Secondhand Heart
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laurificus’s prompt secondhand heart in ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
salt_burn_porn
NC-17, sex pollen-ish
Sam/Dean/Castiel
Summary: “Oops,” the cupid said.
“Oops,” the cupid said.
Sam’s eyes were showing white all around and his nose was doing that flaring thing that honestly did make him look mooselike. Dean himself was busy trying not to look down at the cupid’s junk—last time had been more than enough and he didn’t need to spend any more time wondering if those had been real tentacles or something worse.
“Oops?” Sam demanded.
“In my defense,” it said as it backed up rapidly—Dean jerked his gaze up—“all three of you have very oddly textured souls. I had no idea—”
“Cupid,” Cas snapped, in that growly I-brought-Dean-Winchester-into-this-world-and-I-can-take-you-out voice, “what have you done?”
“Well, you know, we were all talking, I mean the cherubim, about you, Castiel, and all you’ve sacrificed. And we wanted to give you something good, since you’re slowly dying and all. We can’t replace your Grace. But there is one thing we’re really good at giving, so …”
“You shot him with a love arrow,” Sam said.
“Wait a second—” Dean began, not liking the way Sam’s eyes flicked between him and Cas.
“Yeah, see, there was kind of a … richochet?”
Sam’s hand came up to his chest. “You shot me?”
Hey, how come Sam assumed the cupid was aiming for Dean? Dean opened his mouth to say as much, but the cupid kept talking.
“Actually, it went through all three of you.”
****
Dean didn’t know how the cupid had left the Bunker, and he didn’t care. Little creep was lucky he’d gotten to leave at all, given the number of angel blades they had hanging around and how fucking tired he was of being the eight ball for every angel who thought it knew how to use a cue. “I don’t feel any different,” Dean said, deliberately not turning in Cas’s direction.
Sam raised his eyebrow, as if he were expecting Dean to figure something out from that. Dean sneered at him. He would’ve asked Cas to confirm that the cupid’s mojo had failed because, duh, angel, but Cas could bust out with uncomfortable truths at the best of times, and Dean wasn’t ready to risk it.
“I don’t either,” Sam admitted at last. “Cas?”
Cas had never looked more like a wet cat in human form, all pissed at the world and still holding himself like his dignity depended on not acknowledging his circumstances. “Nor I. But a cupid’s targets don’t ‘feel’ the arrows, because they are metaphorical constructs reflecting the weave of harmonic energies the cupid manipulates. And there is precedent for—” He shut his mouth.
Sam’s spit-it-out glare worked just as well on Cas as it did on Dean, it turned out. Cas straightened a bit and continued: “There are those who believe that the angels who first mated with humans were inveigled by the cupids, creating the nephilim. Which would imply that I am in fact vulnerable to their compulsion.”
“Yeah, well,” Dean said, and stopped himself from waving his hands around like some talk show host. “Looks like the ricochet or what-the-fuck-ever saved us the trouble of fixing this. So chalk one up for the win column, right?”
“At this point I suppose failure to suffer is something of a victory,” Cas conceded.
“Great,” Dean said. “That deserves a beer.” He pushed himself away from the table he’d been leaning on and headed towards the kitchen, brushing past Cas as he went.
****
Dean winced awake, a light shining in his eyes that definitely wasn’t the lamp in his room. His mouth tasted like salted ass, his legs ached like he’d been digging out six feet of graveyard soil, his back was sweaty, and God only knew what was going on with his—
He bolted upright—a very bad move, all told—and looked wildly around. Sam, who obviously hadn’t fit onto the table next to Dean, was curled up on the floor. He looked cold and Dean’s first impulse was to get him a blanket, since Dean could see about a mile of exposed skin.
Cas, meanwhile, was the source of the heat that had swamped up Dean’s back, and that little fucker had his trenchcoat draped over him, even though Dean knew for a fact that the rest of his clothes were torn and/or scattered across the floor.
