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Стащила картинку у @Капитан Полночь, потому что это СОУ ТРУ:

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“If you do so good at the sex then why are all your female friends yelling out my father’s name?” Cas inquired looking at Dean with a straight face and unwavering attention. Dean hated that unwavering attention.
In the corner Sam made a choking noise and coffee spilled across the table as it shot out of his nose. And Dean’s beer froze halfway to his lips as he stared at Cas, already uncomfortable with the entire conversation.
“What?” Dean says smirking and trying not to think about the fact that he was teaching communication of sex to an angel who he knew was fucking his little brother, “Are you not fucking Sam hard enough that he prays to God himself in thanks.”
Dean’s smirk grows even further when Sam chokes on his coffee again.
“I felt I did an adequate job,” Castiel says,” He moans my name relatively loud.”
Dean didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. In one way the angel had just called himself “adequate” in bed, basically insulting himself. On the other hand, he just had to hear about how Sammy moans Cas’s name. And on the other, other hand, Sammy was hilariously dying of embarrassment and shock at the same time. This was an excellent blackmail opportunity, a hilarious comedy, but also a form of cold-blooded torture all at the same time. And Dean was just enough of a masochist to stay.

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“Sam,” he says, though he’s not trying to get away.
“Look, I’m trying to prove a point,” Sam says, sighing. “You taste—”
“Don't say my blood tastes good, don’t you dare—”
“No, I was gonna say human.”
“What?”
“If you weren’t— If you weren’t one hundred percent cured, I’d be able to tell, okay?”
Cas looks at him for a moment, not knowing what to do. Then he does try to get away, but Sam holds the blade against his throat again.
He bites back a moan, managing to replace it by saying, “Sam, please.”
“Listen to me. If you weren’t one hundred percent cured, I’d know. And I wouldn’t let this blade anywhere near you. And I think… I get it, alright? And you need to listen to me when I say there’s nothing bad left in there,” Sam says, putting his palm on his chest.
Right then, Cas almost says something about how he tried but couldn’t leave his body because of the tattoo in his chest. It worked both ways, as it turned out: no evil gets in, no evil gets out. Sam likes to pretend Cas wasn’t himself, but deep down, they both know the truth. He wasn’t possessed; it was him, trapped inside his body, chained to his unholy mission. Him, alone. Him, a God.

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He cleans them both of the blood and sweat and the uncomfortable wetness in their clothes from ejaculating and presses his lips to Sam’s forehead chastely.
Sam Winchester is saved.
Sam lets out a shaky breath and drops his forehead to Castiel’s shoulder.
“I hope that wasn’t—” Sam stumbles over the words, reaching up to rub at his nose. “Ruby and I would have, uh, sorry, this should be weird, right? Is this weird? Are you—you’re not really supposed to do that, are you? Angels, I mean.”
“No.” He doesn’t clarify which question he’s answering.
“Then what made you? I thought if any—”
Castiel makes a sound he’s heard Sam make before to signal irritation—usually at Dean—when someone is being deliberately obtuse.
“I could feel your desire.” He feels the humiliation rise up and runs his hand over Sam’s hair again. “I wanted. Healing you was my pleasure.”
“Thanks, Cas.”
He nods and then pushes himself up to stand, offering his hand out for Sam to take, so he can lead him up from the basement.

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