College Parties are Overrated (Everyone Should Trick-or-Treat)
» Fandom:
» Rating: PG-13
» Pairing: Sam/Castiel
» Additional tags/warnings: Underage (Both Characters), Alcohol Use by Minors, Puppy Love, Someone Gets a Cluebat, ~1.2k
» Summary: Underage Halloween shenanigans, basically. What Dean doesn't know can't hurt him, right?

(For sassyhalloween2012 - last-minute entry!)

"Okay. I've got seven Tootsie Rolls—"

"Barf," Dean grumbles.

"— fifteen Reeses Peanut Butter cups, if you count the Reeses Pieces—"

"I do like peanut butter," Castiel says thoughtfully.

"—and, oh gross, Almond Joys—"

"Sam, Almond Joys are excellent," Castiel insists. "I find coconut to be especially—"

"God, shut up," Dean moans into his pillow. "Would you two just leave me to die in peace?" He's curled up into a tight, miserable ball on top of his sheets, still fully dressed in the shiny helmet and plastic vambraces of the Roman centurion's costume he'd worn to some college Halloween party. From their positions on Dean's bedroom floor, Sam and Castiel exchange rueful looks.

Well, Sam is trying to exchange rueful looks. What he gets back is more of a blank, glazed stare, his brother's friend listing slightly to the left as he once again begins to lose the fight against gravity; if Castiel had drunk half as much at that party as Dean evidently had, Sam is amazed he's not tossing his cookies in the bathroom right now.

"Oh, sorry," Sam says loudly, enjoying the way it makes Dean whimper and curl up further like a prodded caterpillar. "What was that? 'Sorry for ditching you for college kids, Sam'? 'Sorry for making you cover for me with Dad all night, Sam'? Sorry for being such a jerkface in general, Sam'—?"

"Actually—" Castiel starts.

"Sarcasm," Sam shoots at him, because being friends with Dean has cured Castiel of most of his homeschooled awkwardness but it looks like being wasted brings it out again.

Dean manages something like a garbled "Fuck you" that sounds like it got knifed and left for dead in an alley.

"Yeah, that's right," Sam mutters, starting to gather all the neat piles of his candy haul back into the pillowcase he's gone trick-or-treating with. If Dean thinks he can weasel even one dinky box of Junior Mints out of Sam after this, he was sorely mistaken.

Sam stands and holds out a hand to Castiel, who blinks at it owlishly, then up at him from the beige carpet.

"Dean can drown in his own puke for all I care," Sam tells him. "That doesn't mean you have to sleep on his floor and watch him do it."

"Saaaaam," Dean whines.

"Deeeeean," Sam mocks him, pulling a very uncoordinated Castiel to his shaky feet.

"'M dying. Gimme a glass of water or something."

Sam huffs out a breath, looping Castiel's arm over his shoulders and taking most of the other boy's weight. "I'm gonna put Cas to bed. Then water. If you're lucky, I might even bring you Tylenol with it."

"Awesome," Dean mumbles, voice already faint with sleep. "M'head fucking kills."

"And whose fault is that, anyway?" Sam asks, but Dean's eyes are already closed, and he doesn't respond. With a last muttered, "Jerk," Sam drags Castiel with him out of the room, turning off the light as he goes.

"I can walk, Sam," Castiel tells him, with an edge of pissiness that's adorable when the guy can't even keep his head upright. It lolls against Sam's shoulder, Castiel's skin almost feverishly hot, breath coming out warm and damp against Sam's throat.

"Sure you can," Sam soothes, and suppresses a shiver.

It's a long walk down the hall to the guest bedroom's pull-out couch, with Castiel swaying and tripping over nothing every few steps, Sam struggling to keep them both standing and moving in a generally couchwardly direction. Sam is taller, but he and Cas probably weigh the same— this year, Sam had trick-or-treated as a cupid, because Ruby thought it was hysterically funny— Sam, covered in glitter and sporting tiny white wings, gangly as fuck, big hands and big feet and all bony lankiness in between.

Castiel bounces when Sam drops him on the horrible gingham pull-out they'd inherited from some colorblind aunt years ago, and Sam says, "Sorry, Cas. You need help pulling all that off or are you good to go?"

After a few moments to let the words percolate through, Castiel looks down at himself, costume identical to Dean's down to the fake-leather calf guards.

"There are—buckles?" he says doubtfully.

There are indeed buckles, a literal shit-ton of buckles, and Castiel isn't helping the process at all leaning on Sam while he fights with the cheap fabric and broken zippers and twisted knots. This close, with Castiel draped all over him, all Sam can smell is beer and cigarette smoke, mixed with something candy-sweet and sickly that might be jello shots, or pot, or whatever girl rubbed up against him while he was too piss-drunk to protest—

Sam realizes, abruptly, that he's sliding Castiel's pleated skirt-thing down past his knees and Castiel is now naked but for briefs and a red, red flush, burning its way across his chest and, when Sam sits back on his heels to look up at him, his cheeks. His eyes are so blue like this, heavy-lidded and dark, and the way he's looking at Sam—

—at Sam's mouth—

"Uh," Sam says, before Castiel's face sort of collides with his and oh fuck, Dean is going to kill him. Kill him, dance on his grave, dig him up and set fire to his bones.

If, Jesus, if Castiel doesn't kill him first, making the most incredible noises against Sam's bruised lips, gasps and hitching breaths and broken-off demands of "Sam," and "I want," and "Please—"

Sam doesn't mean to, he swears. It's just that he's had this crush on Castiel for so long and Cas' hands are clumsy but they're perfect where they pull at his t-shirt and fumble with the tie of his pajama pants, Sam tipping them both back onto the couch and Castiel giggling, giggling, wrapping his arms around Sam's neck and kissing him with hungry abandon, lips and teeth and tongue mostly landing in the vicinity of his mouth. Mostly.

"You are so fucking gone," Sam laughs, then, "Oh, shit. You are so gone, Cas, what are we doing, Dean is going to—"

"You are shutting up," Castiel informs him imperiously, hooking a leg around his waist. "We are making out like we've wanted to since you turned fifteen, and Dean will fucking deal with it."

"Cas," Sam whispers, entranced with the way the curse tastes in Castiel's mouth when he leans in to lick it up, how Castiel responds with even more fervency.

"Sam," he groans, hands moving restlessly over Sam's back, "Touch me, now," and Sam has no problems following that order. None at all.