That’s probably some kind of sin, Dean figures; add it to the list, right next to the hustling suckers at pool and the gambling their earnings just as fast over which one of them can put their big wooden ball into that tight little “100” hole first, pun absolutely intended. 

Dean doesn’t worry too much about sinning any more–he’s pretty sure he maxed out that limit an angel-handjob or twenty ago–, but he remembers all too well what it’s like to bring the laser-focus of heaven’s wrath down upon himself because it’s scarily similar to the look Cas is giving him right now, right after he’s decided that playing for money is no longer exciting but competing for who gets first pick off their growing “kinky shit we should try” list later tonight is.

Dean licks his lips. “Yeah, okay.” 

So that’s his first mistake. 

His second is not telling Cas to back up out of his space while he’s lining up the shot of a lifetime, because just as he’s calibrating the flick of his wrist to put the correct spin on the ball, Cas sidles even closer. He puts his mouth dangerously close to Dean’s ear, so that his hot breath sends shivers racing down Dean’s spine when he whispers, “when you lose, I’m going to put you over my knee and spank your ass so red that when you sit across from me at breakfast tomorrow, all you’re going to be able to think about is how I own it even when my hands aren’t on you.” 

Dean flubs the shot, but still manages to score thirty points. He’s a goddamn champion, all things considered; Cas is gonna have to try a little harder than that. 

“Yeah, well,” Dean says, just as quiet, “I’ve seen the way you’ve been lookin’ at that big purple dildo we got last month. Maybe when you lose, it’s gonna be your turn to find out exactly how hard it is not to come when you’ve got all that girth up inside you. Think you can handle that?” 

Cas actually drops the ball, but he snatches it out of the air before it can hit the ground. He scores fifty points, and then he glares at Dean with one eyebrow arched in a threat. 

His third mistake is looking at Cas at all; his pants situation is already inappropriately uncomfortable, and it doesn’t help in the slightest to have Cas looking at him like that when Cas fires back with, “I promise you that I could ‘handle it’ with far less whining than you manage to do. I might even enjoy it. Too bad for you that your skill of sucking here in the arcade is going to translate nicely to you sucking me on your knees this evening as an apology for thinking you could challenge me. When are you going to learn, Dean?”  

The answer is never. Dean is never going to learn, because winding Cas up is way too much fun for all parties involved. His ball glances off the edge of the hundred-spot and lands him a mere ten points instead, but he doesn’t even flinch. He doesn’t break eye contact with Cas. He doesn’t say another word until Cas finally manages to drag his gaze away from him and reaches for another ball from the dispenser. 

“I dunno, man. I’m hearing a lot of jaw-flapping about losing, but I haven’t seen you win yet. Maybe it’s you who’s not learning.” 

See? It’s an art form, and Dean is some kind of maestro, because Cas’ eyes immediately jerk back to him, full of fire. “Maybe it’s you,” Dean continues, “who should be showing me a little respect.” 

The exit sign is glowing red above a door not far behind them; he half-expects Cas to drag him out to the alley right then and there. He wouldn’t complain. He never does. Instead, Cas goes still, a predator who’s caught the scent of his prey on the shifting wind, every sense and every muscle honed in on Dean, daring him without words to make the wrong move. 

Dean licks his lips and adjusts himself. He glances down the length of the arcade–there’s only one other couple nearby, too engrossed in Space Invaders to notice their existence, and the handful of other patrons are lingering at the bar or over by the pool tables. He looks back at Cas, and Cas just gives him this dark little smile. 

Cas takes his shot. He scores another fifty points like it’s nothing. He wraps an arm around Dean’s waist and presses a chaste kiss to Dean’s temple with a thoughtful hum. To an outsider, it’s probably sweet as hell. They’re gross and in love–Sam has told them so about a billion times, wearing various shades of nausea. 

