A/N: This was written for the inaugural DCJ Big Bang. I've only written a single brief ficlet in the Dean/Jimmy/Cas ship, but I couldn't resist trying my hand at something larger.

Honestly, sort of surprised that there appears to be only a handful of triathlon-related fics out there in ANY fandom, and I can't find any at all in the SPN fandom. (If you know of any, tell me!) I'm not a triathlete, myself, though I do all three sports separately and enjoy following it. The Escape from Alcatraz triathlon is a real event, as is the corporate division. It's great fun to watch.

Thanks to my beta readers, captainhaterade tumblr and buffenator tumblr, and especially to Sammy (princessjimmynovak tumblr) for the gorgeous and steamy art she made for the story! (Here's the link to her art on Tumblr: post/160682488489/the-time-has-come-our-dcj-big-bang-is-here-and

Late February

"Oh...oh, God. Just like that. Don't stop."

The thing about swimmers is that they have incredible shoulders. Really, their entire upper body strength, for the truly dedicated swimmer, is crazy; under critique, describing a swimmer is one of the only times one might use the word "wingspan" (often breathlessly, often with an air of, shall we say, speculation) with regards to a human body. The hours spent pulling the body through the water, over and over, sleekly cutting through the surface . . . Those hours do interesting things to shoulders. Interesting and wonderful things.

"Oh, my God, Jimmy! Fuck, so good…"

Jimmy Novak had amazing shoulders. He was not unaware of this. How could he be, when his years on the high school and college swim teams had been spent listening to whispers and low chuckles from girls in his classes who just happened to develop a passionate interest in competitive swimming after he joined the team? He didn't mind. He knew how he looked in a Speedo. When he pulled himself from the water and winked lazily toward the bleachers, he rarely even bothered to aim toward any particular person—male or female, in fact. Jimmy was never lonely.

"You like that? Hmmm, is that what you want? Just...like...that?""Mmmmm, yes. Right there, oh, fuck."

The thing about runners is that they have spectacular legs. That probably goes without saying, but it should be said, anyway, because the entire concept of "runner's calves" has become so understood that it rarely even requires explanation. A good runner, though—a really committed runner—uses hill work and speed workouts and mile repeats and all sorts of other drills and exercises that...well, the calves will testify, but so will the thighs. And the ass.

"So tight, so hot—oh, damn it, that's it…"

Jimmy's twin brother Castiel had legs that defied description. The girls who stood by the fence to watch the track team practice when he was in school, as well as the competitive adult team now that he had graduated, had done their best, which had eventually boiled down to a unanimous groan when he'd sprint past, muscles churning and flexing and doing all those sinuous things that muscles do. When he'd stretch after practice, more than one person watching would frequently find themselves needing to adjust themselves. Castiel knew this, and if he frequently took perhaps a bit longer than required to stretch his groin muscles, well, he did like to be thorough. In fact, he was rather well known for his...thoroughness.

"Mmmmm, oh, God! C-Cassie! Oh, fuck!"

The Novak twins were notorious. One might have been tempted to hate them: they were both gorgeous, extremely (as mentioned before) well-formed, intelligent, and charismatic. The problem with hating them, though, was that they were also so damn genuine. It was common knowledge that to spend a night with either Jimmy or Castiel was to experience the sublime, but it was also known that those nights were to be treasured as rare gems. Jimmy and Castiel didn't go in for seconds, and they never led anyone on when it came to intentions. What you saw was what you got, if you were interested. Most people, not being idiots, were.

Asking deeper questions? For some reason, nobody ever did. It's not as though they'd have gotten the truth, anyway. Besides being gorgeous, well-formed, intelligent, and charismatic, Jimmy and Castiel were also discreet. Very discreet.

