A feast is made for laughter, and wine maketh merry
Written: 2 Jan 2012.
Pairing: Castiel/Dean/Gabriel/Sam.
Rating: NC-17.
Length: c. 2200.
Warnings: Wincest, angelcest.
Notes: Originally posted at the Team Free Love New Beginnings commentfic thread. So, written in a couple of hours, unbetaed, unrevised, just silly. It was initially just a couple of comments long, down to the divider in the text, but then
princess_aleera MADE me write more. I felt victimised, really I did!
Prompt: "Team Free Love plays strip poker (or any other strip when you lose type of game), which leads to a steamy foursome." -
beatlemaniac9.
AO3 link.
“Your face,” Dean proclaimed.
He felt this wasn’t quite clear enough, so he pointed the neck of his bottle at Gabriel, who was sprawled on the coffee table wearing only boots and red satin boxers, and tried again. “Your face. Is ridiculous.”
Gabriel’s eyebrows did this thing where they sort of climbed all over his face.
Dean waved his bottle in a grand gesture that he felt conveyed “I rest my case” very nicely.
“Says the dude who just spilled his beer on the back of the couch,” Sam pointed out, looking all louche and shirtless, which was very unreasonable of him because he was meant to be on Dean’s side. “Harpie.”
“Wait waitwaitwait.” Dean glowered at him. “Rules, Sammy. You never ganked a harpie. We’ve never even seen a harpie.”
“Last year, Nevada, while you and Cas were being all coupley off in Ohio.” Sam smirked at him. “Lose the jeans.”
Gabriel flipped a hand lazily. “Nevada too. Most recently.”
Dean whined. “Aw, come on. Cas?”
“Macedon, the year 261.”
Dean gave in and wriggled out of his jeans, with a hissed “Traitor!” in Castiel’s direction. Castiel just raised an eyebrow and sipped carefully at his glass, looking all smug and fully clothed, because he kept winning, the sly dog, and Dean was going to work out how he did that any minute now. As soon as he could focus on posing his own questions.
“Revenant,” he produced, triumphantly. Sam grinned defeat and tugged off his belt, arms all loose and relaxed like they were far more often these days, even without Jack and Johnny. Dean watched the bunch and shift of his broad shoulders with purely academic interest, and shifted his hips.
Gabriel’s boots thumped pointedly to the floor - one, two - followed by the slither and flop of his socks. Castiel’s eyes flicked up and held, heavy and dark, on the curve of Gabriel’s calf as he drew it slowly, slowly back and up to lie ever-so-casually open with his foot just dangling over the edge nearest Dean; and yeah, Castiel had a thing for Gabriel’s legs, Dean didn’t even know.
“How do you keep losing?” Sam poked Gabriel’s shoulder with his toe. “You’ve, like, been everywhere.”
Gabriel tipped his head back to grin upside down at Sam, filthy and bright. “I like losing.”
Dean snorted, a bit too loudly, and leaned out to give an affectionate man-slap to whichever part of Gabriel was nearest, which just happened to be his thigh. “Nah, you just like sex.”
Gabriel purred. “And you guys are way behind the program. God.”
Dean pointed at him accusingly. “You have not killed God.”
“And if I haven’t I lose these -” Gabriel’s fingers waggled suggestively over the waistband of his stupid satin underpants - “and if I have, you lose yours, Sam loses his jeans, and Castiel… well, Castiel just gets in on the action. Win-win.”
Castiel’s voice dropped, soft and dark like a ninja, across the room. “Was that a common noun, or a proper one?”
Gabriel made a face at him. “Sly boy. Fine. Common. How many gods have you killed?”
Castiel mildly removed the trenchcoat. Gabriel fist-pumped.
“Yeah, fine.” Dean slipped his fingers into the waistband of his briefs.
“The Carrigans, Dean.”
Gabriel turned eyes of woe and betrayal on Sam. “Sammy. I thought you loved me.”
Sam’s bare foot, which for some reason had ended up settled into the meat of Gabriel’s shoulder, rocked teasingly against his neck. “Hey, what’s love without honesty?”
