obstinatrix | Fic: Dirty Pretty Things (Dean/Castiel/Sam, NC-17)

Uh.

Title: Dirty Pretty Things
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Dean/Castiel/Sam
Words: ~4,500
Notes: Um. So, once upon a time, my friend

cautionzombies wrote an epic D/C AU, 300 Things. Lots of people loved this fic, but I am probably the only person who both a) loved this fic and b) also kinda sorta shipped her Sam/Dean in it, too. (I'm a bad person.) I mentioned this to Jen, and, because she is indulgent, she wrote me ~~half~~ a Sam/Dean ficlet set in her 'verse in the indeterminate college!Sam future. And then, because I am a bad person, I wrote her filthy dirty threesome porn back. So, yep, this is an AU of an AU, kinda sorta springing from a fic that never got posted. */o\* I have on good authority that there is a sequel to 300 Things in the works, which will not feature any brotherfucking, BUT I FIXED THAT FOR YOU, JEN. fjgbkjdgbfg I'll shut up now. Jen, I ♥ you for letting me do this. ;) And thank you,

annundriel, for looking it over for me. ♥
Summary, non-tl;dr version: This is the best idea Castiel's ever had. Technically, it's set in someone else's AU, but essentially it's just dirty threesome porn with human!Cas, so, you know. :)

"Dean," Castiel says, voice gentle and hands gentler on the spurs of Dean's hips, feather-light drag of fingertips. He ducks his head, mouthing at the blood-hot base of Dean's cock, and Dean makes a guttural sound in his throat, head tipping back with the arch of his spine. There's sweat in the hollow of his clavicle, a sheen of it breaking out all over his skin. Castiel wants to lick it off, urge like an ache in the roof of his mouth, but Dean is hot against his lips, now, dick drooling wetly against his stomach. No sense in leaving Dean that way, not when the raw scent of his precome is making Castiel's cheeks cramp, wanting. Not when, today, Castiel does have recourse to two pairs of hands.

He draws his fingers lower, knuckles at the space behind Dean's balls. "That's it," he murmurs; looks up the length of Dean to catch Sam's eyes, lips brushing wet against Dean's shaft when he speaks. "Beautiful, aren't you. Isn't he, Sam?"

There's a disconnect in Castiel's mind between the man in their bed, long lithe splay of him tucked against Dean's side, and the doe-eyed bookworm Sam used to be. That's okay. That makes it easier when Sam's big hand spreads tentatively over Dean's heart, pressing there, broad palm and long fingers. His skin is more tan than Dean's, no freckles. Nobody would ever have guessed they were brothers, but for Sam's green eyes and the warmth in them when he turns them on Dean.

"He is," Sam says, soft, and Castiel can see he means it. "You are, Dean."

Dean snorts, but he's breathless, hips hitching, and it's not terribly convincing as an expression of irritation. "Yeah, I'm a pretty fucking princess." His hand comes up blindly, cups the nape of Sam's neck. "You just here for the show, Samantha, or what? Because - " and he lifts his hips against Castiel's mouth, crudely demanding.

This, though, is not the time for Dean to make demands. Castiel is in control, this time, and he holds to it patiently, smoothing a hand up Sam's calf in reassurance. "No," he says mildly, "no, he's not. Sam - " Sam meets his eyes, blushing along his cheekbones - "Sam, kiss your brother. I'm going to suck his cock, and I want him kept quiet."

"Shit," Dean spits, "oh," and he bucks up frenetically, smearing his dick along the seam of Castiel's lips. Sam, beside him, makes a breathless sound of heat in his throat, and Castiel is startled, suddenly, by how familiar it is, how close to the sounds he has heard Dean make - made Dean make. He is going to make Dean make sounds now, and he will make them into Sam's mouth. Castiel rubs his slack mouth over the head of Dean's cock; pulls back and repeats himself, "Sam. Now."

Dean is wide-eyed, staring up at his brother, but Castiel can see that he understands the score - that it must be both, or it will be neither, both of their mouths on him or he goes untouched. His hand flexes slightly on the back of Sam's neck. Castiel tracks the flicker of Dean's tongue over his lips, the way his throat works as he lifts his chin and tugs. "Sammy?"

"God," Sam whispers, "Dean." And then he leans down, tongues at a corner of Dean's mouth, presses in.

It's gentle, at first, Sam's tongue tracing the bow of Dean's upper lip, Dean's mouth parting in response to the stimulus. Dean's hand is steady and firm on the back of Sam's neck, but Sam is propped on one elbow, his palm still flat on Dean's chest, and Castiel sees that he is trembling finely, as if he is afraid that Dean will break. As if he is afraid that the reality will break, slide out from under him. Castiel's heart clenches, and he works his fingers lower, finds his goal and rubs a slow, deft circle there, just to see Dean's flinch.