Suppressing a groan, Dean eased himself off the table, careful not to elbow Cas, and managed to find his shorts. Actually getting into them was a production he was glad no one else was awake to watch; he felt creakier than when he’d been turned eighty years old. But finally he was at least half-dressed, and he went over to kick Sam awake so he could do the same. At the last second, he thought better of the kick—given his luck, he’d break his toe on Sam’s shoulderblade—and bent down with a pained wheeze to shake Sam’s shoulder.
Sam’s eyes fluttered open, and Dean had about half a second to think, oh shit—
****
Next time he could think again, he was in the kitchen, slumped over the table. He didn’t even want to think about the cleanup job that’d be required before he’d be willing to eat here again.
Sam grumbled behind him, in the vicinity of the refrigerator.
“The catalyst is touch,” Cas said. He was in the doorway that lead from the kitchen to the research room.
Dean cleared his throat, and extracted a stray hair that had ended up in his mouth. “Touch, got it,” he rasped. Jeez, he’d always known Sam was a control freak, but he hadn’t figured that Cas would be the face-fucking type. Then again, what did angels know about slow and steady? They were more the lightning strike types.
“Dean,” Sam said, sounding as appalled as when he’d walked in on Dean jerking off to that Star Trek porn version. “Are you—?”
“Hungry?” Dean guessed, wincing as he looked once again for his shorts. This time they were puddled on the floor next to his feet, which was a blessing. “Ever gonna walk without a limp again? Wondering where you hide that thing when you’re not naked?”
Sam’s snort told him that he’d successfully averted a Sam self-flagellation session.
Dean shrugged off the images that wanted to take over his memory. Flashes of Sam’s arms, strong around him and not letting go. Cas’s hands spread over his thighs, just below his hipbones, pressing him back into Sam as Cas knelt in front of Dean like he was relearning how to pray. His dick gave an interested twitch, despite all it had already been through, and Dean winced. There were bites across the line of his shoulders.
“Out of my way,” he ordered Sam. “I need a drink, and so do you.”
Sam’s mouth scrunched up.
“Water, Sammy,” Dean said, almost patiently. He had to restrain himself from going over to help Sam up—it was instinct, seeing his brother sprawled like that, the kind of exhausted pose Sam would never take voluntarily.
Sam levered himself to his feet and grabbed some glasses, carefully staying out of range. Cas leaned in the doorway, watching. Dean didn’t even know where to begin with him. Cas had seen him in Hell. Feeding Dean his cock while watching Dean get plowed by his own brother was milder, depravity-wise.
Sam filled a third glass and put it on the counter nearest Cas. “You should probably drink something too,” he said apologetically, as if it was his fault that Cas wasn’t at full power.
“Thank you, Sam,” Cas said, and if they hadn’t both been naked it could have been any day in the Bunker.
****
Later, after they’d all cleaned up and put on new clothes—even Cas accepted replacements, except for his coat—they sat around one of the big tables in the library, each as far away as possible. It looked and felt stupid, even though Dean got the necessity.
“We don’t have much on cupids,” Sam began. “And nothing on cupid error, or whatever this is.”
“I’ve never heard of reversing a cupid’s arrowstrike,” Cas contributed.
Well, that was awesome. Were they just supposed to split up? As if that ever worked. Plus, Dean could already tell that the thing where soulmates couldn’t stand to be apart was in full effect. Or maybe that was how he always felt about being without the two of them; either way he was screwed.
Cas leaned forward. “I believe that the connection Dean and I already shared, combined with the complicated state of both of your souls, produced this situation. While it may not be reversable, I believe the effects can be moderated if we work to build up a tolerance.”
“Tolerance?” Sam’s forehead scrunched, a map of his doubts.
Dean turned his head so he wouldn’t have to watch for what he knew was coming. Cas’s voice was flat, but Dean could tell it was an effort: “We have to have a lot of sex.”
