A/N: apparently, i'm incapable of writing dean/cas at any decent length. oh well. enjoy this little nugget. i wrote it on my phone, in traffic, on the way home from los angeles lastnight.

Dean and Cas like to play this game where they attempt to make Sam as uncomfortable as possible. Well, Dean likes to play, and since Cas has a problem thinking straight, thinking anything but a constant stream of Dean, Dean, Dean when Dean's got his hands anywhere near Cas' body, Cas finds himself playing along on an almost daily basis. Occasionally Cas will wonder if he should put a stop to it—Sam is more than a little embarrassed—and then Dean will trail long fingers slowly up Cas' thigh or down his arm and Cas will forget about everything but heat and light and touch and anyway, Sam's a grown man. He can handle this game Dean likes to play.

They play in the Impala, the long stretches of road flying behind them, laid out like so many plans and promises. Sam sits in the backseat and Dean's hand moves slowly but firmly over Cas' lower body, smoothing circles on his thighs, pressing into his cock. They play to see how long Cas can go before the pressure becomes too much. They play when Sam is in the shower, a competition involving blow jobs and restrained groans; whoever makes the most noise loses. They play when Sam goes to get dinner or drinks, rough hands on soft skin, trying to see who can get whom off before the key turns in the lock again.

Dean especially likes to play late at night, after Cas has 'left' and Sam has gone to bed. Cas returns with that windy little sound and slides into bed next to Dean. They spend the night rediscovering each other's bodies, all stifled moans and hissed breaths, hot hands and hot mouths. In those moments, Dean knows he's no longer playing, that what started out as a game has turned intensely serious and he doesn't want to even think about a time where Cas won't be there. And Cas also knows they're not playing anymore, that he'd rather die than be anywhere but right there, sandwiched between Dean's legs, open, willing and aching.

Sometimes Cas thinks Sam knows about the game and has begun to hate Cas for it. Cas notices that Sam takes longer showers, sleeps more often in the backseat and takes far longer to get sodas from the vending machine than necessary. He notices that Sam will, occasionally, book a separate room for himself with no explanation. Sometimes Cas will see Sam watching Dean, watching the way Dean moves around Cas and Cas worries that Sam doesn't like what he sees. The more Cas watches Sam watch Dean, the more he knows for sure that Sam knows exactly what he and Dean are doing, that Sam understands the game and understands that saying nothing is the best course of action. Sam says nothing and Dean says nothing and Cas is definitely not saying anything and the game plays on.

One day Sam bursts back through the door after only having been gone for two minutes and the sight of Dean on his knees between Cas' thighs hardly slows him down. He just shouts to the room at large that Bobby called with a pretty urgent case and that they should hit the road as soon as possible. He's perhaps a bit more red-faced than usual, but the door slams and he's gone and Dean is sighing and reluctantly standing up. He looks at Cas for a minute and then he chuckles and starts shoving his belongings unceremoniously into his duffel. Cas just stands there, watching the play of muscles under Dean's shirt. He's not sure, but he thinks he just won a game he never knew how to play. Cas decides, as Dean throws the bag over one shoulder and a grin over the other, that he really likes winning.