Sam hadn’t expected anything that had happened that night. He’d expected a few drinks and some awkward conversation with the group of friends that Garth had dragged him out to meet. He had tried his best to stuff his anxiety down and be good company, engage in some conversation, but he hadn’t actually expected someone to talk back to him. To challenge him. To engage him in a discussion of politics and personal responsibility and ethics. And after several glasses of wine Sam had not expected to enjoy himself, to be charmed.

God what was his name.

That’s right. Gadreel. Gadreel bought a few shots for them, after they’d broken away from the group, and the conversation was stimulating but Sam couldn’t stop staring at him. He had a square, boxy face and a strong jaw. Taller than Sam was, maybe it was the hunch that he had been sinking into, but Gadreel was broad and proud in his stance and he commanded Sam’s attention.

It was a fling. Or it should have been a fling. After taking a cab to an apartment with Gadreel, dropping half his clothes in the hallway with his shoes, stumbling to the bedroom with this near stranger, the simple act of finding arousal with someone he didn’t know smacked Sam across the consciousness but he wanted, he was hard and aching and he wanted.

So he asked, and he was given.

A truck horn blared on the freeway outside the motel, followed by the angry beep-beep of a smaller car’s horn, and Dean scrunched his face up against the noise, his whole body hurting. Traffic went on, wheels thumping against pavement, the rumble of bad mufflers and squealing brakes that needed replaced. Dean rolled to the shady side of the bed and burrowed his head under a pillow.

It wasn’t too long until there wasn’t a shady side of the bed.

The flimsy curtains were drawn and didn’t offer much resistance to the morning sunlight. Dean’s head throbbed in time with his pulse. His whole body throbbed. He needed to piss and his mouth felt like dried scraped shit, so he stumbled out of bed to the bathroom.

Gulping palmfuls of tepid water from his hand, Dean splashed some over his face, ran his fingers back through his hair. His eyes were red-rimmed in the mirror.

There was an AP Chemistry textbook open on the wobbly table in the living space. Dean wasn’t going to return that to the school that it belonged to. Kicking his way through a pile of dirty laundry on the floor, almost half of it was Sam’s. The canvas jacket slung over the back of a chair was, and the sawed off and Taurus sitting in a pile of cleaned weapons spread out the counter surface.

Well, he probably wasn’t going to need guns in Stanford. Could probably do better for himself than the second hand clothes on the floor that was the best Dean scrape together with what little he had to offer.

It was really fucking quiet in the motel room after the shouting match between Dad and Sam last night. Dean could still hear it echoing around. And his own silence, unable to take a stand. He wanted to back his Dad up because he always did and because he needed Sam to stay, but Sam was right about a lot of things he didn’t want to think about.

Dean picked up the chemistry book and threw it against the wall hard enough to put a hole in the drywall. Then he picked up the empty bottle of Wild Turkey and threw it because breaking glass was a lot more satisfying than throwing Sam’s books.

The whiskey wasn’t really Dean’s. He liked having a beer now and then, but the whiskey, that was Dad’s.

The next thing he picked up was the lamp, because why not, but it didn’t feel that good to hear it break against the wall. Dean kicked the bed askew, stomped through the room. He didn’t really have a say in the matter. Sam did what he wanted and when he made up his mind he wouldn’t change. And Dad wouldn’t be found if he didn’t want to be, it’d probably be a few days before he got in touch with Dean.

So there was time to kill and a whole lot of nothing in his chest to fill.

Kevin has slept maybe ten hours over the past seven days, so his judgement is questionable at best but he can’t help feeling the heavy stare of his study partner. Sam is older by almost three years, taking the course because he didn’t fulfill his core requirements early, and Kevin may be taking the class ahead. But out of everyone in the class, Kevin feels that Sam, at least, isn’t a complete idiot. His focus is more on the arts and humanities side, and Kevin understands that different kinds of intelligence apply better to different subjects, so he tries to be patient when Sam asks questions that he feels are obvious when it comes to advanced calculus. Really, these questions should have been addressed in the intro course to calculus, but one cannot necessarily rely on the competence of teachers or the difference between passing with an A or with a C.

Sam is not a difficult study partner when it comes to the material. He is intelligent and quick witted. He asks the right questions, and he does not ask them twice.

But Kevin is weak and kind of a hermit and having someone like Sam sitting across from him for hours while they study, broad shoulders straining against a tight plaid shirt, soft brown hair falling into his eyes, easy smile always ready with a question. It’s difficult.

Sam sat under the unflattering harsh wash of Denny’s lighting and enjoyed his heart healthy egg white with spinach omelette, watching as the twins in the booth across from him poured an ungodly amount of syrup over everything and started to viciously attack the truly impressive mounds of food on each of their respective plates.