****
Dean made them put down towels before they fucked on his memory foam. You had to take care of a mattress like that.
Later, Sam was off showering; Dean stared up at the ceiling and listened to Cas breathe on the other side of the bed. “How come I’m always in the middle?” he wondered. Not that he’d admit it, but he wasn’t exactly hating being surrounded by the two of them. And, truth to tell, he didn’t have much of a need for variety. He was just curious.
“I believe the connection formed by the cupid runs through you,” Cas said.
Dean dared a look at him. He didn’t seem upset at having his celestial-ness dragged down by his physical body. “You okay?” Dean asked, just to check. He didn’t think Cas would feel the need to lie, not like a human would.
“My Grace still ebbs,” Cas said, confirming Dean’s suspicions. “However, the sex is good.” He hesitated. “I didn’t realize how my feelings for you would combine with the physical sensations.”
Dean swallowed, or tried to; there was a thousand-pound weight in his throat. If he were a better man, he’d say: I always did. That’s why I never made a move. But he wasn’t that man, and right now he couldn’t reach out and clasp Cas on the shoulder without triggering more than he meant to. So he took a deep breath, then another, and when he judged his voice would be steady he said, “Fucking cupids’re just another flavor of asshole angels. Far as I’m concerned, you’re the only one of them that shouldn’t be locked up in Heaven.”
“Thank you, Dean,” Cas said, and Dean thought maybe he understood what Dean wasn’t saying too.
****
Two weeks in, and they were able to touch for up to five minutes before the need kicked in.
Dean had the thought, which he knew better than to share with Sam, that this weakening of the need had to happen even when the cupid’s arrows worked as intended. After all, Mom and Dad hadn’t stayed blissed-out in love forever. For Sam’s part, he kept his mouth shut about how Dean was always the one who suggested the next round of tests, and kept pushing so that they discovered their new limit. Dean was just interested in the scientific method, that was all. Testing to failure, it was called. Also, orgasms.
The best part was how it had to be the three of them. So Dean could start messing around with Cas, friendly-like, and Sam would come stomping in from halfway across the Bunker, grumbling about interruptions in his research even as he left a trail of shirts like breadcrumbs. Sam and Cas didn’t do it to him much, but (probably because Sam was taking revenge for Dean’s own bad timing) once they made him leave a half-made lasagna in the kitchen. It felt like he was being yanked by an invisible silk rope, soft but insistent, until he gave up and went to them. Dean had some tricks of his own, though, and he went the last six feet on his hands and knees, which made Sam gawp at him like a preacher in a whorehouse.
Sam didn’t beg, Dean had discovered; he ordered. He demanded Dean’s fingers, then Dean’s dick, and Dean obliged, while Cas pushed Dean’s thighs together and fucked the space between. It made Dean crazy: Sam’s tight ass, Cas’s thick cock slipping back and forth, nudging up against his balls with every thrust. Cas came, spattering warm on Dean’s skin, and it pushed Dean over the edge, car-crash good, collapsing on Sam’s strong back even as he jacked Sam faster to bring Sam with them.
Afterwards, Sam rolled to the edge of the bed. Dean knew it was only so they wouldn’t have to go again right away, but it still made him twinge. He waited a few minutes, until Cas went from half-asleep to all the way. “Sammy?” he asked, quiet. “You okay?”
Sam’s shoulders twitched, half laugh and half shrug. “This isn’t where I ever thought I’d be.”
“Sorry,” Dean told him, wanting to curl in on himself, wanting to want to let Sam go.
Sam turned so that he was facing Dean, reaching a hand out and then thinking better of it. “You don’t need to be. This is—we’re in it together. That’s what I need.”
Dean nodded. He knew Sam needed more than that—maybe hunting down all the cupids, making sure they never pulled shit like this on anyone again. But right now, it was enough to hear Sam say it, and know that in the morning Sam and Cas would be within reach.