"Come on," he breathes. He has things of his own to do, Dean's cock straining up in search of his mouth, but he finds himself transfixed by the tableau before him, the tension in Sam's shoulders. He pushes, just a little, breaching Dean with the tip of one finger. Dean's head jerks, mouth opening on a cry, and yes, God, there it is, the hitch in Sam's breath, the moan in his throat. The tension breaking under the weight of heat, and Castiel sees the flash of Sam's teeth against Dean's mouth, the muscle in his forearm shifting as his hand comes up to cradle Dean's jaw.

"God," Castiel breathes, completely without meaning to. "Yes, come on. Come on."

When Sam gives in, Castiel feels it like the snap of a string, the way Dean's moan gets lost in Sam's mouth as their tongues collide, lick over each other's teeth, jaws going filthy wide against each other. Dean's face fits perfectly, perfectly into the cup of Sam's palm, and Castiel instinctively shoves Dean's legs wider, growls in his throat as Sam's ankle hooks immediately over Dean's knee to keep it in place. God, Dean. His chest is heaving, shining with sweat and effort and want, and Castiel can't help but sink his finger to its root, just to feel Dean's heat clench down around it. Dean's hand slides up from Sam's nape into his hair, tangling there, and his cock spurts a smear of precome against the underside of Castiel's jaw, a slick trail of heat that makes Castiel's stomach dip with lust. Dean is moaning, and Castiel wants more; wants to feel him come apart between himself and Sam.

He lowers his head, curls his tongue around the tip of Dean's cock and tastes his sharpness. Dean's hips buck, and Castiel pushes them down with his palms, takes Dean's dick between his lips, rubs it slackly against the insides of his cheeks. His jaw is aching with the need for more of this, the desire to burn with the effort, the weight and warmth of Dean, but he is patient; he is slow. He closes his mouth and sucks with slow pressure, feels the way Dean twists and trembles beneath him.

Above him, he can hear the slick sounds of their kissing, the dirty-wet sounds of their mouths as they break apart, come back to slide together again. He ducks his head a little lower, a little lower still, taking Dean slow and deep until the head of him is sheathed up against the soft back of his throat, leaving Castiel vulnerable and dizzy with power. He swallows, just slightly, and Dean seizes up, cries out, blurting slippery precome all over the back of Castiel's mouth. Castiel moans, unable to hold it back, and withdraws his finger slowly; presses it against a second and pushes both back in.

He likes Dean to fuck his mouth, usually, but there's something addictive, too, in pulling off all slow and wet and messy, flicking his tongue into the slit and shoving back down in a reckless twist; repeat, repeat. Dean's thighs are clenching with the effort of holding still, his free hand coming blindly to rest on the back of Castiel's skull, and Castiel can't stop; fucks his mouth again and again on the length of Dean's cock just to hear the way he moans, to feel the burn in his throat. In his peripheral vision, he can just detect movement enough to indicate that Sam is rocking against Dean's thigh, rubbing himself against it where he's pinned it under his own. Castiel has to pull off, just long enough to see, long enough to confirm. A string of precome stretches between his mouth and the head of Dean's cock until he licks his lips and snaps it, and Castiel's belly clenches again, filthy-dark want.

This is the best idea he's ever had, Castiel thinks, dazedly. This is too dirty-beautiful-good for porn, and he has it in his bed: his beautiful boyfriend plus boyfriend's eager kid brother, sliding together in their own slick. Castiel wants to push his fingers into Dean's mouth with Sam's tongue. He wants to split Dean open on his cock, fill him up with it; wants the obscene sound of his dick shoving into Dean's body to be the loudest thing in the room. He wants Sam to see how much his brother loves to take Castiel's cock; he wants Sam to be jealous and shivering with desire. He wants them to come. He wants to be the reason.

Castiel has always been kind of a possessive bastard. He's not entirely convinced that it's a flaw.

He pulls his fingers out slowly, wrist turning a curlicue, and Dean makes an empty sound, half-keening, lifts his hips in pursuit of Castiel's hand. His mouth goes wide and breathless on Sam's, the kiss becoming something else between them, slack tangle of moans and hitches of breath. Castiel pauses to take a breath of his own, pulls himself up on his hands. It's awkward, lopsided with Sam snugged up against Dean's hip, but Castiel can improvise, and Castiel wants this, Dean trembling beneath him, clenching around his cock. He reaches for the lube, smears a quantity blindly over his shaft and nudges Dean's thighs a little wider with the outsides of his knees. "Dean," he says, "lift your hips for me."

