#student!sam

 ~

  “Wait, so—not ever?”

“Not ever.”

“That—wow.” Sam frowns adorably. Measures Cas with his eyes, and Cas hopes he’ll accredit the blush with the unholy small amount of vanilla coke in this cup of vodka.

“Is, is that—so weird? Am I weird?” he blabbers, the fool, and startles together with Sam as someone tackles the beer pong table behind them with the exact outcome you’d expect.

“It’s—I dunno, uncommon?” tries Sam, always so polite, even when obviously intoxicated. Could converse with pretty much everyone except his boring old professor; the pretty blonde making bedroom eyes at him since Cas can remember Sam sitting down with him, for example.

Cas shrugs, pointedly ‘cool’. “It’s just not my cup of tea.”

Sam considers, “Huh,” and takes another deep drink from his red cup. (Sam’s a freshman but Cas wouldn’t still get invited to his students’ house parties if he had any sort of problem with underage drinking.)

“It’s just,” Sam tries again, so puzzled that he cannot let the thought go, and Cas dream-sighs on the inside, chin in his hand and elbow on his knee, now. “Like—how can you not have watched a single one of them? Like, zero? Niente?”

“Pop culture just doesn’t sit well with me,” and Sam smiles—surrendering and pitying but it’s a smile, and Cas will take that without complaint.

“But it’s…Marvel, sir. That’s like—Disney.”

Cas takes another sip from his drink.

Sam’s eyes narrow in suspicion.

“I—have watched Disney movies,” assures Castiel, hopeless idiot and academic, three doctorates. “The one with the—the dogs? I watched that one.”

Sam gives him the look that spells out how he doesn’t want to accuse Cas of lying but that Cas is making it pretty hard on him.

Sam lives on campus. Was supposed to be the designated driver tonight but his friends vanished early on, and he told Cas how difficult things are at the moment with his family and his scholarships and the new environment and so on and so on. Cas has heard it many times before. It’s a shame he can’t do much more than listen and give smart-assed advice from his privilege-built ivy tower.

Except for, y’know, “You can crash at my place. It’s safer than hitching an Iber at this hour.”

“Uber,” corrects Sam, and, “is, uh—I mean, are you sure? Is that okay?”

“Why, yes.” Cas frowns, confused. “Why wouldn’t it be?”

Oh, vodka. The devil’s juice.

It takes another five minutes of persuasion until Sam finally gives in.

As said: the devil’s juice.

Cas doesn’t have much family left to turn up their noses at his ‘undignified housing situation’. It’s a house and the roof barely leaks, so it clearly does its job (and he’ll get the roof fixed this fall, promise). It has a bathtub and an adorable built-in kitchen from the sixties. Castiel fell in love with it the second he found the listing.

He informs, “Here we are,” uselessly because it’s obvious, they’re taking their shoes off and everything. “Just put it with the others,” he helps upon Sam’s hesitant posture with his sneakers in his too-big hands.

God, they’re big hands, aren’t they?

Anyhow. “Are you hungry? I could go for a snack.”

Castiel is already at the fridge, grabbing whatever is nearest, as Sam catches up. “That’s—I’m okay, you really don’t have to…”

“Oh, be my guest. They pay me well, I can get more groceries if I want. Another fridge, if I want.” He closes the fridge door with a swivel of his hips and unloads the content in his arms over the kitchen counter. “Take a seat, why don’t you. There’s wine, too, if you want.”

Sam assures, “I’m good,” and plants himself at Castiel’s kitchen table.

Cas turns towards him, knife in hand. “Crust on or crust off?”

“Off,” mumbles the kid, and Cas can’t help but smile along with him.

The sandwiches are successfully put together and diminished within minutes. Sam definitely eats like someone who hasn’t had a decent meal in a while, and Cas has to hold back very hard not to urge him into seconds (or thirds).

As he already plucks the too-many pillows from his couch, Cas inquires, “Is this okay with you?” and Sam, of course, nods rapidly.

“Of course, yeah. Thank you, sir.”

“It’s ‘Cas’,” offers Cas, who doesn’t need to be reminded of his age or status this frequently.

If he wasn’t Sam’s professor…God.

Things could be different.

If he had become a librarian, maybe. He can’t think of many other places or occasions to otherwise run into Sam. Always studying, cramming; such a hard-working student. Cas sees himself—burying himself in books and thoughts. Everyone has their ways of escaping real life.