For
laurificus’s prompt secondhand heart in salt_burn_porn NC-17, sex pollen-ish
Sam/Dean/Castiel
Summary: “Oops,” the cupid said.
“Oops,” the cupid said.
Sam’s eyes were showing white all around and his nose was doing that flaring thing that honestly did make him look mooselike. Dean himself was busy trying not to look down at the cupid’s junk—last time had been more than enough and he didn’t need to spend any more time wondering if those had been real tentacles or something worse.
“Oops?” Sam demanded.
“In my defense,” it said as it backed up rapidly—Dean jerked his gaze up—“all three of you have very oddly textured souls. I had no idea—”
“Cupid,” Cas snapped, in that growly I-brought-Dean-Winchester-into-this-world-and-I-can-take-you-out voice, “what have you done?”
“Well, you know, we were all talking, I mean the cherubim, about you, Castiel, and all you’ve sacrificed. And we wanted to give you something good, since you’re slowly dying and all. We can’t replace your Grace. But there is one thing we’re really good at giving, so …”
“You shot him with a love arrow,” Sam said.
“Wait a second—” Dean began, not liking the way Sam’s eyes flicked between him and Cas.
“Yeah, see, there was kind of a … richochet?”
Sam’s hand came up to his chest. “You shot me?”
Hey, how come Sam assumed the cupid was aiming for Dean? Dean opened his mouth to say as much, but the cupid kept talking.
“Actually, it went through all three of you.”
****
Dean didn’t know how the cupid had left the Bunker, and he didn’t care. Little creep was lucky he’d gotten to leave at all, given the number of angel blades they had hanging around and how fucking tired he was of being the eight ball for every angel who thought it knew how to use a cue. “I don’t feel any different,” Dean said, deliberately not turning in Cas’s direction.
Sam raised his eyebrow, as if he were expecting Dean to figure something out from that. Dean sneered at him. He would’ve asked Cas to confirm that the cupid’s mojo had failed because, duh, angel, but Cas could bust out with uncomfortable truths at the best of times, and Dean wasn’t ready to risk it.
“I don’t either,” Sam admitted at last. “Cas?”
Cas had never looked more like a wet cat in human form, all pissed at the world and still holding himself like his dignity depended on not acknowledging his circumstances. “Nor I. But a cupid’s targets don’t ‘feel’ the arrows, because they are metaphorical constructs reflecting the weave of harmonic energies the cupid manipulates. And there is precedent for—” He shut his mouth.
Sam’s spit-it-out glare worked just as well on Cas as it did on Dean, it turned out. Cas straightened a bit and continued: “There are those who believe that the angels who first mated with humans were inveigled by the cupids, creating the nephilim. Which would imply that I am in fact vulnerable to their compulsion.”
“Yeah, well,” Dean said, and stopped himself from waving his hands around like some talk show host. “Looks like the ricochet or what-the-fuck-ever saved us the trouble of fixing this. So chalk one up for the win column, right?”
“At this point I suppose failure to suffer is something of a victory,” Cas conceded.
“Great,” Dean said. “That deserves a beer.” He pushed himself away from the table he’d been leaning on and headed towards the kitchen, brushing past Cas as he went.
****
Dean winced awake, a light shining in his eyes that definitely wasn’t the lamp in his room. His mouth tasted like salted ass, his legs ached like he’d been digging out six feet of graveyard soil, his back was sweaty, and God only knew what was going on with his—
He bolted upright—a very bad move, all told—and looked wildly around. Sam, who obviously hadn’t fit onto the table next to Dean, was curled up on the floor. He looked cold and Dean’s first impulse was to get him a blanket, since Dean could see about a mile of exposed skin.
Cas, meanwhile, was the source of the heat that had swamped up Dean’s back, and that little fucker had his trenchcoat draped over him, even though Dean knew for a fact that the rest of his clothes were torn and/or scattered across the floor.
