Fic: You and Me [Plus Or Minus a Few] (Sam/Dean)
Fandom: Supernatural
Pairing: Sam/Dean... er, um, Smith/Wesson? sorta?
Rating: NC-17 -- Wordcount:3,900
Warnings: minor spoilers for "It's a Terrible Life", roleplaying, desk!sex
Notes: kelliegh 's wonderful christmas gift got me thinking about Smith/Wesson - this is why I shouldn't think. And yeah, I know Sam's shirt wasn't that tight in the show, but in the XXX theatre of my brain it is, so there. Anyway, I'm going out of town for a few days, so I may not be able to post between now and next Wed, but I'll def be working on smutty goodness no matter what.
Summary - Most of being Dean Smith sucked, but there are some parts that are definitely worth revisiting. Like being Sammy's boss.
Dean swallows the remainder of his second bacon cheeseburger in one gulp, washing it down with a syrupy Coke, so cold his teeth ache. God, food is good.
"I fucking hate angels," he says, rolling his head back to look up at the pin-prick stars shining above, the familiar warmth of the Impala's grill heating the back of his thighs.
In his periphery he sees Sam nod in agreement. He's back in his regular clothes, layers and layers like he's trying to make up for all the time he spent with his pecs displayed like a lemon-yellow smorgasbord by covering up extra now. Dean's stomach does a happy little flip flop at the thought of that fucking shirt and all of the goddamn opportunities to bend Sammy over that big desk in his pretend office that he wasted just because 'Dean Smith' was all worried about what people would think if they found out he had sex with a dude.
Dean clears his throat and tries for a laugh. "Think they could have found a smaller shirt for you?"
Sam chuckles and skins his hand back through his hair, shaking his head. "Like being attacked by a poly-blend boa constrictor," he says ruefully.
"Yeah," he sighs. There's a second of silence when Sam doesn't add anything and it seems like the conversation might be over except... well, he's not going to get a better opportunity than this. "You keep it?"
Sam stares at him like he just said he's going back on the fat-flush diet again.
"Because, um," Dean carries on, rubbing at the back of his neck with his hand, "I kept the suspenders."
Eventually, Dean makes himself look over at his brother, watches the confusion written on his face slide into understanding and almost imperceptibly, something darker.
Sam exhales shakily and licks his lips shiny before saying gruffly, "We need to find an office."
***
Dean Smith taps out an erratic rhythm on the surface of his dimly lit desk. He's one of the last ones at the office this late, trying to get this report finished on time and according to spec. And of course, his computer picked tonight to break down, because life is just wonderful like that. It's nothing short of a miracle that there was even somebody down in tech support to answer his call, but for once, it looks like he got lucky.
Knuckles rap on his open door and a shaggy brown head peers around the corner of the frame inquisitively. Correction, Dean got very lucky - or he will, if he plays his cards right.
Sam Wesson walks in at Dean's nod Dean makes a mental note to find out who's in charge of picking the tech support's uniforms and see about getting wifebeaters added to roster. And hotpants. Goddamn but it's a shame to have legs that long wasted on khakis.
"What happened?" Wesson asks in that tantalizingly deep voice of his. Dean wonders what it would sound like all sex-rough and fucked out by his cock.
He shrugs at the blackened screen, rolling his chair back so Wesson can get at the machinery. "Just shut itself down. I really need that report though."
"Did you save it?" the taller man asks, kneeling down to tug the console out from under the desk, seemingly unaware of his shoulder bumping against Dean's knee. Dean’s pulse flutters, cock starting to thicken in the woolen confines of his slacks.
He nods absently and then realizes Wesson's not looking at him, so replies out loud, "Yeah."
"Well, then it should still be on the hard drive, assuming the motherboard isn't corrupted," Wesson says, unscrewing the back panel of the consol with the blade of his pocket knife. Damn, Sammy's good at this improv thing.
"So, um, working late, huh?" Dean questions stupidly, not fully recovered from hearing Wesson say the word 'hard'.
The younger man actually looks up from what he's doing to shoot Dean a half-smile that makes some very important organs melt into a warm little pool in the pit of his gut. Wesson's right there between the V of Dean's legs which is just about as pretty a picture as a guy could ask for and if the kid were to look for it, there's no way he could miss the bulge below Dean's waistband. He's struggling not to just palm himself, but there are still laws about sexual harassment - he really can’t afford to get fired over a piece of ass, even one as hot as Wesson. He has to be absolutely sure the guy’s into it.