"Shhhh, Jimmy, you don't want the security guards coming in, do you? Gonna need you to keep quiet now, babe.""Oh, yes, Cassie...keep going…"

A swimmer's upper body is more than strong enough to lift and hold his partner: in his arms, against his body, against a row of gym lockers. His muscular shoulders can hold his own body in any number of creative positions, as well. A runner's toned hips are ideally suited to tireless, forceful pistoning, and his legs are perfectly shaped for wrapping around his partner's waist, keeping himself in place firmly, and applying a punishing grip to encourage their partner to go harder, deeper, more, more…

And that's not even mentioning the issue of hard-earned stamina.

In short, Jimmy and Castiel were made for each other. They'd reached the proof of that through rigorous study of the matter.

Despite their full and frankly impressive romantic histories, they'd never managed to find anybody else who could match them. It wasn't much of a problem, though. Admittedly, they hadn't ever felt a whole lot of motivation to try.

The thing that had made both twins so damn good at their chosen sport was that, in their hearts, they were die-hard competitors. In fact, had they not chosen different activities, it was possible that the rivalry would have been vicious enough that they might never have found common ground in other "extracurricular activities" with each other. Jimmy went on the occasional run with Castiel during off-season; Castiel had joined his brother in the pool for cross-training or when he'd found himself with a running injury. But they had always been more inclined to support each other in the battle for athletic dominance against other men, leaving their own happily unresolved dominance battles for the neutral territory of the bedroom. (Or bathroom. Or convenient backseat, or locker room, or that very memorable library study area.)

They thrived on competition. Since finishing college six years before, settling down in the midwest, and finding places for themselves in the big bad world of everyday adult living, that adrenaline rush had gotten a lot harder to find. Castiel ran with the Kansas City masters running club, true, and there were plenty of local races; he held the standing record for fastest time in the Wichita Half Marathon, which he not only defended but improved upon each year. Jimmy was on a men's swim team at their gym, which organized time trials and hosted meets every couple of months, and even without the collegiate coaches screaming at him from the poolside on a daily basis, he was still within seconds of his best lap times. It wasn't the same intensive atmosphere they'd enjoyed as students, though, and it just barely took the edge off the need to win.

"Cassie, don't take this the wrong way, but tomorrow wouldn't be your hard run day, would it? And maybe you ought to think about, I dunno, going even harder?" Jimmy inspected the forming bruises on his biceps, lying on his stomach on the couch. "You know I like it rough, but these might be your personal best."

"Sorry," Castiel said, sighing. "Ice pack? We have plenty."

"Nah, just need to come up with a story for when Tim asks about them tomorrow at the gym."

Castiel smirked. "Not really fair. You get far more surface area that's free game for marking. Confining myself to the area covered by your little Speedo...why bother trying?"

"True."

Castiel flopped onto the end of the sofa, hauling Jimmy's legs across his lap so he could massage his glutes. "Not too sore, here, though?"

"Well, yeah, but that got a head start in the stupid meeting at work," Jimmy huffed. "Three hours of complete bullshit, I tell you. Yes, we're starting a new division, and yes, we'll need to staff it! Does that honestly require Adler to haul the entire HR department into a meeting for three hours to discuss? You screen, you interview, you pick the best ones, you make an offer! We do it every day!" He rolled his eyes. "I swear, half the meeting was Adler trying to convince us about how awesome Sandover is as an employer. As though I don't already work there, idiot."

Castiel hummed in agreement. He wouldn't have been able to tolerate Zachariah Adler's direction for even a week. Then again, Jimmy had always been more able to mask his feelings in those situations than he could. Castiel was grateful that his own job in the finance department was often a solitary one, communicating with his team via emails and interoffice memos. It was much easier to preserve his professional tact that way, even in the face of the worst bureaucratic idiocies.

Jimmy sighed and buried his face in the cushions. "Fuck. Thought I worked all the stress out with you, but it's all coming back now."

"Perhaps you should clean up and go to the gym?" Castiel said, the innocent tone at complete odds with the thumb that had begun stroking lightly between Jimmy's cheeks. "A good hard workout?"

"Well, that sounds backwards," Jimmy said, hiding a grin. "Clean up just to get sweaty? Waste of time. How about a good hard workout here at home, since we're already messy? Don't tell me you're tiring out on me, old man."

