May. 7th, 2015

kelios: (Default)
Title: Whatever Our Souls are Made Of, His and Mine are the Same
Rating: Nc-17
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Characters: Sam, Dean, Castiel
Warnings: Wincest, voyeurism
Summary: Now that the war in heaven is over, Castiel finds himself at loose ends. Watching the Winchesters is one way to pass the time. (Prompt from the first round of Masquerade.)

Watching the Winchesters has become one of Castiel's favorite pastimes. Not their physical bodies, necessarily--although Castiel has found that his vessel does enjoy that occasionally too. No, mostly he watches their souls

Soulmates are rare. Castiel has never seen two of them come together before, and it's endlessly fascinating. He watches them for days, sometimes, as they cycle through love, anger, fondness, exasperation--each emotion taking a different hue and shape, drawing them closer, pushing them farther apart, but never truly separate.

Even when they are miles apart, their souls reach for each other, and sometimes, if he tries very hard, he can feel a distant echo of the ache such distance causes.

Today they are not far apart. Sam has pulled Dean onto his lap, pushed his cock deep inside his brother as he holds him close. Dean's head is thrown back with the pleasure of it, gasping Sam's name, saying things that Castiel once would have considered quite blasphemous. Now, he simply leans closer, straining for a better view, to hear what Sam is saying in return.

Dean Dean god love you, fuck--so fucking much

There is energy building between their souls, borders breaking down as they melt into one another, spilling the pleasure of joining into their bodies. It's stunning, breathtaking, and Castiel isn't surprised to find his vessel hard and aching to be touched. He ignores it to watch, enraptured, as Sam and Dean reach their climax, souls finally becoming the one they were intended to be for a few short moments.

He watches a little longer, faint jealousy tainting his pleasure as he watches them separate and return to their own bodies. He has no soul, will never truly know the pleasure of joining with another the way they do. He may rut with a female vessel, but it will never be like this, it will never be even the poor imitation that most humans achieve when their souls briefly touch. For all of their might and power, he and his brothers will, in this regard, always be lesser. Always alone.

Sam stands, still holding his brother, still joined to him body to body, and they both laugh, sated and content. Sam spills them both onto the bed carefully, gently leaving Dean's body and collapsing next to him. Castiel watches until they fall asleep, and after, longing for things he'll never have. 
kelios: (Default)
Title: Water under the Bridge
Rating: G
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Warnings: non
Summary: Sam hopes Dean doesn't make him wait too long.
A/N: Drabble written for twitter based on the linked picture.

pic.twitter.com/uSM7okHLag


Neither of them sleep all that well these days, but Dean still drinks enough to pass out sometimes, runs himself into exhaustion so deep his body can't help but give in. Even that doesn't bring a restful, peaceful sleep though; Dean tosses and turns and moans in his sleep, far more vocal than Sam ever remembers him being before.

He doesn't like to admit it, even to himself, but those nights are his favorites.

He carefully--very carefully, they are both big guys after all, and Sam's not entirely convinced the motel room beds are even really queensized--lays down next to Dean in his bed, under or over the covers depending on what Dean chose. The effect is nearly instantaneous--Dean always calms, turning his face toward Sam with a soft sigh as the tension leaves his body and he sinks into deeper, more restful sleep. Some nights he turns all the way toward Sam, throws an arm over Sam's chest or wedges a leg between Sam's, pushing his face into Sam's neck and all but collapsing into himself.

Sam's always careful not to move on those nights, barely breathing, not daring to let himself nod off for fear of what he might do. He loves it, though, loves it with a fierce, jealous satisfaction that he can't quite rid himself of, because no one else gets this, no one else has EVER gotten this. No one else has ever done this for Dean, soothed him simply by being present, with just a touch. This side of Dean, soft, vulnerable, open-it's just for Sam. Sam knows that--it's ground into his bones the way Sammy is ground into Dean's.

Sam lets himself hope, sometimes, that these stolen nights might mean something, that they might be a way back to what they used to have, but he's afraid to think of it too often, afraid it might bleed over into their waking moments. For all that Sam pursued Dean when they were younger, he knows there is too much anger, too much resentment, too much that can't be easily taken back for that to happen again. But Sam can't give up. He just hopes Dean won't make him wait too long.

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