Crowley didn’t know why they were lying there, legs entangled and breathing steady. Neither of them needed to sleep, afterall.
But Jackie, or maybe that one was Jacey, had long since passed out, spread across them both. If he turned to face Dean, he’d get a mouth full of bottled strawberry blonde hair. Which was why Crowley didn’t make eye contact, or so he told himself.
The last month had been a whirlwind, the activities of which Crowley hadn’t allowed himself to partake in in decades. He wasn’t a young demon, but he wasn’t elderly by any stretch of the imagination. But Dean— Dean was a fledgling with an enthusiasm that was intoxicating.
It was also dangerous.
Which only made Crowley crave the former hunter’s company more.
Crowley didn’t flinch when the knuckles brushed against his jaw, petting the stubble in a soothing, though mindless rhythm. Nor did he protest as the other calloused hand slipped over his hip and began teasing his heavy cock. The movement was fumbling, encumbered by the weight of the sleeping girl, and yet right and rough in all the ways that mattered.
Then Dean sank lower and cupped his balls, holding his entire package tight. He tugged until the woman above them groaned, flipping her hair onto Dean’s face.
Crowley exhaled and then Dean’s hand was gone, leaving him both hot and bothered. Crowley turned to nuzzle the hand that had been caressing his face moments before, slowly beginning to tongue the fat pad of Dean’s thumb. Until Dean made him nearly swallow it.
Two can play at that game, Crowley thought, as he caught Dean’s darkening glare through the woman’s tresses. Crowley tugged Dean’s thigh up, balancing his nearest leg over Crowley’s own, angling him just so.
Thumb still firmly in his mouth, Crowley inched his hand around the back of Dean’s leg, tickling the curve between ass and thigh. All the while nudging the girl’s leg this way and that with the motion of his elbow. Good thing they had already worn her out.
Dean gasped when the cold lube was magicked against his tight hole. Crowley smirked around his thumb and began to spread him open. As Crowley made Dean squirm, Dean’s grip on Crowley’s face shifted from an anchored caress to a deathgrip hold on his jaw. Dean dragged his spit covered thumb from Crowley’s smart mouth.
“Do it,” Dean hissed, challenging Crowley to take him. And just as the King of Hell’s third finger entered Dean’s tight heat, Josey turned her head and puked on the far edge of Crowley’s pillow and down the side of the bed.
There was nothing left to do but groan and they all did it for entirely different reasons.
Crowley righted things quickly, but the moment had passed, both he and Dean knew it. Dean avoided meeting his knowing glare and Crowley hid his uncertainty behind his arrogance as always.
Jack sat quietly at the library table with their hands in their lap, watching Sam earnestly. Their tallest dad was eagerly explaining the Sacking of Lawrence with Jack’s school books and other random kitchen items as monuments.
“We could do a diorama! Do they do those anymore? Man, I can’t tell you how many dumpsters we dove through looking for shoe boxes when I was a kid. I still have the box from your winter boots in the closet— if you want?” Sam finally focused on his child and the happy, yet clueless expression on their face when he started talking about the outdated project suggestion.
“Hm?” Jack replied.
“It’s like a 3D model of a scene, lots of glue sticks and either figurines or hand drawn replicas,” Sam explained, brushing the hair out of his face.
“And a shoe box?” Jack concluded.
“In— inside the shoebox, like it’s a tiny stage,” Sam felt like he was doing a poor job communicating, even as he used his hands to sign. “Here–.” He reached for his laptop and pulled up some examples.
“Oh! That looks cool— very retro,” Jack said like he was finally in on a secret.
Sam cocked his head at the jab, but let it roll off his back. “So, do you think it will work?”
“How would it work, exactly?” Jack asked.
They got to work, with safety scissors that were too small for Sam’s hands that were quickly discarded and extra coloring supplies which were pilfered from the desk Eileen set up as a craft station for the younger kids. It took them almost two hours, but finally they were able to recreate the historical event as best they could. With that work behind them, they left it to dry on the counter, out of the way from toddler reach.
That night, when everyone was home and the kitchen was full of hungry Winchesters, Jack practiced his presentation. Dean listened as he took turns feeding himself and baby Millie. While Castiel sat nervously at his side as Juniper fed herself.
“And that is the beginning of what we now call Bleeding Kansas,” Jack concluded, reading from his handwritten note cards.
Eileen clapped and Dean cheered his praise, while Cas squinted at Jack and then at Sam. Sam did a double take and motioned for Cas to stand down and not ruin the historical integrity of the project.
Later that night, when everyone else was in bed Castiel inserted a tiny figure in the back of the diorama, one with red eyes and a perfectly tailored suit.
With spring finals starting in two days, the library was packed. People carved out study nooks wherever they could, regardless of chair or appropriate surface. Sam had a late lecture, which pushed his studying hours back and left him little hope of finding a spot.
He stepped over kids who had spilled out into the aisles on the main floor before making his way up to the mezzanine. The tables, though more spread out, were fewer in number, leaving Sam trekking up to the third floor and the study cubbies.
There, in the third row, the second to last cubby was empty. Sam quickly unpacked his gear and found out why he had gotten so lucky with a vacant space. The chair was missing a foot and even with the thick carpeting, it wobbled.
Sam closed his eyes and breathed out through his nose. It could be worse, he told himself before getting to work. He plowed through his Econ notes before getting started on making his Sociology into a paper and not just an outline.
Somewhere close to ten o’clock, Sam caught the smell of ramen in the air. The student presence on the third floor had slowly dwindled, so he had to look around to be sure his nose was correct. There, in the last cubicle was a girl slurping from a Cup O’Noodles. Sam gaped at her etiquette.