Dean shifts up for him instinctively, canting his pelvis, and Castiel, glancing down between his legs, can see the darkness there, the stretched pink place where his fingers have spread Dean open. The sight makes his chest draw in tight like a fist, urgency hitting him like a punch to the gut. "God, yes, Dean. That's it."

Above him, Sam has gone still and shivering, but Castiel is too strung out to think about that yet. He's leaking; leaks all over Dean's perineum when he takes himself in hand and rubs the head of his dick there, tracing slick circles, not quite pressing in. Dean moans, twists his body, trying to get closer, and his head tips back, throat long and exposed. Sam makes a damp sound of wanting or helplessness, and then he's ducking his face again, burying it in the curve of Dean's neck, closing his mouth over the tendon. He sucks, hard, and it wrenches a cry from Dean that Castiel wants suddenly to hear again, a sound he wants to drive out of him himself, and he's known Dean long enough to know exactly how. He's aching, balls drawn up tight with want, and Dean is ready for him, legs splayed wide. He bites his lip, edges himself through the tight ring of muscle. Pauses a second, and then shoves in hard, long and smooth and Dean snaps up like a bowstring, whole body arching up around the pivot of Castiel's cock.

"Cas," he cries out, "Cas, Jesus," and God, yes. Yes, yes.

When he starts to move, it's like flying, immediately, always. Dean's breath is shattered, one hand coming up to flatten itself against the crest of Castiel's shoulder blade, and his mouth opens easily for Castiel's when Castiel leans in to claim it, breaching Dean's lips with his tongue. Dean tastes like spit and sex and Sam, so much of it familiar and yet somehow not quite. It's addictive, and Castiel pushes closer with a moan, hips drawing out on a long smooth stroke, slamming back in, piston-hard, balls-deep. Fuck.

Sam's hand at the small of his back is a surprise; makes him lift his head on a start, but the look on Sam's face when their eyes meet is enough to make the shock of it worthwhile. Sam looks wrecked, dark-eyed and kiss-bitten and restless, and Castiel wants to reel him in, apologise, make him part of them, if only for the sake of tonight. He says, "Sam?" and twists his hips, jagged figure-eight that makes Dean buck up and moan. Sam bites his lip, shoulders heaving in reaction.

"I just," he manages, and then pauses, hesitant. Amazing, really, that he still has it in him to be hesitant with the taste of Dean all over his mouth, the three of them naked together, but Sam has always been like that. Castiel waits, and at length, Sam says, "I wanted - would you -" He licks his lips. "Could you kiss me?"

Fuck. Castiel's hips punch forward entirely of their own accord; his eyes close for a second against the new upsurge of lust. God, yes. He chances a look at Dean, seeking out any objection in his eyes, but Dean is glancing between them open-mouthed and heavy-lidded, his pelvis still pulsing up onto Castiel's cock. Castiel ventures, "Dean?" and Dean's tongue flickers out pink over his lips, head falling back on a groan.

"Fuck, yes. Cas, please. Fucking - wanna see it." His hand trips up Castiel's arm, threading into the softness of his hair. "Yes."

Sam holds his eyes for a second, a heartbeat's space, and it's enough. Dean pushes, and Castiel's gone, Sam's hands coming up to pull him in, to catch him. His mouth gives wetly under Castiel's, spitslick and soft, and their tongues rub wetly together, hot with want, so much Dean between them. Dean moans weakly, a vague, breathless sound, and Castiel catches Sam's answering whimper in his mouth; licks it back into Sam's with abandon as his hips roll down into Dean. God, these boys are going to be the fucking death of him, he thinks. It wouldn't even be a bad way to go.

Their hands are everywhere, skimming up the dip of Castiel's spine, collecting sweat. They tangle at his nape, fingers interlacing to haul him down, and he lets himself be tugged, fitting the motions of his body to the shifts of their muscles. Beneath him, Dean cants his pelvis upward, changing the angle, and Castiel's next thrust sparks a cry out of them both, a jolt of heat lancing through Castiel's stomach. Against his mouth, Sam makes a low sound, digs his teeth into the swell of Castiel's lip, and Dean groans again, pulls on Castiel's hair until his lips separate from Sam's.

"Fuck," Dean manages, "so fucking good, Cas, need to - God - " and he drags Castiel in, licks into his mouth. Beside them, Sam is unperturbed, caught up in a wave of heat that guides his mouth into the sweat-sheened hollow of Dean's throat, his soft hair brushing Castiel's face as he sucks at Dean's skin. Ridiculous, Castiel thinks again, but the thrill of it is dizzying. He grips Dean by the hipbones and arches his back, fucking deep.

