#rainsoakedsam

“Things you can basically swallow whole are good,” Meg was mostly talking to herself at this point, “But bread. I don’t know.”

She was intensely curious to find out, truth be told. Even if she gave Cas shit for it. She gave Cas shit for everything, though, so that didn’t count for much.

Drunk and uncoordinated, Cas finally wrested the plastic twisty off the bag and pulled out a hot-dog bun. He tossed the bag onto the scratched wood coffee table without closing it. It landed between a stack of Playboy’s - Meg’s - and a pretty glass bowl - Cas’.

Meg picked it up and knotted it closed. Just because they were wasting one bun in a drunken bid at being adventurous, didn’t mean they had to let the whole bag go stale.

“You’re so fucking weird,” Dean drawled. Head lolling in a stupor, he made a grabby hand at Cas and pulled him in for a sloppy kiss.

Meg tossed the tied off buns back on the table, sprawled on the loveseat she occupied, and got a hand into her jeans. Whatever strange sex acts these two were pulling off, they looked fucking good doing it.

Kissing noisy and moaning against each other, the two idiots seemed to be forgetting their original plot, so Meg reminded them, “Hey, you giving me a show or what?”

Pulling back, Cas looked at the bun in his hand, at Dean’s erection waving around like it developed it’s own stumble when drunk, then Cas curled the bun around him and Meg burst into a fit of giggles.

God, there were so many horrible epithets to give to penises. Wieners. Sausages. Man meat.

Leaning forward, Meg picked the bottle of mustard off the coffee table and nearly fell off the love seat in trying to tap Cas with it. Get his attention.

“Hey, hey. Don’t forget, safe sex involves condiments.”

Cas squinted at her, but Dean laughed at her stupid pun. She was hilarious. Fuck them.

“Right, right.” Cas said, taking the mustard from her.

He was very serious about everything that he did. Whether it was sex, or school, or crochet. Cas was just, he could succeed at anything.

Meg had every faith that he could succeed at making a hot-dog dress up blowjob be something hot - or at least funny - too.

At least there wasn’t any ketchup involved. Ketchup was gross.

“You guys are fucking weird.” Dean told no one in particular again.

“Yeah.” Meg said. “But you’re the one getting sucked off by my boyfriend, so if he wants to put mustard on your dick, you say thank you.”

With perfect comedic timing, Cas shook and squeezed the bottle of mustard, a loud ‘thhhppppp’ noise sounding through the tiny living room of their shitty apartment. Meg leaned back, howling in laughter.

“Thanks, Cas…” Dean hummed, slouching against the couch, back to his drink with one hand on Cas’ head, while Cas went down on him - bun and mustard and all.

They were so weird.

Mostly, it seemed like Meg was the adventurous one. The one to spice things up with roleplay, bondage, spankings. But then Cas. Cas. He had a major foodplay fetish. She’d find out where the fuck it came from one day.

Dean, he was just a slut. He’d be down for anything if it involved getting a blowjob.

Nipping, tearing off little chunks of bread with his teeth, Cas pulled up and ate a few of them, while he spit out others. Slowly going down bit by bit. Licking up the mustard and swallowing. Weird, and dirty, and fucking hotter than it had any right to be.

Meg pushed her jeans down - no panties - spread her thighs wide and fingered herself while she watched. Dean watched her watching them, Cas on his knees broad shoulders pushing Dean’s thighs apart, eating his dick dressed like a fucking hot dog.

It was when Meg pulled her shirt up, rolled a nipple between pinched fingers, and Dean he got a firm pull on Cas’ hair while fucking up into his mouth, that Cas, Cas pulled off Dean all smeared with yellow mustard and flushed a drunk-pink, that Dean came all over his face. Obscene and pretty. Thick dick tapping over Cas’ stubbled cheeks - and Meg was going to sit on that dick one day - while Cas blinked stupefied and kept his mouth open like a good boy.

At least Meg was an awesome girlfriend, knelt on the scratchy thin carpet and scooted up next to Cas. Kissed the mess off his face and stroked down his spine in that way that made him arch like a cat. Dean, drink still in hand, sat with his bow legs wide watching them.

“Holy, shit. You guys are weird.”

Third time that night he’d said the ‘W’ word. Meg was keeping count.

There were hot-dog crumbs everywhere.