It's after the hunt, and Sam is already sitting at the table with his computer, tapping away at the keys. He insists on doing that, saying he "just wants to make sure" of something, but Dean knows they ganked that evil son of a bitch straight to hell, or wherever. Lopped the head off himself.
He suspects it's really Sam's after-hunting ritual, staring at the small glowing screen. Dean's not a psychologist, but he understands that Sam has to withdraw himself once in a while.
Hunting is, after all, a very visceral thing.
Dean is lying on the bumpy motel bed, and thinks that all he needs at the moment is a hot shower, some cherry pie and a good fuck. He is not really sure in which order.
Right now he's too sore to go out and grab some pie, so he has to scratch that. The bastard really bashed him around, and he could use some TLC.
Some heavenly TLC. That's the other thing.
Lately, the concept of "a good fuck", an internal image of some anonymous T&A's, has been replaced with something else, something more blue-eyed and feathery.
Dean turn away from Sam and closes his eyes, visualizing the face, the hands, the very, very nice ass.
Want surges through him and it becomes a chant. A prayer. Cas, Cas, Cas.
A flutter of wings, and then:
"Hello Dean."
Yes! Delivery straight to the door. God bless America.
Dean rushes to sit up but then scrunches over, remembering to hide his half-hard cock from Sam.
Castiel just looks at him with those big blue eyes, and one, among the many compliments Dean could give, is that he has an excellent poker face.
"Hey Cas, what's up?" he asks hoarsely.
"Heaven."
Castiel doesn't waver his stare from Dean's face. His lips.
"Can we do something for you Cas?" Sam closes the laptop, his forehead creasing in concern, looking at the trenchcoat-clad angel.
"No. Not you. I have some information of import I must relay to your brother only."
Sam creases his forehead even more, turning the corners of his mouth down in a dramatic frown.
Dean just gives his brother a weak half-smile, knowing that this version of Sam's sturgeon face simply translates into "Ok, whatever," and Sam gathers his notes and laptop.
"I'll just head to the library to do some research," he says, but neither Castiel nor Dean listens.
Because by then Dean has risen from the bed, accidentally brushing his hand against Cas' pants.
And they are locked in each others' gaze, Dean's lustful, the angel's simply deep dark blue.
They don't see, as Castiel pushes Dean down on the bed, that Sam doesn't go to the library at all.
They don't see, as Castiel removes all of Dean's clothing with a simple touch, that Sam slowly crawls into the closet.
They are not aware, as Dean takes Castiel's cock in his mouth that Sam is there.
That Sam is always there. Waiting. And watching.
Everybody has their after-hunting rituals.