"You're only younger by seven minutes, Jimmy." The thumb began working its way into Jimmy, prompting a hiss as it skimmed his reddened rim. "And I wonder whether your mouth is writing checks that your ass—" he thrust roughly into Jimmy, who jerked and whined, "—can't cash."

"Oh, I'll show you what I can cash!" Jimmy said, twisting backwards and grabbing at Castiel's wrist before throwing himself on top of his brother and kissing him hard. Castiel felt himself go from moderately aroused to rock hard in a seconds, before Jimmy had hold of his cock and was stroking mercilessly, determined to have him begging for quarter.

Much later, showered, sated once more, and sprawled beside each other in their large bed, Jimmy yawned. "Oh, talking about Adler's shit reminded me of something I needed to tell you. Ever hear of Alcatraz?"

"The prison? Are we invoking newer, harsher penalties for office supply theft?" Cas said dryly.

Jimmy snorted. "Not the prison, Cassie. Well, actually, yeah, the prison's kind of involved. I mean 'Escape from Alcatraz.' It's a race. Triathlon."

"I'm listening." Neither man considered himself triathlete material, being far too dedicated to their chosen sport, but Jimmy wouldn't have brought it up without reason.

"It's not a terribly long course; I think it's something like a two-mile swim, eighteen-mile bike, and an eight-mile run. Not easy, though; basically, you swim to shore from a boat by the prison, which is on a little island. Hard currents, frigid water—supposed to be sharks, but apparently these sharks aren't interested in swimmers."

"Don't take it personally, babe," Cas teased, patting his back in mock reassurance.

"Thank you, I won't." He leaned over and kissed Castiel's shoulder. "Anyway, the bike is hilly as fuck. I mean, the race is in San Francisco, so you'll have that. Run, likewise. There's actually a 400-stair climb near the end, and that's after running through deep sand along the beach."

"Are you actually trying to intimidate me?" Castiel said, raising an eyebrow.

"Nope, just filling you in," Jimmy said with an easy shrug, knowing full well the likelihood of scaring his brother away from any challenge. "It's not an easy race. That's okay, because they cap the participation numbers pretty low, and most of the spots are reserved for people with qualifying times at other hard-course tris."

"Which we don't have, because we haven't done any. I'm still looking for the point of this discussion," Cas said, shaking his head.

"Easy, Cassie, I'm getting to that! So impatient," Jimmy said with mock irritation. "The point is that there's a separate category for corporate teams. Three people, relay-style, one for each leg. There's a whole thing with an actual, super-shiny corporate cup, which gets handed over each year to the winning company—very employee morale-boosting, rah rah."

Castiel was catching on. "Let me guess. You want us to form a team?"

Jimmy shook his head. "Nope. Adler wants us to. Someone high up must have caught wind of our history, and I guess word trickled down to Adler that he should 'encourage' us to participate. You were aware that our dear CEO, Mr. Roman, is an avid swimmer? Apparently, he's been aching to take down Actelion's top team for years. Each company has to register two teams, with the finishing times added together at the end, and Sandover's never been able to put together two good groups until now."

"Hmmmm," Castiel hummed. "I think you're forgetting something." He laid a palm on Jimmy's chest. "One." Then he pointed to himself, saying, "Two. It's a tri-athlon, Jimmy—three. We still need a cyclist. One who can hang with us, specifically. Everybody working in my department is either just this side of the rest home, or else they've been sedentary since preschool."

"I know a guy," Jimmy mused. "Works in legal; I've seen him on the bike trainer at the gym. Big tall guy, lots of hair? Sam Winchester, I'm pretty sure that's his name."

"I'll take your word for it," said Castiel, who stubbornly avoided running inside the gym on a treadmill unless the outside weather was practically apocalyptic. "It shouldn't be too difficult to find his email in the company directory. Maybe we can talk with him over lunch, check his interest. Other than the sheer fun of it, are there any perks for our participation?"

