A/N: After rewatching season 10, I needed to write something funny and lighthearted to get all that angst out of my system, so voila! This lil oneshot was born! Hope you guys like it :)

Enjoy!

Contrary to what Dean and Cas seem to think when they're having 'sneaky' eye-sex two point five inches away, Sam is not blind. In fact, he's actually pretty observant.

He knows just as well as anyone else with eyes that his brother and their proverbial guardian angel have some serious UST boiling beneath the surface. He also knows that his emotionally-constipated brother would sooner swallow a jar of nails than admit it. Both of these conclusions are the result of indisputable logic combined with cold, hard fact. Plus, Sam likes to think he's pretty good at reading people. They don't handout Stanford scholarships to just anyone, after all.

And because Sam has been endowed with such apt deductive skills, it takes him less than half a second to call bullshit when Cas poofs into their motel room one night and announces:

"My healing powers have been altered slightly."

Granted, he doesn't call BS at that exact moment, necessarily, but he does get the impression that whatever Cas is going to say next won't be entirely truthful. The guy only just learned how to form appropriate expressions, like, a year ago, and his acting abilities still leave much to be desired. Not to mention the dude won't stop fidgeting.

Oblivious as ever, Dean drops the skin mag he was hiding behind a book of mythology and sits up in bed in concern. "Your healing powers? Are you okay?"

Cas nods. "Yes, Dean, my vessel is intact. All is well."

Now that there's no immediate danger to worry about, Dean starts to look pissed. "Okay, if all is well, then where've you been, man? I tried praying to you like a million—er," he coughs and readjusts the figure; "a few times, and you didn't answer. What gives?"

"There have been some…adjustments made in heaven," Castiel replies, uncharacteristically hesitant. (Let it be noted that Sam smelled something fishy as soon as the angel finished this sentence. He called it.)

Dean narrows his eyes. "Adjustments?"

"Yes. That was what I was referring to when I said my healing powers have been altered. Whereas before I could heal with my hands, now I can only heal with, um, with my…"

If his hairline-level eyebrows are any indication, Dean's on the edge of his seat. "With your what?"

"Withmymouth," Cas answers in a rush. His vessel actually blushes.

It's at this point that Sam is no longer content being a piece of furniture in the background. "Your mouth?"

Sam's first thought is: bullshit. His second is: god, the angel's really getting desperate, isn't he?

Though, Sam can't really blame him. The UST between him and Dean alone could probably fuel at least ten monster trucks, provided monster trucks ran on weird, sexually-frustrated relationships in limbo.

"Wait, what does that even mean?" Dean asks, jumping off the bed and leaving his precious Asian-fetish porn in the dust. "And why the hell did Heaven need that to happen?"

"You forget that I am merely a seraph, Dean," Castiel says to Dean's shoulder, purposely dodging his eyes. "I am not informed on the 'why' only the 'what.' And the 'what' says that I have to, well…that I have to heal with my mouth instead of my hands now."

If Sam were a dick, he would probably point out how completely untrue that whole explanation clearly was. Obviously, this is just a ploy for Cas to get his mouth on Dean. However, since Sam isn't a dick and he's actually had a decent night's sleep these past few days, he magnanimously holds his tongue and decides to let this play out on its own.

"That's real weird, Cas," Dean says slowly.

"I don't think so," Sam says with a shrug. "I mean, Heaven does weird shit all the time, right?"

Dean glances at him. "I guess…"

"Sam is right, Heaven's actions are often quite enigmatic," Castiel agrees. He cuts a quick look between the two of them and then tries to smile; it ends up looking like he's eaten a lemon. "Well, um, I just wanted to tell you that. I should be off now. Goodbye, Dean."

The angel disappears for a moment, then poofs back as an afterthought and adds, "And goodbye to you as well, Sam."

When Cas leaves for good, Sam just rolls his eyes and collapses onto his bed. He reads for about ten minutes before drowsiness gets the best of him, and he rolls over and switches off the light.

"Hey," Dean says, right when he's on the brink of blessed unconsciousness.

"Ugh. What, man," he groans into his pillow.

"Did, uh, Cas's arms look bigger to you?"

"What?"

"You know, like right around the triceps? I was just wondering if it was just me."

