirt collar. Summer air hovers cruel. Castiel's thigh snug and like a solid column of heat fitted between his legs. "What is…?"

"Hello, Sam." The angel says flatly, eyeing him close, "Your pupils are dilated."


"I believe you are aroused."

"What?" Sam repeats, frowning.

"And you are embarrassed about it."

An indignant laugh. Castiel continues staring blankly, observing. That skinny, crumpled and blue tie of his vessel hangs out in the open and backwards. Sam's fingers twitch.

"Kind of, yeah," Sam says, wrinkling up his irritated features. "You just zapped out of thin air and grabbed me, then…"

He paused, struck with a thought.

"Are… wait, is this an experiment or something?"

A muscle in Castiel's jaw flutters. An emotion like bemusement, maybe closer to indecision, surfaces. Sam really can't get stuck on this right at this moment, can't be here. He's late for meeting Dean back at the motel room about what he's dug up on archive records, on the mysterious decapitations locally. He's got Dean's beloved car, left his cell phone behind like a complete moron, and got Dean's angel breathing heavily on his neck. Got his faintly bitter and musky taste on Sam's mouth; god no, they were playing tonsil hockey out in a public place. Anyone, any one person could weave their way through and be offered with a gratuitous eyeful of angel-on-human action. Above all, Sam can'tCAN'T be popping a stiffy.

Taking a deep, long breath, Sam glances around, listens for the staircase nearby. No creaking, no shuffling footsteps.

"Okay, seriously, Cas—what the hell?" he hisses.

"Dean has considerable experience in this… activity. He wishes for it, but we are not…" Castiel says, adding air quotes with both hands, "…active."

"And so, you decided that I'm practice for your first kiss with him?"

The clinical approach to Castiel's tone won't waver. "The demon Meg responded well to a forceful approach. You appear more uncomfortable."

Sam lets out a laugh, this time more humored and less choked with horror. A part of him still can't process what's happening, fully, but Cas can be so… Cas.

"Most people aren't expecting to be shoved around to the point of bruising." He ruffles a hand to his messed hair, pointing out, "I mean— uh, sometimes it works for the excitement but, it's usually safer to try a slower pace, to make it more sensual, got it?"

Castiel's head gives a quick, jerky nod. Sam's eyebrows draw together at the clear stretch of silence.

"…I'm not following," the angel replies, exasperated.

"You need to slow it down, Cas. You act like the person you're kissing is going to disappear once you get into it. If Dean wants to kiss you, he's gonna kiss you."

Really can't be here.

He can't.

He can't be thinking about saying what waits on the tip of his tongue.

"Okay, okay, focus on what I'm doing," Sam instructs him, gently placing a large hand on Castiel's shoulder. "And follow my lead, alright…" It's a bit of a curse to be as tall as he is, but his neck can take the craning when his lips skim Castiel's. They're less cold from skin-to-skin contact. Sam's other hand touches under Castiel's ribcage, spanning his fingers. He senses Castiel's arms returning to leaning against the book stack. He exhales, "Go ahead…" and relocks their mouths, again, again and Sam's teeth lightly nip down on a bottom lip within easy reach. An encouragingly low, throaty moan. His hips propel forward, instinctual, for the friction, needing it, needing the length of Castiel's thigh and the heat.

When Castiel's hips buck up, grinding slow, one of Sam's arms shoots out, clawing back for the shelf beside him. Oh, christ, yes. The darkness behind Sam's eyelids wants to spin and tilt with how weightless he feels. Hazel-green eyes slip open. His confinement of his jeans isn't on the level of torture, but, shit, he's getting there. They better…

Sam's hand squeezes noticeably around Castiel's trench-coat shoulder. He turns out of the kiss, pulling on a half-smile. "Getting the idea now?"

A pinch of relief when the nod from Castiel is genuine.

"This has been educational," he rasps.

"Good… okay." Sam's cheeks flame. He shifts away, every ounce of his weight and his stature reading off as awkward, and Sam drops his eyes, bending for his abandoned textbook. "This, um… this stays between us, Castiel. Anyone asks… you're a natural."

Those blue, observing eyes. He imagines them calmly blinking.

"…I understand, Sam."

A fluttering of wings.

He doesn't need to glance up to know Castiel has left. Probably back to Dean in the motel room.

Probably so they could…

Oh, god.

A mild shudder passes through him.

No way.

They're outta cash but the Impala has working AC, thankfully.

A morning neck-kink is worth virgin ears.



SPN isn't mine. I'm gonna set this somewhere later Season 6, though somewhat alternative universe since the Destiel in this became established. Idea came around when thescarletrose and I were hanging out in my tinychat last week, so she gets the dedication. :3 Hope you all enjoyed reading. Thoughts and observations always welcomed.