"You know, working my way up the ladder," Wesson says non-chalantly and isn't that just an ideal opening?
Dean hums his understanding, slumping a little lower in his seat. "I, uh, I happen to know some people down in IT, you know. I could... make some calls, put in a good word for you. If you want."
Hazel eyes dart up to lock on him, something flickering behind them. "You'd do that? I mean, you barely even know me."
"Yeah well, I appreciate good work."
The guy looks down at the backing that is just now coming away in his hands, "Haven't done anything yet."
"I have complete faith in your abilities. Really, when you get down to it, success is all about how far you're willing to go." Wesson looks at him, licks his lips, and those intense eyes finally - finally - slip down to rest on the prominent jut of Dean's cock through grey wool. "How far are you willing to go, Mr. Wesson?"
Dean's gaze gets stuck on the bob of Wesson's adam's apple as he swallows audibly and rolls his lips together, licks them again, nibbles on the bottom one.
"You can call me Sam," the younger man says, gently setting the console to the side and sliding forward just a little bit on his knees so he's resting just between Dean's, still not quite touching.
Dean's hand glides over his thigh, savoring the slow creep of heat spreading from his own touch until he's close enough to capture Wesson's - Sam's - chin between his thumb and forefinger. Sam's head turns easily with a little pressure, tilting up so he's looking right into Dean's eyes.
"You can call me sir, Sammy."
A furrow forms between Sam's eyebrows but his pupils are blowing wide even under the scowl.
"It's Sam," he says bitingly, then tacks onto the end a sarcastic, "Sir."
Dean's hand snaps tight around the back of Sam's neck, pulling the big man in close. "Think we can find a better use for that smart mouth of yours, Sam."
Sam snarls up at him, but just as fast as it can register, he's darting forward, mouth smoothing hot and moist over the fabric concealing Dean's hard-on. It jerks at the contact, wet warmth seeping right into Dean's bones and turning him to mush. The heat picks up, firm pressure, and Dean can just see around the fringe of Sam's hair the flash of pink tongue painting the front of his pants damp.
A groan rips right up from his belly as his head lolls back against the leather chair when Sam sucks on the head through cloth. There are little pleased noises vibrating up the length of his cock from Sam's mouth, rocking down to settle in his balls and build on the pressure already looming there.
Sam's fingers deftly unfasten the catch on Dean's slacks and start tugging down the suspenders looped over his shoulders. He's hauled unceremoniously forward, ass hanging half off the seat. He barely manages to wriggle out of the suspenders without tumbling them both into the floor, mainly by the virtue of Sam's big hands cupping his ass. Just like that, his pants and briefs are down around his knees, cool air sending a jolt along his nerves at the same time that his dick is enveloped in molten slickness and he loses the capacity to feel anything else.
"Oh fuck yes, just like that," he hears himself mumble pointlessly, gelled hair rasping against the back of the chair as his head tosses in restless pleasure. Sam's fucking mouth!
The younger man moans around him, wicked tongue fluttering over every last goddamn one of his hotspots like the kid's got a map. The temperature in Dean's body ratchets up fast and hard, everything inside of him swelling until he feels too fucking big for his skin to possibly contain. Sam's just picking at his seams, tugging at the stitches of whatever it is that's holding Dean together with his swollen, spit-slick lips and talented, satin tongue.
Dean's not even trying to keep his hips from pumping up into the tight trap of Sam's throat and Sam just eases off and takes it. A warm trail of saliva tickles down his balls and further back, getting a little guidance from Sam's finger which draws teasing, wet patterns over Dean's hole at the same time his cheeks hollow and steal Dean's breath.
On the next downstroke, Sam's finger eases in, just enough that Dean can feel himself open for the tip of it before it disappears again. For long minutes, Sam just teases him like that, ignoring Dean's whines and curses when he can't get more than just that barely-there push no matter how hard he tries. He's not even sure when he became so focused on it, just knows that he wants that fucking finger in his ass so goddamn bad that at some point Sam went from sucking to just idly holding Dean in his mouth and he didn't even notice.
"You cockteasing motherfucker," Dean growls arching his back to try and dip his hips lower but Sam just retreats the digit again, "I swear to God I will kick your fucking a-"
The rest of Dean's threat gets cut off on a yelp as Sam's finger shoves in all the way up to the knuckle without warning. He doesn't get a chance to bitch, though, because the second Sam's finger is in, it finds Dean's sweet spot unerringly - at exactly the same time that the younger man picks up on the mouth action with the kind of hardcore sucking that would make any porn star proud.