Gabriel twisted his head around and bit it. Sam made the indignant squawky noise that he always denied aferwards, and dug his toes into Gabriel’s ribs instead, because he had freakishly long legs of freakishness and Gabriel was tiny and really easy to pick up and manhandle and fling about the place, except when he decided to turn into a statue and turn around and push you onto the bed, and pin your hands down and hover over you with that wicked really-not-angelic glow in his eyes, and…
“The discipline of this game seems to be degenerating,” Castiel commented blandly, right in Dean’s ear. It thrummed through him, deep and laughing, and Dean twisted around and grabbed Castiel’s collar and dragged him in to bite at his neck.
Gabriel made a thoughtful noise from where his mouth was occupied with Sam’s inner thigh (when had that happened?), then waggled his eyebrows hopefully and released his grip on Sam’s knee. “I call penalty. Sam has to kiss Castiel.”
Castiel lifted himself back off Dean a little, hovering over him hot and promising, and tipped his head to one side so that he could turn his Face of Utter Gravity And Sneaky Smirk on Sam. “That isn’t in the rules.”
“Screw the rules. New rule: archangels make the rules.”
Castiel dropped his head and nuzzled into Dean’s throat, making a sound like he was considering it. Just one glorious moment, where Dean completely abandoned his beer bottle and flopped back on the sofa under the long line of slender, promising heat that was Castiel, and let his body go all loose and welcoming and open to the press of his mouth and hand.
Then Castiel was gone, leaving cool, empty air over Dean, and Dean lost the sound of his own protesting noise as he flailed to sit up.
Castiel was crouched between Gabriel’s legs, one hand spreading firm and possessive on the glass just inches from each hip, the sharp curve of his body like something coiled and dark and potent in the night as he lowered his head to breathe, just breathe, a finger’s breadth from the curve of Gabriel’s stomach where it rose out from under red satin.
This time, it was Gabriel who whined.
Sam tipped his head back to swig the last of his bottle, the line of his neck all lazy and indulgent and velvet-soft, something smug and over-heated curling the edge of his mouth as he watched the hitch and shudder of Gabriel’s skin under Castiel’s mouth.
“Dean, Sam?” The back of one of Castiel’s fingernails trailed delicately up inside one of Gabriel’s knees, and his voice was a low growl that went straight to the depths of Dean’s stomach and reprogrammed him for instant obedience. “Take your clothes off.”
---
… Well, that was a hardship.
Sam made a sort of huff-growl of protest, because he always complained when Castiel started bossing him around and he always did it anyway, but Dean had mostly tuned him out by then because he was sliding to his knees by the coffee table with Gabriel’s calf and Castiel’s thigh nestled safe between his legs. Gabriel winked at him, breathing just a little too desperately to carry off self-satisfied but making a hell of a good try for it, and Dean stole his hand and smirked and ran his tongue over the knuckles.
Gabriel called him several hurtful names, involving little-known anatomical features of squid.
Dean slid his fingers around Castiel’s upper thigh, coaxing, so Castiel oblingly defended Dean’s honour by doing something non-fraternal with his mouth, which Dean made a note of for later because it looked like the sort of thing Sam would appreciate.
Hey, by anyone else’s standards it was weird as all hell, but honestly, whose standards but their own could ever fit them?
Sam’s jeans were lying in a stiff crumple on the floor around his left ankle, which was braced at an interesting angle that suggested - yes. Dean let his eyes trace the tense line of his calf up to his knee, of his thigh to his groin, to where Sam’s hand was hovering just shy of home base, one thumb flickering hopefully across the tips of wiry brown curls.
Dean pressed his mouth into Gabriel’s ribs, and let it curl lazily into something loose and territorial and easy.
Home. After all, it was only family that made it. Screw mortgages and white picket fences.
Though not apple pies. Apple pies were always home.
Gabriel pressed his hand into the back of Dean’s head and wriggled luxuriously against the table, sliding his shoulders against the cold glass surface. Dean went with the shove for a minute, mouthing obligingly along the line of a rib and up towards a nipple, then he changed direction and slipped downwards, out from Gabriel’s protesting grip, to nip at the line of Castiel’s neck where it hovered over the tense ridge of Gabriel’s hip.
“You got him?”
Castiel tilted his face up against Dean’s, just for a moment, a soft press like a vow and a butterfly kiss. “Always.”