After all this, the air heavy with their sweat and two pairs of hands all over him, it seems ludicrous that the flat splay of Dean's hand across the base of Castiel's spine should be what pushes him onto the knife-point of orgasm, but all the same, that is what does it, Dean's touch spanning his tailbone, the crook of his littlest finger just slightly into the cleft of his ass. Castiel jerks, bucks forward, and all at once, he is frantic, bolting, tendons straining as his hips piston in and out of Dean's body. "Christ," he mutters, breaking the kiss to breathe; Sam shifts easily, fluidly into his place, tonguing at his brother's mouth, and Castiel is lost.

Dean's hips lift up off the mattress, urgent, as Castiel begins to come, Dean's back arching into Castiel's pulsing heat. Ordinarily, Dean would come, too, just from feel of it inside of him, but even as he writhes into it, Sam's hand is there, bracketing around the base of his cock, holding him back.

"No," he says, and his voice is firm as Castiel has never heard it. "No, Dean. Cas can finish, but I got something else for you."

If Castiel hadn't already been halfway over the precipice, the suggestiveness in Sam's words would have finished the job. He bites his lip, and the moan escapes anyway, a wrenched out cry that matches the jagged jerks of his hips, the tensing and unclenching of his back. "God, Dean," he pants, as his thrusts slow drunkenly to a halt, "Jesus -- "

"Yeah," Dean manages, breathy, sounding almost in pain. His shoulders are trembling, Castiel notices through his post-climactic haze, with the tension of how close he is, but he's holding still, but for the faint writhing motions of his hips that his body cannot seem to prevent. "Fuck, I can't --"

But he can. Suddenly, Castiel wants nothing more than to see him hold on, to see what it is Sam has for him. He flattens his hand on the spur of Dean's hip, pinning him steady as he lifts himself, pulls out. "You can," he tells him, stern, his lecturing voice. He catches Sam's eyes, feels his spent cock twitch. He sits back on his heels and struggles to breathe. "Sam's got you, Dean."

He doesn't know what he expects. He does know that it wasn't for Sam to hold Castiel's eyes for a moment before pulling himself upright, throwing a leg across Dean's body at the hips. The length of Sam's spine is gleaming with sweat, and Castiel can see the movement of his breaths as he straddles his brother, lowering himself so the soft weight of his balls is pressed up against Dean's.

"Shit," Dean murmurs, thready with disbelief, and he lifts one hand to touch Sam's chest, flattening a palm over his heart. "God, Sam, baby, you don't have to, you - "

"I know," Sam cuts in, quick and sure; and then, more softly, "I know." He's looking at Dean, head tipped down so his hair falls into his face. Castiel watches as his arm stretches out, muscles shifting under the skin, to find the - Jesus - the discarded bottle of lube Castiel had made use of earlier. Castiel bites his lip, but he can't disguise the quickening of his breath when Sam flips the cap, takes hold of Dean's wrist and turns it so his hand is outstretched, palm upwards.

"Sam," Dean repeats, a last, desperate plea that might have been no or please or hurry, and then Sam is squirting slick over Dean's fingers; arching his back to take his weight on his hands as he lifts his hips.

"Come on." Something, somewhere at the core of the words, is breaking, but it isn't Sam's certainty, Castiel can tell. "Dean, fingers. I can take it."

The surety in his voice, Castiel thinks, speaks of some prior experience, but whether with cock or just his own fingers, Castiel can't discern. Maybe Sam's spread like this before for some other guy; maybe he's been fucked and thought all the time of Dean. Unlikely, but the thought still makes Castiel's breath catch as Dean's fingers crook up between Sam's spread thighs, circling, pressing in. Sam's head falls back immediately, mouth open on a gasp, and he breathes through his nose, shoves down like a pro. Beneath him, Dean is moaning low, his fingers making wet sounds as they fuck in and out of Sam, clever and quick.

"Fuck," he's murmuring, "Sam," and then: "Cas, come here." He looks up, glancing wildly around for Castiel, and his free hand extends when their eyes meet, entreating. "Need you, Cas, not gonna last; come on - "

Castiel doesn't know what instinct kicks in at that moment - whether it's his knowledge of Dean alone that tells him exactly what Dean means, or whether there's some deeper understanding at work, moving the three of them effortlessly together. Either way, it's the work of seconds to pull himself up, climb astride Dean's legs a little below where Sam is; to reach around Sam's body and retrieve the lube. "Sssh," he murmurs, hushing them both; rubs his mouth in the hollow of Sam's throat. "Hey, sssh. Sssh, we've got it." His hand trails a wet line down Sam's spine, skips a little lower and finds the place where Dean's two fingers are holding him open. There's a dark space between, begging to be filled, and Castiel pushes a finger into it smoothly, working it deep until his knuckles brush Dean's. "Hey, hey. It's okay. It's okay."