Cas doesn’t leave him without a spare toothbrush before he makes his way upstairs. Takes care of his bedtime hygiene (or, the shortened, drunken version of that) and falls into bed. Worms out of his pants, somehow, but that’s as far as things will go, and that’s okay. Not that he has a say in that.

Castiel falls asleep as soon as he closes his eyes.

~

“Mr. Novak.”

“Hm.”

“… Mr. Novak?”

Cas smacks his lips, turns his head to face the wall.

“… Cas?” and again, louder, “Cas?”

“Yes? I? Oh, lord.” Cas groans, rubs at his face. “What time is it?”

“Don’t know,” murmurs Sam, and Cas realizes it’s still night. “I’m sorry for waking you…”

Cas blabbers, “Is everything okay?” and, yeah, definitely still fucking drunk. Jesus.

Sam begins with, “I,” but can’t seem to find the rest of the sentence.

Cas’ eyes adjust to the spinning room, to the shadow-y figure of Sam Winchester sitting hunched over on the floor, right next to Cas’ bed. He looks upset, to say the least.

“Did something happen?”

“Just, a—a nightmare.” Pale, Sam tries a thin-lipped smile.

“Oh. Well—”

“I tipped the—the lamp? By the couch? It broke.”

Castiel supplies, “Ah,” and tries to remember what fucking lamp Sam means. Did he put a lamp there? He might have put a lamp there.

“I couldn’t find a dustpan or nothin’. There’s shards all over the carpet and—”

“Oh my, did you hurt yourself?”

“Just a—no,” corrects Sam, and not-so-subtly as his own intoxicated brain might be telling him he’s doing it pulls the too-long sleeve of his hoodie further over his hand.

It’s not a thought, it just happens. “Let me see,” and a reach, a grab—Sam’s hand, rough skin, the warmth of it.

Castiel holds on harder just because he does not (cannot) admit his foolish embarrassment.

Studies the (truly minor) cuts with a frown and decides, overly fatalistic: “Bathroom. Iodine. Bandaids.”

“It’s really nothing, sir…”

“Sam, do I have to drag you? Because I will.”

Sam’s mouth closes, presses thin in defeat.

The kid trots after Cas, who has yet to let go of that hand, and doesn’t take note of said fact until they’re already in the bathroom and he raises that treasure up to his eyes for medical purposes.

Huge hands indeed.

Beautiful, beautiful hands.

Cas clears his throat. It doesn’t help.

Sam stands awkward. Pulled his jeans back on or never took them off? Barefoot. Cas is still in socks.

And boxers.

Cas clears his throat again.

“You do this a lot?”

Cas contributes, “Huh?” and his eyes flicker from where he’s applying iodine up to those magnificent, now-hooded eyes—tired and swimming and god he’s probably so soft. Clearly huggable.

“You’re good at that,” adds Sam, the angel, the puppy, with his tiny mouth trying for another smile.

“I—well, I.” Have a messed-up family? Too many clumsy siblings? Helper syndrome? “Yes.”

The tiniest of chuckles. Cas’ stomach does things that probably would feel great if he hadn’t poisoned himself with this much vigor.

Sam tells him, “You’re great,” and Cas feels heat rising to his face.

The intense stench of iodine doesn’t help. “I’m just…a guy. Who owns too many books and knows too many things.”

“Exactly: great.”

Cas scoffs, helpless, eyes on his task at hand because otherwise he’d stare into Sam’s face until they inevitably make out for the next consecutive twenty-four hours. “I’m, I, there are much greater people out there. I’m just a—”

“Professor.”

Cas looks up, which is a mistake. Right into those eyes, which are too kind, too close. Wait, when did they get so close?

Cas manages a coarse, “Correct,” before Sam’s mouth overcomes the last (miniscule) distance.

Castiel hadn’t thought about how long it has been since he’d last been close with someone like this; the last time someone kissed him, the last time he kissed someone.

That someone’s hand cupped his face, or his hand touched someone else’s face. Held on, maybe breathing, maybe not.

Castiel presses their foreheads together; tips of noses squished as well and Sam makes the smallest of noises. Relief, maybe. God, he’s tall.

Cas hears, “I’m sorry,” before he kisses the kid again. And again.

It takes a while for him to be present enough to toss the tweezers and iodine-soaked cotton ball into the sink, and only does that because he requires two hands to get a hold of the kid like he needs to.