Dean rockets from 'fuck now' hard to 'there, right there, ohsweetfuckyespleasepleaseyes', the slow build of pressure in his balls doubling, tripling in a matter of seconds until it feels like he's got boiling battery acid in his veins, every nerve alight like a sparkler on the fourth of July. He's right fucking there; Sam swallowing around him expertly, his fingertip stroking relentlessly against that spot inside that electrifies Dean with razor-laced bliss. One more pull, two, and Dean can feel his balls draw up, the surge of it as his dick swells to spill all over Sam's sweet, pink mouth -
Long, powerful fingers tamp down around the base of Dean's cock, shutting a dam across the explosion of Dean's orgasm just a millisecond before it can happen and, yeah, fuck it, he screams like a little bitch because come the fuck on! He writhes and struggles and tugs at Sam's hand but Sam won't let up, the same way he's not letting up with the maddening suction of his mouth or the merciless press on Dean's prostate, keeping him right there at the edge and refusing to let him fall. There's a very real chance that Dean's crying.
So fast he can't tell what the fuck is going on - or maybe his brain is just so fried from the overload that it's not processing things quick enough - Sam mouth and finger are gone. Not the fingers holding his orgasm at bay - no, those fuckers are still right where Sam wants them - but the one that was inside of him, his ring of muscle still flutter-clamping at the sudden emptiness. He doesn't have a chance to linger on it because Sam's hard at work hauling Dean's dead weight up, only to lay him forward across the desk, never once losing his damnedable grip on the base of Dean's cock.
Dean's got no choice but to go with it, too strung out on almost to make his body do more than try to hump into Sam's unyielding hand. The glossy, dark-stained wood is cool against his feverish cheeks, the chill of it soaking through his sweat-damp shirt and doing absolutely nothing to quell the rolling boil at work inside Dean's body. He hates Sam, he mother fucking hates him.
Clumsily, Sam manages to pull Dean's limp arms behind his back and Dean doesn't figure out exactly what's happening until after Sam's got his wrists nicely bound together by some kind of slim, strong cloth... his fucking suspenders. Damn. Never let it be said that Sammy's not resourceful.
And kinky. Kinky little shit.
The pressure on Dean's dick eases hesitantly, but he's come down enough that he's just riding the edge, not sliding precariously over it. Apparently satisfied, Sam releases him, nothing but the radiant warmth from his body not quite touching the backs of Dean's legs to let him know where the other man is.
Sam spits gratuitously loud, the wetness used to slick the movement of his hand as the strokes it noisily over his own cock. Dean's jumps in an outcry for the same attention, but all he gets is that one fucking finger skating down the cleft of his ass to toy with his rim again. Now Dean's just pissed - horny and pissed - and he bucks wildly against the desk, getting enough leverage to glare over his shoulder at the younger man.
Sam grins cheekily back at him, big hand working an even bigger dick that makes Dean's mouth water despite himself. That stupid yellow polo is clinging and shifting with every slightly jagged inhale that makes the sharp jut of Sam's tiny, pebbled nipples drag under the surface. Dean wants to nip at them, to get his hands free - why the fuck had he gone for the broadcloth suspenders and not nice, escapable elastic? - and torment those little nubs with quick, hard swipes of his blunt thumbnails until Sam's squirming and begging. Sam grins like he knows just what Dean’s thinking and just stands there, slowing his strokes down until Dean's muscles start to protest the angle he's holding himself at and he finally flops back down on the desk, ass up and vulnerable for whatever Sam has planned.
Once Dean's flat to the surface - put in his place, Sam's voice snarks in his head - that finger's back, wet now, and another one too, just for a refreshing change. They both slide in with only a little resistance, a flare of burn at the stretch that mellows fast and revs Dean right back up to where he was just a minute ago. Without hesitation, those fingers find that electric spot inside of him and spark it back to life, swollen and sore and goddamnit, Dean's forehead thumps against the desk at how fucked-up-good it feels.
This was not the way this was supposed to go down.
Sam works him open fast and sloppy, like he knows just how much Dean can, will, wants to take and he's already pushing back into it by the time Sam's lining up, bare and slick with spit, because apparently lube isn't part of a tech bitch's standard gear.