A push, and Sam's head falls back onto Castiel's shoulder, mouth half-open and eyes tight shut. "Oh," he breathes in the direction of the ceiling, as if struck dumb by how good it feels, their fingers inside of him, stretching him open. Castiel slides an arm around his waist, holds him steady, holds him up. He's not a teenager any more, not about to get it up again, but if he could, he would, for this, the way Sam's hips are working, the way Dean bites at his lip as his fingers twist and corkscrew in and out of Sam's body. Dean's cock is straining against his stomach, so hard that Castiel can see the pulse of blood in the vein along the underside, and Sam is surely ready for him now; Sam can take him. Castiel takes a breath, withdraws his hand, feels Sam groan gently at the loss.

"Dean," he says, softly, and feels it in Sam's body when Dean follows suit, withdrawing his hand to resettle it firmly on the spur of Sam's hipbone.

"God," Dean grinds out through his teeth, hips bucking upward. "Jesus, Sammy -- not gonna --"

Sam lifts his head with an effort, hand descending to wrap around the base of Dean's dick, angling it upward. "Yeah, you are," he says, positions Dean right at his entrance, pushes down. "Yeah, Dean -- fuck - "

Sam takes it fast, one swift, steady shove that brings him flush against Dean's belly, leaves all three of them breathless and panting. Dean's so close, been so close for so long, that this isn't going to last more than a minute, but that doesn't matter, not with that look on Dean's face, transcendent; not with Sam taut and shivering, shoulders back. Castiel lets his hand slide lower, curving around the spine of Sam's cock, and Sam jerks as Dean fucks up, rolling his hips, arching his back.

"Jesus," Dean's murmuring, "Jesus, Sam, fucking -- letting me, you didn't -- "

"Did," Sam manages, "wanted --" He breaks off there, voice getting lost in a keening cry as Dean sparks up hard against the place inside of him, rocking up into it as Sam rocks down. Castiel feels, all of a sudden, incredibly blessed to have been permitted to bear witness to this, the way Sam's face is open with trust, the way Dean's eyes never waver from his brother. It's awful, really, when he thinks about it too closely, to let himself imagine this as something somehow pure, but as he watches them together, it's hard to see it any other way; the pounding of Dean's blood exactly echoed in Sam's veins, the timbre of Sam's cries somehow exactly like his brother's. Dean pushes up as Sam fucks down, riding him in a slow grind, and when Dean stills, body seizing, it's beautiful; beautiful, too, when Sam's cock twitches in Castiel's fist, pulsing out slick strings of heat over the back of Castiel's hand, over his wrist.

"Yeah," Castiel whispers, working Sam through it; Dean is still twisting his pelvis slowly, shallow little thrusts inside of Sam. "God, Dean. Glad you waited, huh?"

"Fuck." Dean's voice is breathy and tight with laughter, head falling back onto the mattress in a posture of total collapse. "You could - yeah, you could say that." He reaches up a trembling arm after a moment, runs his fingers through sweaty hair. "Holy shit."

Sam, half-slumped backward against Castiel's chest, echoes the laughter, deep and wet, the reverberation of it rolling through his ribcage. "Holy shit," he parrots, and lifts his face to smile up at Castiel. His eyes are shining, mouth damp, and Castiel can't resist leaning in to kiss him, a soft cling of lips that sets Dean laughing again, pleased.

"Well," Dean says, fairly, "I guess you two always did get along."

Sam's face tightens briefly as he stirs, lifts himself up and off of Dean's softening cock. He wriggles up and against Dean's side, presses his mouth to the ball of his shoulder. It's simple enough for Castiel to carve out a mirrored space for himself on Dean's other side, leg hooking over Dean's knee.

"I guess," Castiel says, "that would be a fair assessment."

Sam spares him a grin; stretches an arm across Dean's stomach to find Castiel's hand, tangle their fingers brief and lazy. "And aren't you glad?" he says, voice sleepy and smug.

Dean doesn't say anything -- because, Castiel guesses, it wasn't really a question. But the slow curve of his mouth is an answer all the same, and one Castiel is fairly sure both he and Sam are happy to accept.