"Yeah, he looked ripped, Dean," Sam retorts mockingly. "Probably all those hours he's putting in up in God's weight room."

It's meant to be sarcastic as hell, but Dean just hums in agreement. "Yeah, I was thinking he's been working out too. Alright, night."

Sam thinks if he keeps rolling his eyes at this rate, they're gonna disappear into his skull one day.

For a while, Sam forgets about Cas's weird mouth-healing situation. The angel does his thing in heaven, he and his brother mow through half of the country, taking out six different kinds of monsters in just as many days, and the world keeps turning. It's all just same old, same old. Until one night, a case with a ghoul goes south and results in Dean's broken wrist and Sam's scraped up chest.

"Freaking ghouls, man," Dean growls, cradling his limp wrist as they make their way into yet another slummy motel room.

"If you'd just waited for backup like I said, we wouldn't be injured in the first place, Dean," Sam snaps, unlocking the door and storming inside. The cuts on his chest are starting to reopen again and leak through his shirt. Shit. "Five minutes, dude. Five minutes was all I was asking for."

"Hey!" Dean protests. "I thought there was only one of those bastards. How was I supposed to know he had some ghoul chick waiting around the corner to jump me? Even you didn't know about her!"

"Yeah, that's why I always tell you to wait till we're both there," Sam retorts. "That way we're ready to take on anything."

Dean sighs and collapses into the closest chair. "Whatever. All I know is, my wrist hurts like a bitch and those stupid monsters nabbed my wallet, so I can't even buy something sweet and heart-attack inducing to drown my sorrows."

"They stole your wallet," Sam repeats flatly. "Ghouls, who have no interest in bum credit cards, Burger King receipts, and petty cash, stole your wallet."

"Well, okay, I might've dropped it in the scuffle or something," Dean mumbles. "Either way, I don't have Donald Smith's credit card, which means I also don't have pie. Or booze," he notes mournfully.

"Yeah, real tragic, Dean," Sam says as he tentatively peels open his blood-soaked shirt to inspect the damage. Not looking good. "Now can we focus on something important? Like your wrist and my freaking clawed-up chest, maybe?"

"Sounds good," Dean replies, glancing at Sam's chest with a wince. "Call Cas."

Sam snorts. "Yeah, okay. He answers maybe thirty percent of the time when I call. With you, he shows up before you even finish praying."

Dean smirks and puffs out his chest a bit. "He does, doesn't he?"

Sam rolls his eyes. "You can collect your 'Cas's favorite human' badge later, dude, just call him already."

Dean screws his eyes shut and tilts his chin up at the ceiling. "Alright, uh, you got your ears on, Cas? Listen, me and Sammy got in a scuffle with some ghouls a few hours ago and we could really use your help. Sam's got some pretty intense claw marks on his chest and I think I sprained my—"

"Sprained your what, Dean?" Cas demands from two inches away. Dean's evidently forgotten that he's supposed to be uncomfortable with having Cas within kissing distance, because he doesn't lean backwards.

"My wrist," he says, holding up his limp hand. "I either broke it or sprained it pretty badly."

"Dean, you should've called me sooner," Cas scolds, gingerly holding Dean's hand within his own. It's when the angel starts stroking Dean's knuckles and asking him what else hurts, that Sam finally calls attention to himself.

"Hey! Hello! I have three gaping wounds slashed across my chest right now, I think maybe Dean's fractured wrist can wait for five seconds."

Dean looks at Cas, then at Sam, seemingly conflicted. Cas looks back at Dean, apparently waiting for his consent.

Jesus freaking—

"Can we do the stare down thing later, guys?" Sam cries. "Kinda bleeding out here."

"Uh, you can still only heal with your mouth, right, Cas?" Dean asks the angel, ignoring Sam entirely. His eyebrows and mouth are pinched in concern.

Right, so that's what he's worried about; Cas kissing his chest. Sam fights the very, very strong urge to roll his eyes yet again.

"Um, yes," Cas says, shifting his weight from side to side. "But now that I think about it, I believe more intensive injuries, such as Sam's, can be treated without touch."

"Really?" Dean says, practically collapsing in relief. "Okay, yeah, heal Sammy up then."

