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It all starts with a pot of coffee.
Castiel grinds the heel of his palm into the rough edge of the counter, biting his lip as he feels frustration well up in his chest. Six months, six months he's been human and here he is, holding a murky pot full of grounds. Water drips from the spout of the Mr. Coffee EZ Brew, hissing as it hits the hot plate below. Castiel blinks rapidly as the finely-hewn lines of the Men of Letters' cabinetry begin to blur before his eyes.
Castiel knows the coffee isn't right, that he should get rid of it and start over, put on a plucky grin and pull up his chin straps or whatever it is Dean's always telling him to do. But Castiel can't remember if he's supposed to pour the muddy remnants down the drain or into the trash, or if he's supposed to sift out the dregs of the Walmart Breakfast Brew that Sam favors in some sort of hybrid trash-disposal method that everyone except Castiel and unusually slow children seems to instinctively understand.
Just last week Sam had rolled his eyes and grabbed a wrench after Castiel cleaned up Dean's delicious roast chicken dinner. Why would something called a garbage disposal only be able to dispose of certain types of garbage? It made no sense. Castiel wonders which category coffee grounds fall under, closing his eyes and vowing to make a decision before Sam and Dean notice how long he's been missing.
Instead Castiel stands paralyzed in front of the counter, one shaky hand holding the coffeepot while a hatefully familiar feeling sinks its fingers into his throat. Oh God, he's going to cry.
“Hey Cas, are you-” Sam's loping footsteps come to a halt as he takes in the sight of Castiel, his back shaking silently as he hunches over the sink. Perhaps Sam will go away, or tell Castiel he's changed his mind and no longer wants the coffee he and Dean drink every morning.
“Hey, hey, hey,” Sam shushes, treading more softly as he approaches Castiel. It's the tone people use with recalcitrant children and animals of unknown temperament and Castiel hates to think which category he falls under.
“Come here,” Sam says softly, Sam whose chest feels so much smaller as Castiel curls against it, Sam who has been earning back his health in tiny, hard-won victories while Castiel puts chicken bones in the garbage disposal. Sam's hand lays over his, plucking the coffeepot from his grasp and setting it down in the sink.
“It's OK.” Sam's hand runs through his hair, tousling it in that curious way that only feels pleasant when Sam and Dean do it.
“What'd I miss?” Dean arrives with his usual heavy-footed charm, dressed to his boots despite his declaration that he was going to spend the day at home. This is a quirk unique to Dean, not something Castiel is expected to do like using different kinds of soap in the dishwasher, washing machine and shower.
“Oh, shit,” Dean mutters under his breath, the report of his boots quickening as he rushes to Castiel's side. Castiel senses that this is not the time to mimic Sam's habit of teasing Dean for being a “hug slut”, so he just lets the warm weight of Dean against his back mold him closer to the tear-damp shoulder of Sam's t-shirt. Sam smells like a mix of the myriad kinds of soap found in the Batcave, his clothes and skin and hair all washed separately. It's one of the efforts that Castiel frequently finds exhausting, not to mention time-consuming. The grace-focusing snap of his fingers used to take all of two seconds, a tingling sensation and it was over. Now Castiel must spend an hour of his waking day scrubbing and sorting and shaving if he wants to spare himself from Dean's rude jokes. Ripeness is a quality valued in fruit but not, apparently, in human beings.
“What happened?” Dean asks, grazing the tip of his nose over the shell of Castiel's ear. Dean and Sam's affection is nothing new, warm and solid against him, but Castiel had grown into it as an equal and opposite force against the strength of their physical endearments, not this hapless mess of tears.
“I knit your bones back together from a heap of charred pain and pulled you out of hell.” Castiel sniffs against Sam's shirt before shrugging him off and turning to Dean, trading one firm chest against his back for another. “And now something as simple as brewing coffee makes me cry.” As if on cue another tear wells up, falling unbidden down Castiel's cheek.
Dean sighs and squeezes Castiel's shoulder. He turns to the traitorous coffee machine, squinting at it before he lifts the top and peers inside.
“Aw, Cas, it's no big deal. You didn't put the filter in right.” He smiles and turns back, looking at Sam over Castiel's shoulder. “Sam does that all the time. It's an easy mistake to make.”
“Yeah, it's a crappy coffee maker. Don't worry about it, we'll make more.” Sam smiles and kisses Castiel on the top of his head. It's a gesture of comfort and Castiel isn't ungrateful for it, but it shames him that he needs so much coddling.
Millennia of omniscience have not left Castiel well-equipped for daily human life, and hardly a day goes by when Dean or Sam or both don't need to remind him about something. When he isn't feeling petty and stymied by his new limitations, Castiel marvels that humanity has accomplished anything at all with its constant need for sleep and lists.
“I make so many mistakes. How do you -” Castiel takes a hiccuping breath, hating the high tone of his voice. “How do you do this?” He flings his hands out uselessly, no better equipped to express the magnitude of his loss with his body. “How do you smile and joke and endure so much?”
“It just takes time, Cas. We've had a lot longer to do it than you have.” Dean brushes his thumb over the arch of Castiel's cheek bone, smearing a tear away.
“I have an idea.” Dean licks his lips and looks at Castiel thoughtfully. “I think,” he narrows his eyes as he moves closer to Castiel, “that Cas should get a do-over.”