“You really should just give up now, beloved. You’ve put in an admirable effort. There’s still time to bow out gracefully.” He tips his forehead against Dean’s; Dean sucks in a ragged breath. “Nobody here would judge you for an honorable forfeit, knowing what I know: how much you love it when I bind your wrists and ankles so all you can do is squirm while I ride your gorgeous cock. Hmm?” 

Dean shudders, the mental image of it dripping arousal honey-thick down his spine, clouding his senses. Cas is right; he does love that, especially when Cas gets to flicking and pinching at his nipples, too, making him whimper uncontrollably. It’s almost worth losing. 

Almost. 

“Dunno, Cas,” he sighs, stepping away to pick up another ball. He throws it up in the air and catches it. “You know what the thing about you is?” 

Cas tilts his head and squints. “I do not.”

“It’s just that you’re always underestimating me,” Dean tells him. He catches the ball again, once, twice. “Always forgetting that I know shit about you too, buddy. You know what I know, Cas?”

“Tell me,” Cas says, his voice sounding like it’s been torn to shreds. He shifts from foot to foot—subtly, sure, and his jacket’s obscuring Dean’s line of sight, but Dean’d be willing to put every dollar he still has on his guess that Cas is hard enough to pound nails right about now. 

“You like being tied up just as much as I do. More, actually.” 

He does; a lot more. They have dozens of feet of soft black cotton rope that can attest to that fact, and where Dean has a complicated relationship with restraint, Cas seems to find a whole-hearted joy in wrapping intricate patterns over and around his own skin, gets breathless over the idea of being able to limit his own physicality, his own movement. Dean thinks he understands why, and he loves it too: tying Cas’ wrists to his thighs so he can’t touch himself, his hands to his chest, tying those broad thighs apart so that he’s open and helpless to Dean’s hands, his mouth, his heart. 

He’s beautiful like that, bare and vulnerable. He thinks Cas knows, hopes he knows. 

“Maybe I’ve been thinking about that,” is all Dean says. 

He lines up his shot.

He shoots. 

He scores. 

A hundred points, like he was born to do it. 

The machine starts pouring out tickets, but Cas is already halfway to the door, to the car, and Dean? Dean’s hot on his heels. 

‘Sully´s Amusement Arcade’

The letters are huge and brightly illuminated, a siren song trying to lure people in.

Sam laughs at Jess´ squeal of excitement when she spots the colorful lights and neon signs surrounding the place and he doesn’t even try to resist when she pulls him along to the entrance. Their other friends seem less thrilled at the prospect, but none of them protests in earnest, their initial reluctance disappearing entirely when they come face to face with the sheer endless rows of arcade cabinets and their inner ten-year-olds take over.

Jess is having the time of her life as she makes them play one ridiculous game after the other and insists on trying some of the overly sweet and brightly colored drinks they serve at the bar. They goof around, try their best to earn new high scores or defeat each other in Mario Kart and Pac-Man, Tetris and Donkey Kong.

Sam´s an absolute mess.

He can´t keep up with anyone, drives his tiny digital car down every abyss and into every fucking wall he can find, and is absolutely unable to get the damn monkey thing to jump high enough to escape the barrels.

It´s still glorious. Fun. Relaxing. Normal.

One of those casual-afternoons-with-friends that other people indulge in regularly, where their only objective is to enjoy themselves and laugh at and with each other, where school work and other worries are far from their minds and unimportant, irrelevant.

Sometimes Sam still can´t believe that this is his life now, that he´s allowed to have fun without purpose, doesn’t have to watch his back for potential threats or check the time to make sure that he´s back before Dad notices his absence.

Amusement Arcades might be a dying form of entertainment now, but in his childhood, they were omnipresent – colorful, happy places full of children, laughter and forbidden things, a window to a world where parents didn’t leave or die, where money wasn’t short and fathers didn’t care if you´d finished translating that Ancient Greek text on blood magic or not.