Well, if there was one thing they’d learned from the Apocalypse, it was that brothers had to look out for brothers.
Dean kissed Castiel’s ear and slipped away, mouthing up Gabriel’s body to the taut strain of his neck and lingering there for a moment while Gabriel tried to reason calmly and logically with Castiel as to why the boxers needed to be gone five minutes ago, together with everything Castiel had ever worn.
Gabriel grabbed the hair at the back of Dean’s head and tugged it up to where he could devour Dean’s mouth like it was a hell of a lot more than two hours since it had last had interesting occupation. Dean indulged him for a hot, delicious minute, until Sam’s breath began to come in pleading little huffs, then he wriggled free as Gabriel shivered.
He tried to tease, he did, but he was maybe just a little bit drunk and feeling kind of sloppy and greedy, and Sam’s thighs were hot and smelt really really good, and hey, he was only human, and who could have resisted chasing the heat and the smell to their source? Anyway, by the sounds coming from behind them, and the way Sam’s breath was coming in little pants in time with Gabriel’s hitched-out moans, Castiel kind of had the whole teasing gig covered. Because Dean’s was the sneaky sort-of-evil angel, oh yes.
Dean let the edge of his lip catch nice and loose against a ridge of silky slick skin that just happened to be in front of his mouth, then explored it self-indulgently with his tongue. Sam’s hips jerked, his thighs clenching around Dean’s shoulders, which provided several interesting suggestions that Dean was obliging enough to go with, so he paused just long enough to reach blindly behind him and tug demandingly at Gabriel’s hair before he swallowed Sam down in a series of hungry slides. This time he rode out the little involuntary jump, opening up lazy and easy for him as he reached for the bottle that had magically and mysteriously appeared next to Sam on the chair.
It was surprisingly easy to make Gabriel forget how to use words properly, but he had never yet failed to produce lube on demand. Angel perks all the way.
Sam was gasp-laughing now at something Castiel or Gabriel had done, his stomach jumping in little twitches in front of Dean’s nose. So Dean nuzzled at it helpfully, which only made it twitch more, and distracted him with two slick fingers trailing up the back of one leg.
When Sam’s breath broke into a series of pleading shudders, Dean smirked against the inside of Sam’s thigh.
“Angel.”
Sam wriggled and pushed into him, a hot blur of confusion and demand. “What?”
Hah, Dean was the sober one. Dean could follow a conversation over whole minutes, even with blowjobs involved. “I killed Zachariah. What’ve you got, Sammy?” He nipped the tender skin right where the curve of the thigh ducked in again to give other dangly sorts of things room, then licked the spot. “Cards on the table, man!”
Sam made a helpless noise, and grabbed at Dean’s hair, which was useless, because unlike others in this room, Dean kept his hair at a sensible length.
“Gabriel.” The archangel’s voice was a mess already, snatching syllables between those little helpless noises he made that told Dean exactly where Castiel’s fingers were. “Every day. Slays me. And I am totally on the table. A table.”
Dean caught a sudden short, sharp movement out of the corner of his eye, followed by a deep groan echoed between two angels. Gabriel flung a hand out and latched on bruisingly to Dean’s thigh, like he wasn’t sure he could stay on the physical plane without it. “Any table. Pick a table.”
Dean snorted completely undignified laughter into Sam’s hip, and crooked his fingers lazily. “Seriously? You let this guy save you from Hell? Standards, Sammy.”
Sam shoved down, hard, head falling back against the back of the sofa. “You wanna - you wanna play that game, Mr Profound Bond, Soulful Deep Gaze and Taking Three Years To Notice? No offence, Cas.”
“Raincheck,” Castiel murmured, between slick, persuasive shoves into Gabriel’s gasping body, “on the offence.”
Dean just kept laughing, because they could these days, could just lie around and laugh and be completely ridiculous and completely easy together, him on his knees with half his hand buried inside his brother and his angel screwing Sam’s within arm’s reach, all of them kind of drunk and kind of awesome. “You are so in for it, Sammy.”
Sam’s rough-tipped fingers trailed down the back of Dean’s neck, pressed insistently in under his shoulderblade, scratched down his spine when Dean obediently rose up on his knees to meet the challenging curve of Sam’s mouth. “Bring it.”