Suppressing a groan, Dean eased himself off the table, careful not to elbow Cas, and managed to find his shorts. Actually getting into them was a production he was glad no one else was awake to watch; he felt creakier than when he’d been turned eighty years old. But finally he was at least half-dressed, and he went over to kick Sam awake so he could do the same. At the last second, he thought better of the kick—given his luck, he’d break his toe on Sam’s shoulderblade—and bent down with a pained wheeze to shake Sam’s shoulder.
Sam’s eyes fluttered open, and Dean had about half a second to think, oh shit—
****
Next time he could think again, he was in the kitchen, slumped over the table. He didn’t even want to think about the cleanup job that’d be required before he’d be willing to eat here again.
Sam grumbled behind him, in the vicinity of the refrigerator.
“The catalyst is touch,” Cas said. He was in the doorway that lead from the kitchen to the research room.
Dean cleared his throat, and extracted a stray hair that had ended up in his mouth. “Touch, got it,” he rasped. Jeez, he’d always known Sam was a control freak, but he hadn’t figured that Cas would be the face-fucking type. Then again, what did angels know about slow and steady? They were more the lightning strike types.
“Dean,” Sam said, sounding as appalled as when he’d walked in on Dean jerking off to that Star Trek porn version. “Are you—?”
“Hungry?” Dean guessed, wincing as he looked once again for his shorts. This time they were puddled on the floor next to his feet, which was a blessing. “Ever gonna walk without a limp again? Wondering where you hide that thing when you’re not naked?”
Sam’s snort told him that he’d successfully averted a Sam self-flagellation session.
Dean shrugged off the images that wanted to take over his memory. Flashes of Sam’s arms, strong around him and not letting go. Cas’s hands spread over his thighs, just below his hipbones, pressing him back into Sam as Cas knelt in front of Dean like he was relearning how to pray. His dick gave an interested twitch, despite all it had already been through, and Dean winced. There were bites across the line of his shoulders.
“Out of my way,” he ordered Sam. “I need a drink, and so do you.”
Sam’s mouth scrunched up.
“Water, Sammy,” Dean said, almost patiently. He had to restrain himself from going over to help Sam up—it was instinct, seeing his brother sprawled like that, the kind of exhausted pose Sam would never take voluntarily.
Sam levered himself to his feet and grabbed some glasses, carefully staying out of range. Cas leaned in the doorway, watching. Dean didn’t even know where to begin with him. Cas had seen him in Hell. Feeding Dean his cock while watching Dean get plowed by his own brother was milder, depravity-wise.
Sam filled a third glass and put it on the counter nearest Cas. “You should probably drink something too,” he said apologetically, as if it was his fault that Cas wasn’t at full power.
“Thank you, Sam,” Cas said, and if they hadn’t both been naked it could have been any day in the Bunker.
****
Later, after they’d all cleaned up and put on new clothes—even Cas accepted replacements, except for his coat—they sat around one of the big tables in the library, each as far away as possible. It looked and felt stupid, even though Dean got the necessity.
“We don’t have much on cupids,” Sam began. “And nothing on cupid error, or whatever this is.”
“I’ve never heard of reversing a cupid’s arrowstrike,” Cas contributed.
Well, that was awesome. Were they just supposed to split up? As if that ever worked. Plus, Dean could already tell that the thing where soulmates couldn’t stand to be apart was in full effect. Or maybe that was how he always felt about being without the two of them; either way he was screwed.
Cas leaned forward. “I believe that the connection Dean and I already shared, combined with the complicated state of both of your souls, produced this situation. While it may not be reversable, I believe the effects can be moderated if we work to build up a tolerance.”
“Tolerance?” Sam’s forehead scrunched, a map of his doubts.
Dean turned his head so he wouldn’t have to watch for what he knew was coming. Cas’s voice was flat, but Dean could tell it was an effort: “We have to have a lot of sex.”