Sam had always loathed and loved these places with equal fervor. Loathed them because they were just another point on a long list of reasons why he didn’t fit in with the other children, loved them because sometimes Dean would just tell the world to fuck off and pull Sam into an arcade anyway.

They never had much money to spend on games or arcade food, usually just a few meager dollars that would allow them to play a game or two, and so they mostly watched as other people enjoyed themselves. It was wonderful nonetheless, a few short moments of escape and innocent fun.

Well, Sam´s still pretty low on money and will probably have to eat ramen for two weeks straight after this indulgence, but having a shot at ‘normal’ is more than worth a bit of discomfort.

It would be great not to suck at everything, though, and so he´s more than thankful when Brady suddenly wraps an arm around his shoulders and pulls him along with the promise of a game that´s supposed to be more in his area of expertise.

Sam´s not sure what he expected or how Brady knew, but it certainly wasn´t this.

Zombie Wars III – one of those ego shooter games where your only goal is to shoot as many of your adversaries as possible without getting yourself killed first.

It´s perfect. Frighteningly so, probably the one game in the whole arcade that Sam could win easily if he wanted to.

It´s also way too close to his real life, to his old life, for comfort. There´s too many memories.

Sam´s seven the first time he shoots a gun.

He´s seen them before, of course, touched them, disassembled them, helped Dean fill rock salt into empty shotgun shells - it´s normal, pretty much inevitable in a world where your Dad spends more time and money on his weapon arsenal than on his own kids and where gun cleaning and maintenance is as much part of their daily routine as brushing one´s teeth and washing one´s face before bed time.

But up until todays he´s never been allowed to use them, to click the safety off and take aim, to pull the trigger and finally see if he´s talented enough to make Dad happy for once, to have Dean smile at him in that one special way that makes it obvious how proud he is.

So yeah, the night before, Sam´s excited - almost queasy with anxiety and a weird mixture of fear and anticipation that makes sleep impossible. It´s so bad that even crawling into Dean´s bed and curling into his brother´s side is not enough to calm him down and he lies awake for most of the night, mentally going through the gun safety rules and shooting stances Dean has taught him.

Morning comes both too fast and not fast enough and he´s barely able to stomach his meager serving of soggy lucky charms. His fidgeting gets only worse when Dad stumbles in a few moments later and blindly grabs the oversized coffee mug Dean is holding out to him, gulping it down in long, greedy swallows before impatiently gesturing for them to get into the car

Thirty-three minutes later finds them all at the edge of the forest, Dad pacing up and down in front of them as he gives another of his gun-safety-speeches. Sam isn’t listening, has heard them all a million times and more, but he still doesn’t dare sneak a glance at Dean for fear of earning himself an even longer lecture due to his inattention.

Finally, finally John stops and presses a small pistol into his shaking hands. They go through the correct stance together, Sam trying to mimic what he´s seen Dean do, John adjusting and correcting until Sam´s deemed to be in the perfect position, safety already clicked off, gun aimed straight at one of the empty beer cans a few feet away.

The recoil is more powerful than he´d expected, the force of it rattling his whole body and causing him to stumble backwards - it´s loud and unconformable and it makes his ears ring.

Sam doesn’t like it.

He´s watched Dean handle a gun for years now, has memorized every movement and posture and trick his brother knows and Sam has always been a quick study and really good at picking up new skills, but this is different. This is so very unlike any of his books – he can study guns, read everything about shooting, but for the first time in his life theoretical knowledge alone just isn’t enough.

He´s not improving. Fifteen tries and he still hasn’t shot anything, has missed each and every single time and he´s closer to tears than he´s been in years, shoulders shaking with the effort of holding back his frustration. It doesn’t help that John´s impatience is almost palpable and his instructions are getting increasingly rough and snappy.

But then Dean´s there, warm hands carefully adjusting his stance, low voice whispering instructions and encouragements.