He’s somehow got Sam with his back to the door, breathing at least as heavy as him and his hair is too-soft, it shouldn’t be this soft, this easy to bury his fingers in and hold onto.

Sam sucks his own lip behind his teeth once Cas gives them a break and Cas is painfully, suddenly aware of what is happening, and what is going to happen, if Sam doesn’t—

“Tell me to stop.”

Cas is panting, horrified.

He repeats, “Tell me to stop, Samuel,” and Sam uses that opportunity to dive back for Cas’ mouth.

Cas has got a not-his-own hand down his boxers before he can even vocalize his request for the bedroom.

Feels so fucking out of it, surreal with that over-strong hand just holding on, twisting, so capable. He can barely walk.

They get Sam’s jeans off easy enough; the hoodie is more of a challenge and Cas makes a deep-stomach happy noise for the musk, the worn-out band tee hiding underneath—faded and thin and Sam’s very visibly hard nipples that he has to work his thumbs over, if only for the sliver of arousal in Sam’s face.

The fucking hunger. “Can I suck you off?”

“Uhm, whu—?” is all Cas gets to say, because Sam’s already dropped to his knees, already yanked Cas’ boxers down mid-thigh. More accurate, “Jesus Christ,” and hands back into that mop of hair and Sam’s already swallowed him down to the fucking base.

Holy mother of—

“God,” stammers Cas, knees dangerously weak and oh lord that throat, the fucking precision and casual perfection and he doesn’t have a say in how his hands force Sam’s head despite the obvious willingness; allow him to pull him in and grind deep.

It’s a mistake again to open his eyes and look down because Sam’s right there to meet him, eyes tearing up now but he doesn’t even gag; moves despite Cas’ brutal hold on him and tears at his own hair to bob his mouth up and down the length of Cas’ cock—cheeks sucked in, no teeth, not a hint of ’em.

“Oh God, Sam, wait, wait—”

And Sam does. Pulls off, hand wrung tight around the now-wet base of Cas’ dick and sounding a different kind of drunk; breathless, dark. “You okay?”

Cas half-laughs, “Better than okay,” and Sam’s perfect mouth pulls into a tiny, mean smirk.

“Gonna blow?”

“Yes, give me a second.”

“I can fuck your face if you want.”

“I—a-absolutely,” and Cas didn’t know they were so close to the bed that one harsh push of Sam’s arm would send him on it back-first.

The springs inside his mattress creak with the unfamiliar stab of Sam Winchester’s knees.

Above Castiel, the kid rids himself of his wonderful-smelling t-shirt, tosses it god-knows-where, and Cas already feels breathless.

Kinda accepts that this is reality, somehow, when Sam holds him down with the weight of his eyes alone, the practiced tug on his underwear that gets his dick out; strokes it once, twice.

Cas can hear how wet he is.

“Sorry,” ponders Sam, kneeing his way further up to straddle Cas’ face right, “It’s kinda big.”

Cas would say something along the lines of ‘oh, that’s fine’ or ‘you’re fine’ or ‘please, God, get it in me’, if he wasn’t so busy getting his mouth on that fucking beautiful cock.

Cut and huge and Cas’ jaw won’t open as far as it probably should, but judging by the way Sam groans and makes himself comfortable halfway down Cas’ fucking gullet, he doesn’t seem to mind it much.

Cas’ throat gets pounded all strict nearly immediately, and he can’t do much more than scramble his hands to hold onto Sam’s ass and figure out how to acquire any oxygen. Any, at all.

“Fuck, your throat,” and that shouldn’t sound loving, dreamy; not that rough around the edges, hissed through gritted teeth and there’s balls slapping Cas’ chin and it’s—so—good.

Cas has to spank Sam’s ass pretty hard for him to notice and give him a breather (literally). Lets him cough up and swallow back down the worst, make a slut-sound before Sam laughs, angles back in.

“You like it?”

Cas groans something resembling a, “Uh-huh,” around too many miles of cock, eyes closed and Sam’s nails digging into his scalp, tipping and tilting him like he needs, wants.

“Fucking love it, don’t you?”

Cas would nod. Somehow, he’s sure Sam gets it either way.

Cas’ forgotten dick drools over his happy trail. Still so fucking hard and Sam’s spit has dried all the way now and Cas wouldn’t dream to get a hand on himself if he can keep them on Sam’s tight little ass instead.

