Supernatural Rave
Untitled Snippet 1
Pairing: Sam/Dean/Castiel
Rating: PG
Summary: Fragment of a larger, unrealized universe; semi-domestic!threesome!Sam-Dean-Cas.
“You like fishing,” Castiel says, three years after the fact.
“Eh?” Dean replies, with a spoonful of cereal halfway in his mouth. Milk rushes down his chin, cold and tick-ticking against the tablecloth.
“I wouldn’t have guessed,” Castiel says softly. His bare elbows are on the table, chin propped in one hand.
“Dude.” Dean starts to frown, and then the front door flies open. Sam’s there with his hair all up in his eyes and a paper bag in one hand, waving at them.
“Hi,” he says. “Sorry I took so long. There’s a line-up, it’s so freaking hot out.”
Dean straightens, the spoon clattering away into his corn flake soup. “C’mere Sam, my hero, hurry the fuck up, man.” Hands out, making grabby toddler motions.
Sam fishes out a grape sno-cone and delivers it, catching lurid purple syrup drippings with his wrist.
“Um,” he says, peering down into the bag as Dean crams half the cone into his craw. “I don’t know what kind you…” He flushes at Castiel a little, but the angel reaches, and takes the bag. “Lime,” he says, without looking, and hands the remaining watermelon-flavoured cone to Sam, who grins happily, because watermelon’s his favourite kind, and everyone knows it.
Castiel examines his prize, and begins to nibble around the edge, until Dean reaches across the table and pushes it into his face. Sam guffaws and finds a cloth under the table clutter, and Dean sticks out his purple tongue and laughs at his own sophisticated humour.
They eat in sticky silence for a while. Sam leans against the table and licks his fingers, which Dean apparently finds a bit distracting, and Castiel looks carefully mussed and absorbed in his sno-cone, and the radio in the living-room plays the hits of the ‘70s.
Eventually, Dean stands, wiping his fingers on his jeans. “I’ll be in the bedroom with my clothes off, if anyone wants to join me.” He gives them each a lengthy, brow-waggling appraisal, which makes Sam roll his eyes and huff gently, and Castiel blink and kinda-maybe smirk a little. And then Dean’s off down the hall, trailing clothing in his wake, singing Astronomy off-key and too-loud.
Sam says, “You wanna…”
And Castiel says, “Oh, yeah.”
Castiel beats Sam to the bedroom, but only by a hair.
Pairing: Sam/Dean/Castiel
Rating: PG
Summary: Fragment of a larger, unrealized universe; semi-domestic!threesome!Sam-Dean-Cas.
“You like fishing,” Castiel says, three years after the fact.
“Eh?” Dean replies, with a spoonful of cereal halfway in his mouth. Milk rushes down his chin, cold and tick-ticking against the tablecloth.
“I wouldn’t have guessed,” Castiel says softly. His bare elbows are on the table, chin propped in one hand.
“Dude.” Dean starts to frown, and then the front door flies open. Sam’s there with his hair all up in his eyes and a paper bag in one hand, waving at them.
“Hi,” he says. “Sorry I took so long. There’s a line-up, it’s so freaking hot out.”
Dean straightens, the spoon clattering away into his corn flake soup. “C’mere Sam, my hero, hurry the fuck up, man.” Hands out, making grabby toddler motions.
Sam fishes out a grape sno-cone and delivers it, catching lurid purple syrup drippings with his wrist.
“Um,” he says, peering down into the bag as Dean crams half the cone into his craw. “I don’t know what kind you…” He flushes at Castiel a little, but the angel reaches, and takes the bag. “Lime,” he says, without looking, and hands the remaining watermelon-flavoured cone to Sam, who grins happily, because watermelon’s his favourite kind, and everyone knows it.
Castiel examines his prize, and begins to nibble around the edge, until Dean reaches across the table and pushes it into his face. Sam guffaws and finds a cloth under the table clutter, and Dean sticks out his purple tongue and laughs at his own sophisticated humour.
They eat in sticky silence for a while. Sam leans against the table and licks his fingers, which Dean apparently finds a bit distracting, and Castiel looks carefully mussed and absorbed in his sno-cone, and the radio in the living-room plays the hits of the ‘70s.
Eventually, Dean stands, wiping his fingers on his jeans. “I’ll be in the bedroom with my clothes off, if anyone wants to join me.” He gives them each a lengthy, brow-waggling appraisal, which makes Sam roll his eyes and huff gently, and Castiel blink and kinda-maybe smirk a little. And then Dean’s off down the hall, trailing clothing in his wake, singing Astronomy off-key and too-loud.
Sam says, “You wanna…”
And Castiel says, “Oh, yeah.”
Castiel beats Sam to the bedroom, but only by a hair.