Honestly, Sam has never seen anyone with worse eating habits than Dean.

Granted, they were all pretty drunk, and a little high, and it was four AM on a Sunday. But the twins had both ordered plates stacked with pancakes, eggs, hash browns, sausages, bacon and toast. They had milkshakes too. Despite the fact that they both ordered the same thing, they ate off each other’s plates. Cas took Jimmy’s bacon, Jimmy took Cas’ sausage. It was like watching two Dean’s.

Sam finished his omelette and sipped on his - unsweetened - ice tea.

After inhaling half of a pancake in a single bite, Cas looked up at him, syrup glistening on his lips, and asked, “Are you sure you’re not still hungry?”

“No, I’m good.”

Cas hummed and stabbed a piece of bacon on Jimmy’s plate.

Jimmy at least had more polite manners, wiping his mouth on a napkin and swallowing when he said, “I don’t know how you get so buff, you hardly seem to eat.”

Sam shrugged, familiar with the line of questioning. “Protein shakes.”

The twins both squinted at him with perfect synchronicity, and as creepy as it could be sometimes, it also kind of really turned him on how they could both focus on him seemingly without any coordination or communication, like copies of each other.

Sam may still be sensible enough to order something mildly healthy, but weed always makes him horny and he’s been sporting a half-hard on just watching these two shove huge quantities of food into their mouths. Vindictively, he reaches across the table and swipes Cas’ strawberry milkshake for himself.

Cas shrugs, and swipes Jimmy’s vanilla shake.

Jimmy stabs a fork into the last pancake on Cas’ plate and drags it over to his.

The rain started heavy and sudden, slamming against the windshield like a wall. Dean flipped on the wiper blades, squinted and drove a little slower. They were driving to St Lois for a weird case of body doubles and old friends that didn’t really know who Sam was.

Sam propped his elbow on the passenger door and closed his eyes, letting the heavy noise of so much rain pounding on the roof of the car wash over him. Grumbling, Dean turned the music down a little. This late at night, on a road with no street lights, it was a matter of moments before Dean resigned himself and pulled over to the shoulder.

Glancing out the window, Sam could barely see the wood posts of the fence that was a couple feet from the car.

“Guess we’re stuck here.”

Sam shrugged, “It’ll pass quick enough.”

Prompts maybe?

Once again it is a holiday I did not know about and most of the shops and museums are closed. I have wine and an itch to write, but none of my polybingo wips are going anywhere. Send me some prompts! Please send prompts as a ship and a single word prompt (poly ships and compound words/phrases that are a single idea are acceptable). Ex: Wincestiel+potatos, DeanxAaron+kissing, SamxMeg+domestic service, that sort of thing. 

Will your prompt get filled? Who knows, try your luck. As usual they will be filled according to my fickle whim. 

Title: Service Call

Pairing: Destiel

Rating: Explicit

Wordcount: 3,200

Notes: au, semi-public bjs in the Impala

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Dean parks his work truck outside the address of his first appointment for the morning at seven fifty-one, and it would be a nice bungalow house if it weren’t for the color. Stepping out to stare from the curb, Dean marvels at the truly outrageous pink that the house is painted, its shutters a deep magenta. The thing is like a big ‘fuck you’ to the neighbors.

It’s well maintained. It would be a model house of neighborly good will, with it’s close cut grass and weed-free flower gardens, hell the porch has wicker furniture and there’s a long row of wind chimes sounding merrily in the light morning breeze.

It’s a cute house, but god, that pink is horrible.

Title: something pretty

Pairing: CastielxDeanxJimmy

Rating: Explicit

Wordcount: 2,620

Notes: written for @spnpolybingo square ‘summer camp au’, underage (unspecified, all parties around 16-ish), drinking, incest, self piercings

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“Where did you even get that?”

Dean squints in the dim light of the boathouse, the sun setting on the other side of the lake slanting in through the open face of the rickety structure and there’s a little piece of gem studded metal dangling from Cas’ fingers.

“You know the counselor, Lisa, wears skimpy bikinis?” Cas grinned. “I noticed she’s always got a different piece in her belly.

“He stole it, is what he’s trying to say,” Jimmy rolls his eyes, arms folded over his chest as he warily glances out the exposed front of the boathouse then to the door at the side which doesn’t have a lock.

“Of course I did,” Cas chides his twin.

Dean’s only known these two since the start of summer camp a month ago, but Cas has got stickier fingers than he does. Sure, Dean steals from the supermarket when the cupboards are getting bare, or sometimes from the salvation army, but Cas steals because he wants to.

“So,” Dean glances down the faded green t-shirt Cas is wearing with the holes ringing the stretched out collar, to the flat of his belly, “Do I get to poke you this time?”

“No,” Cas tells him gleefully, “You get to help me poke my brother.”