"Wow, I'm glad I got your sticker of approval, Dean," Sam snarks. Because really, this is ridiculous.

Curtly, Cas strides over to where Sam is perched on the edge of the bed and holds out his hand in a 'stop' gesture. Bright, whitish-blue grace radiates from Cas's spread palm and sinks into Sam's chest, weaving the flesh seamlessly back together and disinfecting the deep valleys of the wound. It feels so good, Sam nearly groans.

But since he figures Dean has enough of a jealousy complex as is, he refrains.

"I will heal you now, Dean," Cas says gravely, as if Dean's maybe-broken wrist is a matter of life or death. He takes Dean's injured hand and presses a long (way too long, if you ask Sam) kiss to the jut of his wrist bone. Blue light travels from his lips along the length of Dean's entire arm, turning his skin a pale, glowing aquamarine.

Dean sighs and his eyelids flutter shut. "Mm."

When Cas pulls away, Dean practically wilts in disappointment.

"Better?" Cas asks.

Clearly flustered, Dean clears his throat. "Yeah. Uh, thanks, Cas."

"But, um, Dean, I think perhaps it would be best if I was thorough," Cas continues, shuffling his feet. "Fractures of the bone tend to splinter along larger areas sometimes, so perhaps just one healing touch wasn't enough."

Dean perks up immediately. "You know, I think you're right actually. My, uh, my palm feels a little sore."

More than happy to oblige, Cas lifts Dean's hand up and presses a kiss squarely to the center of his palm. Then another along the side, and then at least five more across his knuckles for good measure.

When the kisses reach double digits, Sam hightails it out of the motel and heads to the library. Better to sit at an empty table reading through the classics than stick around and lose his lunch over how damn cutesy his brother and Castiel are being.

Things continue on like this for several weeks. Sam and Dean hunt and get bruised up, and Cas swings by each time with some new reason why Sam's injuries can be fixed from a foot away, but Dean's require at least a dozen angel kisses.

"Er, Sam's sprained arm must be healed from here because both the radius and the humerus have been affected, and it would be difficult to attempt to focus my mouth on both areas."

"Oh, I don't need to kiss Sam's broken jaw because anything on the skull is fragile and must be treated without contact."

"Um, it would be best if I didn't touch Sam's knife wound with my mouth, I'm fairly sure that would only promote infection."

All of it is bullshit, of course, which Sam is sure even Dean is aware of at this point. One month into Cas's mouth-healing adventure, Sam decides to confront him about it.

They're digging graves on the outskirts of Kansas city, having just salted and burned some crazy school teacher's bones, when Sam finally brings it up.

"How are you and Cas doing, man?"

Dean pauses in his digging and gives him a look. "Don't know what you mean by that, Sammy."

"Your relationship," Sam says bluntly.

Dean forces a laugh. "Yeah, our friendship is great, thanks for asking. How's your relationship with Cas?"

"You know what I mean, Dean. You guys clearly have a thing for each other."

Dean just snorts and goes back to shoveling. "I don't have a thing for Cas, Sam. We're just friends. Obviously."

But, see, Sam's pretty disinclined to believe that, because when he shows up to their motel room later that day, he finds the two of them on Dean's bed, Cas practically making out with Dean's hand.

"It's for a sprained finger," Dean explains distractedly, watching with fascination as the angel sucks his ring finger deeper into his mouth.

"Mmhm," Cas agrees, his voice muffled.

"I'm leaving," Sam announces, swinging the door shut behind him. He's pretty sure Dean didn't even sprain his finger today.

Back when Sam silently agreed to play along with this stupid 'healing kisses' thing, he'd done it because he was sure it was the only way Dean and Cas would finally admit their feelings for each other and break that cement-thick tension that's been hanging around the two of them for years.

Except, that is not what is happening. Instead, Dean is still in denial, Cas refuses to say anything, and Sam is burdened with the misfortune of walking in on Castiel kissing Dean in strange places (elbow, ankle, kneecap, nose, etc.) at least three times a week.

Every time he tries to bring the topic up with Dean, he gets excuses and fake laughs, and whenever he tries to talk to Cas, the guy just shifts his eyes nervously and disappears.

All in all, it's pretty damn frustrating.