“I don't understand that-”
“We should just go back to bed,” Dean moves closer again, letting his thumb slide down the hollow of Castiel's cheek, “and start the day over.” Dean's thumb traces over the curve of Castiel's lip, salty and warm as he presses it in.
Castiel feels the flutter in his chest that always accompanies Dean's kisses, exhilarating and terrifying all at once. Castiel had fled the room the first time it happened, his newly-human body thrumming with hormones and unfamiliar sensations. Dean had assured him that he felt the same way when he kissed Sam and Cas, and Castiel had marveled yet again that Dean and Sam hadn't keeled over from heart attacks years ago.
“I think that sounds like an excellent plan.” Sam's voice has that husk of excitement to it, the one that makes Castiel's skin prickle with anticipation. “You know, Cas, being human isn't all bad. It means you get to sleep with us.” Castiel understands Sam's double entendre and feels his mouth quirk at the joke, that Castiel can finally lay beside Sam and Dean in slumber instead of curious watchfulness after they make love.
Dean gives Castiel a final press of his lips before leaning up for Sam. Castiel can hear the warm sighs they make for each other, and he closes his eyes to savor something that he understands. The fits and starts of his new form still trip Castiel up but his fluency in the eternal language of his love for Sam and Dean had remained intact even after his grace was stolen.
They trip back to the bed, to Castiel's bed that Dean had insisted be a King size. It's still a tight fit for all three of them, as Sam's hands tug his shirt off and Dean kisses down the slope of Castiel's stomach.
“I know this feels better when you're human,” Dean smirks against his hip, grazing his teeth over the arch of Castiel's hip. Castiel had never fully appreciated this habit of the Winchesters, their constant need to mark him as their own. His body is a map of heart-sucked bruises, rich purples and pollen-stained yellows that heal slowly, changing color with every passing day. What had seemed a weakness at first had delighted Dean and Sam, the absence of his regenerative powers leaving their marks of affection for all to see.
“This, too, right?” Sam pulls Castiel back until he's leaning against Sam's chest, circling his finger over Castiel's nipple and dragging the sheared edge of his fingernail over the sensitive skin. It makes Castiel's skin go hot-cold with gooseflesh, doubly so as Dean sucks a new mark onto Castiel's hip. The jut of Sam's cock against Castiel's back is hot and hard, and if Castiel can't actually hear Sam's heartbeat any more, he can easily imagine the feel of it throbbing against his skin in time with his own.
“We love you, Cas.” It's always Sam who says these things, whispered and soft while Dean screams it with his body. Dean leaves a trail of love-bites down Castiel's stomach, nosing into the crease of Castiel's thigh as Sam echoes the gesture at the curve of Castiel's jaw.
Sam's legs bracket his own, less muscled than they used to be but no less firm against him as Dean presses Castiel's legs open. This is always how it goes, one of them on either side of Castiel, holding him up and pushing him open until Castiel just feels.
Dean had always enjoyed doing this to Castiel, closing the wet kiss of his lips over Castiel's cock and sliding down, but he seems to have found a new enthusiasm for it with Castiel's humanity. “You taste different,” Dean had kissed into his mouth after the first time, pulling back to watch as Sam did the same. “Better,” Sam had whispered against his neck, fingers trailing through the remnants of Castiel's orgasm.
It is better, somehow, for all that it's too much, wild and frightening as Dean swipes his tongue through the slit of Castiel's cock. Castiel has sifted through human history in a single thought, known the ways and means of all life on earth, and now he can barely discern the drag of skin on skin and wet mouths against him. There is magic in this, older than angels and demons and life itself.
Ruined coffee and burnt toast and the infernal red sock in the washing machine all fall away as Castiel arches up, eyes open to see the white-starred rush as his body seizes and comes. Castiel has heard this called the little death but he knows that this is wrong, that this moment is life itself. Only with this stripping away of control can humanity face the impossible odds of carving out a place in a world of chaos and endless struggle.
Castiel's breath comes in jagged and hoarse, his chest trapped between the press of Sam and Dean as they writhe against him. Sweat-slick skin glides and catches, Sam and Dean hard and wet as they grind against him. Castiel's ears fill with the sounds of Dean's grunts and the breathy whines Sam makes when he's close. They shudder against him, Sam coming first with Dean tripping right after. There will be more laundry because of this, but it feels like less of a burden to Castiel as Sam and Dean wrap around him and breathe warm and rough against his neck.
Sleep is still new to Castiel, and he's still amazed at the nuanced ways he can doze off. One moment he's drifting in between the warmth of Sam and Dean, and the next he's starting as Sam slides out of bed and Dean's arm flings itself over his chest.
“Where're goin' Sam,” Dean mutters against Castiel's shoulder, his lips askew and sticking to Castiel's skin.
“I'll be right back,” Sam says as he pulls Dean's boxers on, which Castiel idly reminds himself is for Kevin and Charlie's benefit. “Neither of them want to see your junk, Cas, trust me,” had been Dean's amused explanation when Castiel had wandered into the main study clad in socks and a t-shirt.
“I'm gonna make some tea.” Sam leans down to kiss both of them on the forehead before walking to the kitchen.
“Don't forget Cas' lemon!” Dean yells after him, snorting and pulling Castiel closer to tickle his nose against the nape of Castiel's neck. This makes Castiel the little spoon, which is a position Sam and Dean often fight each other for. Castiel stretches and settles against Dean, molding the pillow to his face and smiling.
Castiel closes his eyes and thinks that even if Sam forgets to put lemon in his tea, they can always have a do-over.