A part of Dean hates the way he loves this, spread out and split open and filled up so good. There's something unmanly about it, just laying across the fucking desk and taking it, biting his lip to keep from letting out the gaspy little moans that keep trying to jar free from his throat as every perfect inch of that long, thick cock pushes into him. But then Sam gets all the way in, hips pressed snug against Dean's ass, and whatever part of him was bitching a second ago goes up in smoke with the sputtering flames lancing up Dean's spine.
"Fuck, yes," comes out molasses thick, wrecked like Dean's been gargling knives and he doesn't give a shit anymore.
"You like that, sir?" Sam Wesson taunts just as thickly, but the smirk on his face belongs to a whole other Sam. The best answer Dean can come up with is a groan and a roll of his hips, which seems to be good enough for Sam since he - at long fucking last - picks up the pace.
Dean's hipbones bang into the edge of the desk with every thrust, hard enough that the bruises are going to be vicious tomorrow; tender enough that when he inevitably presses on them he'll be hard all over again. Sam rides him hard, every push sliding the head of his cock over Dean's abused prostate, pushing him closer and closer but never quite tipping the scale. He's burning up, every inch of him red-fucking-hot with wantneedplease and Sam's pounding him like it's just going to keep getting better and worse and better forever.
Dean's beyond cursing, but he knows he's still making noise; knows because he can vaguely hear the sound of the weak mewls coming out of his mouth over the machine-gun clatter of his own pulse in his ears. Sam's not silent either, half-formed filth pouring out of him between broken gasps and moans that slide over Dean's skin like body-warm honey.
Whatever finesse there may have been is swept away fast under the breaking wave of 'gotta come now'. Sam leans over, hands gripping the opposite side of the desk and uses the torque to make every thrust harder, even as his rhythm goes choppy and inconsistent. Every touch is like pins and needles on Dean's skin, too far gone to figure out the difference between pain and pleasure when all he wants is more.
"Sam, Sammy, please, God, Sam," he begs shamelessly, pushing back into every juddering roll of Sam's hips. Sweat is pouring off of his face, the wood under his cheek slick with perspiration, the salt stinging his lips as he rubs them together in a fruitless attempt to find more words. But Sam - thank fuck - Sam gets it.
A broad palm stumblingly finds Dean's hard-on where it bobs painfully in the empty air and a lightning-bright jolt zings across Dean's nerves. His head tosses on the desk, no chance of staying still, and then Sam's finger finds the rough knot of nerves just under the head and the world goes blank.
Maybe one day when Dean's brain grows back, he'll feel bad about whatever poor fucker has to go into work tomorrow morning to find Dean's come spattered all over the underside of his desk, but it won't be happening anytime soon. Right now, he's way too caught up in the way his whole body is switched on, tingling like a sleeping limb that's just beginning to wake, even the brush of Sam's grunted breath against his neck is too much. Perfect.
At some point Sam must come but Dean misses it by a mile, not really back in the game until after the sweat on his forehead is already cool and beginning to dry. That's the only cool part of him though, since he has 6-foot-whateverthefuck of giant, human space-heater crushing him steadily into the wood grain.
There's a liquid tickle running slowly down his leg and it's enough to give him the energy to groan, "A creampie was not part of the deal, man."
He doesn't hear so much as feel the laugh that quakes in Sam's chest.
"You love it," is the murmured reply he gets, slurred around the kiss Sam's sucking just below Dean's ear. His brother wiggles his hips enough to make the warm fluid trapped inside of Dean by his cock shift and squelch. Dean grimaces to voice his distaste but neither that, nor his attempts to force Sam off of him gain any ground.
"Only love it when it's your ass full of come," he grumbles from underneath his baby brother. His arms are really starting to cramp where they're trapped between their bodies. "And what the hell happened to me being the top, huh?"
He can feel Sam shrug against his back. "Yeah, that wasn't working for me."
"Controlling bastard."
"One of my finer qualities."
Dean huffs and at last manages to shift forward enough that Sam's soft dick slips free. Sam whines against his shoulder and reluctantly eases back to let Dean up.
His wrists are a little chafed where the suspenders rubbed them, but otherwise he's in good shape. Can't say the same for the office - man it sucks to be whoever works here. Papers are scattered all over the floor, displaced from their former residence on the desk; the computer screen is hanging onto the corner for dear life and there are some questionable stains coloring the wood.