Two weeks after the 'sprained' finger incident, Sam decides he's had just about enough of Cas and Dean's weird, foreplay-slash-healing sessions. Last week, fixing Dean's bruised ribs became 'Cas kissing Dean's chest and abdomen for twenty minutes' and a few days after that, Dean's sore neck turned into 'hickeys 101'. The severity of the injuries has been deescalating so rapidly, Sam's pretty sure he's going to find the two of them having sex over a paper cut one of these days.

Which would be a relief actually, since Dean still refuses to acknowledge that he's madly in love with the guy.

One day, Sam just reaches his boiling point. He and Dean are walking along the sidewalk, looking for a place to grab a bite before their next case, when Dean turns to Sam and says, casual as anything, "On a purely objective level, would you say Cas has pretty nice legs?"

Sam stops walking and immediately takes a few calming yoga breaths. Pointedly, he says, "No, Dean, I wouldn't say that, because I don't find Castiel attractive."

"Whoa, hold on," Dean says, sounding offended. "Are you saying Cas is ugly?"

Sam screws his eyes shut, takes another breath. "Fine. He's hot as hell," Sam says flatly. "Ass for days. Legs for days. His lips are porn. Is that what you'd like to hear?"

Now Dean looks angry. "Now why the hell are you looking at his ass, Sam?"

Yeah, okay, that's enough. Without warning, Sam pulls back and punches Dean in the mouth.

"Jesus, what the hell, man?!" Dean cries, holding a hand to his bleeding lip. "That was completely uncalled—"

"Have Cas heal that," Sam interrupts, shaking off his hand. "Call him up right now, and have him heal that."

"You want me to—"

"Yeah."

"Um, but that would mean he'd have to—"

"That's the goal here."

Dean's eyes are wide and his shoulders are stiff, but he isn't running for the hills, so that's something. "You…you want me to do this?"

"Yes, Dean, it's the only thing on my goddamn Christmas list. If I have to walk in on Cas licking your ribs or sucking on your hand or some other weird shit one more time, I'm gonna shoot myself. Just admit you're into each other and get on with it."

Dean fidgets. "So you're okay that I, uh, that I like a dude?"

Sam sighs and puts a hand on his brother's shoulder. "Dean, we drive around the country and kill evil things for a living. We started and stopped the apocalypse. You and I have died and come back so many times, kicking the bucket isn't even noteworthy anymore. And out of all that weird, crazy shit, you think I'd care that you're bisexual? Really?"

Dean blinks. "Well, when you put it that way…"

"I love you, man," Sam states simply. "And you love Cas, so why don't you hightail it back to the motel and pray for that busted lip to get healed. Deal?"

Dean exhales and nods, looking slightly less terrified. "Deal."
…

Sam decides to give the two lovebirds a couple of hours to themselves, so he strolls around the little town they're currently staying in, moving unhurriedly from one Mom and Pop shop to the next. Just because he can, he buys a set of glass dove paper weights, some authentic papyrus stationary, and a few sticks of rock candy for later.

After wandering for more than three hours, Sam makes his way back to the motel, still feeling pleased as punch. Dean hasn't called and frantically said that he's screwed things up, and Cas hasn't poofed in and begged for advice, so it seems like the two of them have finally figured things out.

Smiling to himself, Sam switches his bag of trinkets to his left hand as he uses his right to open the door to their room.

"I'm back, guys, I bought—Jesus Christ."

In one fell swoop, Sam's glass doves, rock candy, and innocence are shattered at the sight of his very naked brother entwined with an equally naked angel. He doesn't even bother trying to pick his stuff up off the floor before scrambling back outside and slamming the door behind him.

Leaning against the door with his hands over his eyes, he can hear Cas asking Dean something in a concerned voice and Dean replying, "No, Cas, he didn't actually buy Jesus."

Then: "Hey, Sammy, maybe come back later?"

Weakly, he calls, "When?"

Dean seems to think about it for a while, before consulting Cas, whose muffled reply Sam doesn't quite catch. A minute later, Dean calls, "How does a week sound?"

A/N: This was so much fun to write, I hope you guys enjoyed this! Please let me know what you think in the comments, I'd love to hear feedback/opinions from you guys! :)