"Dick Roman's loving gratitude?" His brother gave Jimmy a dirty look and aimed threatening fingers at his ribs; Jimmy held up hands in laughing surrender. "Company pays the race fees, and they'll cover transportation to and from California, along with the hotel. Plus names on the trophy, and I'm pretty sure a plaque on Roman's office wall."

"Well, at least he'll have an easier time remembering our names at bonus time."

Sam was as tall as Jimmy had indicated, and his hair was as floppy. He was also a cheerful, relaxed man who was readily persuaded to spend a Sunday potentially wrecking his legs in exchange for a race shirt and his boss's warm-ish regards. "I graduated from Stanford Law last year, so I know that area pretty well," he said, waving a fork in the air lazily. "Biked all over, even when I wasn't training with the cycling team. The hills are no joke, but I think I actually miss them now."

Sam was easy to like, and the conversation among the three of them flowed freely. "My brother is going to give me such crap about this," he laughed. "He called me 'Lance Armstrong' any time I so much as mentioned a cycling workout in college. Kept threatening to hook a rickshaw to my rear wheel so I could pay for my own books. Throw in the theme of this race, and all the prison jokes—it'll be a goldmine for him."

"Nice brother," Castiel said with an eyeroll; Jimmy frowned at his lack of tact, but he didn't say anything. Neither brother appreciated anti-fitness teasing much, having heard the "what was chasing you?" jokes way too many times over the years.

"No, it's not like that," Sam protested. "Dean's really a great guy! It's just the way we get with each other. I mean, you're brothers—twins, at that. You guys probably ride each other all the time!"

Jimmy, who had just taken a sip of his drink, barely managed to keep from choking. Only years of practice allowed Castiel to keep a straight face while answering, "Oh, you have no idea."

"See? Same for us. Honestly, I don't know how I'd take it if he went easy on me now."

"Believe me, I know the feeling," Jimmy replied with wide-eyed sincerity. Castiel squeezed his knee under the table.

Sam smiled, oblivious. "It's all good, you know? I mean, so long as you're giving as good as you get, of course."

Castiel smirked wickedly. "You'll hear no arguments there from us."

Chuckling fondly, Sam poked at his salad. "Not that Dean really has any room to talk. He's the one who got me my first bike, then taught me how to ride it. Dad was...not so good at the hands-on aspects of parenting. Dean took care of most of that for me. He even went out for rides with me whenever he had the chance, up until I left for school." Grimacing, he added, "Maybe if he'd had his own older brother, or anybody to do for him what he did for me, he could have had time to do stuff like this for himself, or at least not feel guilty when he did."

The banter sagged for a few minutes under the weight of the thought. Jimmy and Castiel were grimly sympathetic; their own father, though nominally supportive of his sons' athletic endeavors, had rarely done more than show up at end-of-season banquets and smiled for photos with his arms around them.

"Anyway, I should introduce you guys sometime," Sam said, trying to regain the lighthearted mood. "He might tease me, but he's an awesome support person. Maybe more ferocious than I am, sometimes, when it comes to the competition."

And just that quickly, they had their team. Adler was positively gleeful when Jimmy informed him that they would join; Jimmy suspected that Roman had done some encouraging of his own to spur Adler's nervously manic recruitment efforts. Sandover had their two teams: Jimmy, Sam, and Castiel were one, and the other included Dick Roman, the terrifying redhead named Abigail Donner who managed the legal department (and made Sam shudder just to hear her name), and the intolerably smarmy Tyson Brady from marketing. The forms were sent, the ludicrously steep and completely non-refundable entry fees were paid, and that was that.

"You know," Castiel said, later that night as he nuzzled into the back of Jimmy's neck while they lay in bed, "it's been awhile since we've done any kind of races together. Good thing it's a relay, so we don't have to worry about trash-talking each other to death this time."

"Could always talk smack in the cafeteria at work," Jimmy suggested sleepily. "Might not be instant professional suicide...could be a long, slow death."

"I think it's probably best to let actions speak louder than words in this case," Castiel said, yawning around his amusement. "We'll beat the shit out of them with class and style."