warnings: marking, claiming?
It’s sad that Sam and Dean’s work schedules don’t allow them to be home together that much.
The three of them work odd jobs between moving from place to place, driving and drifting across the nation in a big black car. Sam works days, Dean works nights, Cas works ungodly hours on the weekends. So it’s difficult for the three of them to spend quality time, with all three present.
And Sam supposes that is the issue. They fuck, yeah sure, but they rarely do it all together. As the trio Dean once dubbed as “Team Free Will,” who does what they want, when they want, how they want, and not giving a fuck about what people say or think about them.
Sam opens the door—jiggling the key in the lock just so—to their crappy little rental house on the edge of Nowhere, Idaho. It’s silent, just as expected since Dean left for work a half an hour ago and Castiel isn’t one to make much noise anyways.
He sets down the groceries he stopped to get on his way back from the bar on the counter before calling out. “Cas? You home?”
No response. Perhaps Dean dropped him off at the library, where Castiel liked to spend his free time before work.
Sam continues to put the groceries away. Vegetables in the refrigerator, cereal in the cupboard, pie on the counter. Apple, Dean’s summertime favorite. He fumbles around for a clean bowl and spoon to snack on some cereal before taking a nap (or inevitably passing out until he has to wake up for work tomorrow).
Between the clatter of his bowl and spoon on the countertop and the little sounds his Cheerios make when they hit the bowl, Sam thinks he hears a voice. He freezes.
"Cas?" he calls out, hand still on the cereal box raised high above the bowl.
There’s a muffled murmur from the vicinity of the single bedroom on the opposite side of the hall from the kitchen.
Sam decides he’s not just hearing things and sets down his cereal so he can investigate.
"Castiel?" he calls out again, opening the door to the bedroom slowly. It creaks open to reveal their stark white barren bedroom walls with their large bed in the center. Sam can make out a bundle of limbs underneath the crumpled sheets, shifting a little to the sound of the creaking door. He leans against the doorway before saying, "you okay?"
There’s no response, but a sockless foot is shoved out from under the sheets. It wiggles, like an invitation.
Sam moves from his spot against the doorframe and crosses the room in two quick strides. The foot is still now, but Sam takes the edge of the sheet in one hand and rips them away to reveal Cas…
… who’s sprawled out face down and naked and covered in bright red marks.
Sam’s eyes widen at the marks all over his body. This was not Dean’s normal routine. Is he hurt? Did Dean at least ask? What is he supposed to do? “Cas-” Sam starts, but then something catches his eye.
The red marks formed words.
Sam leans over the bed a little to closer inspect the red marks. “Dean Winchester,” and “Dean’s,” and “D.W.,” and even “Property of Dean Winchester” was scrawled in Dean’s crappy fifth-grader-like handwriting all across Castiel’s back and shoulders.
Without realizing, Sam reaches over to trace a few fingers over one of the “Dean’s.” Castiel shivers at the touch and but lets out a sigh of contentment.
Sam continues tracing the letters, feeling Castiel relax under his hand. He spots a red marker on their three-legged broken nightstand, uncapped and drying in the cool air.
"Dean said you might want to do it too," Castiel grumbles, shifting under Sam’s hand.
Sam’s hand stills for a moment—out of surprise or shock or simply because he’s thinking—but then returns to rubbing at the letters. He clears his throat.
"Would you let me?" Sam asks, trailing fingers along Castiel’s spine, from the "Dean’s" near his shoulder-blade all the way down to the "Property of Dean Winchester" just above the curve of his ass.
"I’d rather prefer it, actually," Castiel says, reaching out a hand and feeling around the nightstand before gripping the marker without even looking. His other hand reaches back to stop Sam’s wandering hand and presses the marker into his broad palm.
Sam takes it and studies it for a moment, and Castiel huffs out an exasperated sigh, rubbing his face into the sheets.
"Come on, Sam," Castiel coaxes. "Make me yours too."
written for Wincestiel Week 2013!
accompanying art is (x)
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