“Wanna come on your face.”

Cas makes a heart-broken noise.

“Yeah? You want it?”

Cas gets a chance to rasp his, “Yes,” and misses the fucking violence of that cock immediately, waits patiently and gulping for air for Sam to finish himself off.

Just a few strokes and there it goes; they both groan.

Cas feels more discomfort over how much he doesn’t care that it gets into his lashes, his nose, than the fact itself.

“Fuck, your eyes. Sorry.”

“First drawer,” and Cas is barely done saying that by the time there’s already a tissue wiping over his face.

Sam kisses him. Lets Cas lick the taste of his own cock over his tongue and growl-laughs.

“Where do you want it?”

“Want what?” chuckles Cas, halfway into cuddle mode with Sam’s comfortable lightweight on top of him, the gentle attention to his hair.

Sam fixes him with his drunk-dark gaze. Edges his thumbnail along Cas’ cheek, the corner of his mouth.

“My mouth?” and, Jesus Christ, “My ass?”

“Jesus—Christ, I—”

Sam inquires, “Condoms?” before Cas can shut him up with his mouth on Sam’s.

Can rake his fingers through the now-mess of all that hair, dwell in the light of all of this kid’s post-orgasmic bliss.

Sam laughs, “What?”

“You’re beautiful. Do you know that?”

Sam laughs more.

“You’d really let me…?”

“Hell yeah. But no pressure.”

“I really liked what you did before.”

“Mouth, then?” and Cas smiles, nods, and Sam licks another wet kiss into his mouth before he crawls down the sweaty, crumpled mess that is Castiel still in today’s white dress-shirt.

“You do that a lot?” asks Cas, softly petting through that hair while Sam takes good care of him—mouths along the length, now, and it’s even better/worse than the spectacular deep-throating from earlier. Just tender and teasing.

It’s not gonna take a whole lot to get Cas there anyway, at this point.

“What, suck cock? I dunno.” A broad lap of tongue, a casual puckered suck on the frenulum. “Not lately, no.”

“You are magnificent. At it and in general,” and that earns him another humbled noise.

The pillow talk dies off in favor of Sam wrapping his lips around the crown of Cas’ cock. Of him swallowing the entire length, again, working him with muscles Cas is very sure couldn’t have been placed without this exact use in mind.

Cas’ hands hold on, don’t want or need to direct anymore. His hips counter-work him inside that wet-tight clutch and Sam doesn’t pull off once Cas warns him.

Just takes him and Cas has no other choice than emptying down that darling throat, groans and hitches his hips and eventually has to push at that forehead to dislodge the kid.

Explains, “Sensitive,” groggy and slurred and Sam just crawls back up and smothers him in kisses. Blankets him and Cas gets to put his arms around him, finally—the muscled, skinny width of that back, sweat-slick and rising-falling with his slowly calming breath.

Cas sighs, beyond contented.

He wakes to an elbow in his face, the hiss of his own pain.

Curses, “Jesus,” and Sam blinks awake to that, scrambles like he’s terrified until he apparently remembers where he is, who Cas is.

Rushes, “Shit,” and, “Sorry, you okay?” and yeah it hurts but the idea of a black eye doesn’t exactly faze Cas.

He’s had worse. “’M fine,” he promises, but lets Sam get up on one elbow, examine him for damage.

The focused, guilty frown. The precision of his fingers, searching, feathering over Cas’s skin.

Cas feels himself breaking into a smile. Sam scoffs, “What?” and allows to be nudged down for a kiss.

Gonna be day outside, soon. Birds begin to chirp. The dog collar of Mrs. Smith’ Pomeranian jingling from down the street.

Sam lies back down so they can cuddle up right. Lets Cas pet through his hair, try (and fail) to tuck it behind one of those darling, secret ears.

Inquires, with Cas’ pinkie learning the shapes of the beauty marks on the right corner of his chin, “You do this a lot?”

“Elaborate,” hums Cas, harboring desires to not leave this bed until either his kidneys fail or he has to go to work again on Monday. And how he might convince Sam to bear him company.

“Fuck your students?” and Cas laughs.

“’Not lately, no’,” he teases, but ultimately assures how, “No, Samuel. I don’t.”

“It’s pretty illegal,” muses Sam. “We’d get into so much trouble.”

Cas raises an eyebrow, all conspiracy. “I won’t tell if you won’t.”