****
Dean made them put down towels before they fucked on his memory foam. You had to take care of a mattress like that.
Later, Sam was off showering; Dean stared up at the ceiling and listened to Cas breathe on the other side of the bed. “How come I’m always in the middle?” he wondered. Not that he’d admit it, but he wasn’t exactly hating being surrounded by the two of them. And, truth to tell, he didn’t have much of a need for variety. He was just curious.
“I believe the connection formed by the cupid runs through you,” Cas said.
Dean dared a look at him. He didn’t seem upset at having his celestial-ness dragged down by his physical body. “You okay?” Dean asked, just to check. He didn’t think Cas would feel the need to lie, not like a human would.
“My Grace still ebbs,” Cas said, confirming Dean’s suspicions. “However, the sex is good.” He hesitated. “I didn’t realize how my feelings for you would combine with the physical sensations.”
Dean swallowed, or tried to; there was a thousand-pound weight in his throat. If he were a better man, he’d say: I always did. That’s why I never made a move. But he wasn’t that man, and right now he couldn’t reach out and clasp Cas on the shoulder without triggering more than he meant to. So he took a deep breath, then another, and when he judged his voice would be steady he said, “Fucking cupids’re just another flavor of asshole angels. Far as I’m concerned, you’re the only one of them that shouldn’t be locked up in Heaven.”
“Thank you, Dean,” Cas said, and Dean thought maybe he understood what Dean wasn’t saying too.
****
Two weeks in, and they were able to touch for up to five minutes before the need kicked in.
Dean had the thought, which he knew better than to share with Sam, that this weakening of the need had to happen even when the cupid’s arrows worked as intended. After all, Mom and Dad hadn’t stayed blissed-out in love forever. For Sam’s part, he kept his mouth shut about how Dean was always the one who suggested the next round of tests, and kept pushing so that they discovered their new limit. Dean was just interested in the scientific method, that was all. Testing to failure, it was called. Also, orgasms.
The best part was how it had to be the three of them. So Dean could start messing around with Cas, friendly-like, and Sam would come stomping in from halfway across the Bunker, grumbling about interruptions in his research even as he left a trail of shirts like breadcrumbs. Sam and Cas didn’t do it to him much, but (probably because Sam was taking revenge for Dean’s own bad timing) once they made him leave a half-made lasagna in the kitchen. It felt like he was being yanked by an invisible silk rope, soft but insistent, until he gave up and went to them. Dean had some tricks of his own, though, and he went the last six feet on his hands and knees, which made Sam gawp at him like a preacher in a whorehouse.
Sam didn’t beg, Dean had discovered; he ordered. He demanded Dean’s fingers, then Dean’s dick, and Dean obliged, while Cas pushed Dean’s thighs together and fucked the space between. It made Dean crazy: Sam’s tight ass, Cas’s thick cock slipping back and forth, nudging up against his balls with every thrust. Cas came, spattering warm on Dean’s skin, and it pushed Dean over the edge, car-crash good, collapsing on Sam’s strong back even as he jacked Sam faster to bring Sam with them.
Afterwards, Sam rolled to the edge of the bed. Dean knew it was only so they wouldn’t have to go again right away, but it still made him twinge. He waited a few minutes, until Cas went from half-asleep to all the way. “Sammy?” he asked, quiet. “You okay?”
Sam’s shoulders twitched, half laugh and half shrug. “This isn’t where I ever thought I’d be.”
“Sorry,” Dean told him, wanting to curl in on himself, wanting to want to let Sam go.
Sam turned so that he was facing Dean, reaching a hand out and then thinking better of it. “You don’t need to be. This is—we’re in it together. That’s what I need.”
Dean nodded. He knew Sam needed more than that—maybe hunting down all the cupids, making sure they never pulled shit like this on anyone again. But right now, it was enough to hear Sam say it, and know that in the morning Sam and Cas would be within reach.
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