It's probably bad karma or something to just leave it like this, but hey, if Dean's biggest problem was walking in one morning and finding that somebody had had some truly rockin' sex on his desk, he might have to do a little victory dance over how easy his life had suddenly become. Not that he's itching to be a desk jockey ever again, but seriously, they're going up against heaven and hell - whoever has this office can deal.
Sam at least scoots the computer screen into a more stable position, but he doesn't seem particularly inclined for a game of clean up either. Instead he smiles at Dean, all lazy and self-satisfied, that tight little shirt of his clinging even more now that it's soaked with sweat. Whoever this office belongs to better thank their lucky stars that Dean just came so hard his legs are shaking because otherwise he'd definitely be shoving Sammy up against that nice, sturdy bookcase and making an even bigger mess.
As it is, he stalks over to the corner where he tossed his jacket before they started and slides into the worn leather like a second skin, feeling more like Dean Winchester by the moment.
Sam's come is making the cheap wool pants stick to his legs as he moves and the suspenders are still hanging loosely from his hips, but he's instantly more in control of the situation. And damn does it feel good.
"Get your shit, Sammy," he commands, smacking his brother on the back of the head just for kicks. His hips are going to be black and blue, afterall.
Sam rolls his eyes but walks over to grab the small bag of gear they'd needed to break in and cut the security cameras. He slings it across his broad shoulders, shirt seams straining to allow the movement and something warm and not-yet-urgent curls low in Dean's belly.
"What?" Sam quirks an eyebrow at the smirk Dean can feel crooking his own lips. He turns it into a full on dirty grin.
"Just thinkin'" he breezes, turning around halfway out of the door to watch Sam's eyes go dark all over again, "Better find a laundromat. We definitely aint done with that shirt."
Pairing: Sam/Dean... er, um, Smith/Wesson? sorta?
Rating: NC-17 -- Wordcount:3,900
Warnings: minor spoilers for "It's a Terrible Life", roleplaying, desk!sex
Notes: kelliegh 's wonderful christmas gift got me thinking about Smith/Wesson - this is why I shouldn't think. And yeah, I know Sam's shirt wasn't that tight in the show, but in the XXX theatre of my brain it is, so there. Anyway, I'm going out of town for a few days, so I may not be able to post between now and next Wed, but I'll def be working on smutty goodness no matter what.
Summary - Most of being Dean Smith sucked, but there are some parts that are definitely worth revisiting. Like being Sammy's boss.
Dean swallows the remainder of his second bacon cheeseburger in one gulp, washing it down with a syrupy Coke, so cold his teeth ache. God, food is good.
"I fucking hate angels," he says, rolling his head back to look up at the pin-prick stars shining above, the familiar warmth of the Impala's grill heating the back of his thighs.
In his periphery he sees Sam nod in agreement. He's back in his regular clothes, layers and layers like he's trying to make up for all the time he spent with his pecs displayed like a lemon-yellow smorgasbord by covering up extra now. Dean's stomach does a happy little flip flop at the thought of that fucking shirt and all of the goddamn opportunities to bend Sammy over that big desk in his pretend office that he wasted just because 'Dean Smith' was all worried about what people would think if they found out he had sex with a dude.
Dean clears his throat and tries for a laugh. "Think they could have found a smaller shirt for you?"
Sam chuckles and skins his hand back through his hair, shaking his head. "Like being attacked by a poly-blend boa constrictor," he says ruefully.
"Yeah," he sighs. There's a second of silence when Sam doesn't add anything and it seems like the conversation might be over except... well, he's not going to get a better opportunity than this. "You keep it?"
Sam stares at him like he just said he's going back on the fat-flush diet again.
"Because, um," Dean carries on, rubbing at the back of his neck with his hand, "I kept the suspenders."
Eventually, Dean makes himself look over at his brother, watches the confusion written on his face slide into understanding and almost imperceptibly, something darker.
Sam exhales shakily and licks his lips shiny before saying gruffly, "We need to find an office."
***
Dean Smith taps out an erratic rhythm on the surface of his dimly lit desk. He's one of the last ones at the office this late, trying to get this report finished on time and according to spec. And of course, his computer picked tonight to break down, because life is just wonderful like that. It's nothing short of a miracle that there was even somebody down in tech support to answer his call, but for once, it looks like he got lucky.
Knuckles rap on his open door and a shaggy brown head peers around the corner of the frame inquisitively. Correction, Dean got very lucky - or he will, if he plays his cards right.
Sam Wesson walks in at Dean's nod Dean makes a mental note to find out who's in charge of picking the tech support's uniforms and see about getting wifebeaters added to roster. And hotpants. Goddamn but it's a shame to have legs that long wasted on khakis.