“Breath, Sammy. I know you can do it! Forget about Dad, it´s just us out here… Just you and me, Sam. C´mon, breath.”

And Sam does. Aims and breaths and wills the stupid bullet to finally hit home.

It´s still surprising when it does, when the can falls off its perch with a clatter and then Dean runs off and picks it up, holds it high enough that both Sam and John can see the wide bullet whole right in the middle of it, pride and joy shining brightly in his face.

John just nods, only somewhat appeased and grumpily declares that Dean is going to be teaching Sam from now on.

And that´s everything Sam´s ever hoped for.

Dean is patient. He´s the perfect teacher, gentle and kind where Dad is harsh and demanding, quietly talking him through every step, praising him when he deserves it, silently correcting him when he doesn´t. They practice for hours and days and weeks. Aim and shoot and aim again, cans and bottles and moving targets until Sam is every bit as good and fast and confident as Dean himself is.

Until he´s so close to perfection that even John has to acknowledge it.

Until he´s good enough to be able to protect himself.

To protect Dean.

“Come on, Winchester! Show us how your geeky ass can handle a gun!”

Sam blinks and suddenly he´s back at the arcade, his friends surrounding him, cheering him on, telling him to take the gun and give it a try.

Jess is jumping up and down in front of him, all excited joy and green-eyed encouragement. She´s beautiful in that moment, gorgeous, perfect and he knows she´s absolutely gone for him already.

He also knows he should love her just as much, that he could be happy with her, that she deserves his full attention, his undivided devotion.

Instead, all he can think of is strong hands gliding over cold metal, calloused fingers disassembling guns and rifles with practiced, sure movements, confidence in every grip and pull and push. And then those same hands gliding over his skin, handling him with the same power and firmness, knowing exactly where and how to touch, warm lips on his ear, a deep voice whispering filth and praise and promises.

But Sam left. Sam ran. Left his old life. Left everything. All of it. Forever.

Fuck.

Unthinkingly, he steps forward, steals the gun from Brady´s grasp and takes his place in front of the screen.

The gun feels strange in his hands. The weight and balance is off – it´s too light, too artificial. Lifeless plastic instead of cool metal, there´ll be no recoil to compensate for, no deafening noise will accompany each shot, and for a moment Sam almost misses the familiar weight of his old gun. There´s no time to ponder, though, because loud music swells up all around him and then ridiculous, zombie-esque creatures are closing in on him on wobbly legs.

Sam stops to think and suddenly he´s calmer than he has been in months. Instincts kick in and he simply allows himself to react, to adjust his body, to aim and shoot and kill one zombie after the other, cold precision and familiar reflexes taking over. He shoots, shoots like Dean taught him to all those years ago, fast and sure and unfailing and he knows he´s fucking nailed it even before the cheering starts and some high-pitched computer voice proudly proclaims him the new record holder.

The world comes rushing back and then Jess is hugging him, kissing him, screaming into his ear while Brady is staring at him slack jawed and Connor loudly demands to know where he´s learned to shoot like that.

His friends cheer and laugh and shout as they pull him over to the bar to celebrate his victory and they´ve only just reached it when the high score music goes off a second time.

There´s a new record.

Sam has been beaten.

Jess´ shout of indignation is flattering and amusing all at once, and Sam´s lips are curling into a tiny smile even as he turns around to face his rival, his whole body freezing as soon as his eyes fall on the tall figure of a man leaning against the gaming console.

He´s still wearing the same old leather jacket and combat boots, ratty jeans that desperately need to be washed, a thin leather cord disappearing under his black shirt.

so freedom is a length of rope, a noose, a park swing, a tourniquet 

to tie by flashlight.

i don’t know how there are people in this world so sure that gods knew what they were doing: if this is the image in which we were crafted, then how do we conclude that there is a god who doesn’t waffle with indecision under the ever-present threat of a sword suspended, and wonder why freedom is a span of pretty ribbon that can be severed?