"What happened?" Wesson asks in that tantalizingly deep voice of his. Dean wonders what it would sound like all sex-rough and fucked out by his cock.
He shrugs at the blackened screen, rolling his chair back so Wesson can get at the machinery. "Just shut itself down. I really need that report though."
"Did you save it?" the taller man asks, kneeling down to tug the console out from under the desk, seemingly unaware of his shoulder bumping against Dean's knee. Dean’s pulse flutters, cock starting to thicken in the woolen confines of his slacks.
He nods absently and then realizes Wesson's not looking at him, so replies out loud, "Yeah."
"Well, then it should still be on the hard drive, assuming the motherboard isn't corrupted," Wesson says, unscrewing the back panel of the consol with the blade of his pocket knife. Damn, Sammy's good at this improv thing.
"So, um, working late, huh?" Dean questions stupidly, not fully recovered from hearing Wesson say the word 'hard'.
The younger man actually looks up from what he's doing to shoot Dean a half-smile that makes some very important organs melt into a warm little pool in the pit of his gut. Wesson's right there between the V of Dean's legs which is just about as pretty a picture as a guy could ask for and if the kid were to look for it, there's no way he could miss the bulge below Dean's waistband. He's struggling not to just palm himself, but there are still laws about sexual harassment - he really can’t afford to get fired over a piece of ass, even one as hot as Wesson. He has to be absolutely sure the guy’s into it.
"You know, working my way up the ladder," Wesson says non-chalantly and isn't that just an ideal opening?
Dean hums his understanding, slumping a little lower in his seat. "I, uh, I happen to know some people down in IT, you know. I could... make some calls, put in a good word for you. If you want."
Hazel eyes dart up to lock on him, something flickering behind them. "You'd do that? I mean, you barely even know me."
"Yeah well, I appreciate good work."
The guy looks down at the backing that is just now coming away in his hands, "Haven't done anything yet."
"I have complete faith in your abilities. Really, when you get down to it, success is all about how far you're willing to go." Wesson looks at him, licks his lips, and those intense eyes finally - finally - slip down to rest on the prominent jut of Dean's cock through grey wool. "How far are you willing to go, Mr. Wesson?"
Dean's gaze gets stuck on the bob of Wesson's adam's apple as he swallows audibly and rolls his lips together, licks them again, nibbles on the bottom one.
"You can call me Sam," the younger man says, gently setting the console to the side and sliding forward just a little bit on his knees so he's resting just between Dean's, still not quite touching.
Dean's hand glides over his thigh, savoring the slow creep of heat spreading from his own touch until he's close enough to capture Wesson's - Sam's - chin between his thumb and forefinger. Sam's head turns easily with a little pressure, tilting up so he's looking right into Dean's eyes.
"You can call me sir, Sammy."
A furrow forms between Sam's eyebrows but his pupils are blowing wide even under the scowl.
"It's Sam," he says bitingly, then tacks onto the end a sarcastic, "Sir."
Dean's hand snaps tight around the back of Sam's neck, pulling the big man in close. "Think we can find a better use for that smart mouth of yours, Sam."
Sam snarls up at him, but just as fast as it can register, he's darting forward, mouth smoothing hot and moist over the fabric concealing Dean's hard-on. It jerks at the contact, wet warmth seeping right into Dean's bones and turning him to mush. The heat picks up, firm pressure, and Dean can just see around the fringe of Sam's hair the flash of pink tongue painting the front of his pants damp.
A groan rips right up from his belly as his head lolls back against the leather chair when Sam sucks on the head through cloth. There are little pleased noises vibrating up the length of his cock from Sam's mouth, rocking down to settle in his balls and build on the pressure already looming there.
Sam's fingers deftly unfasten the catch on Dean's slacks and start tugging down the suspenders looped over his shoulders. He's hauled unceremoniously forward, ass hanging half off the seat. He barely manages to wriggle out of the suspenders without tumbling them both into the floor, mainly by the virtue of Sam's big hands cupping his ass. Just like that, his pants and briefs are down around his knees, cool air sending a jolt along his nerves at the same time that his dick is enveloped in molten slickness and he loses the capacity to feel anything else.
"Oh fuck yes, just like that," he hears himself mumble pointlessly, gelled hair rasping against the back of the chair as his head tosses in restless pleasure. Sam's fucking mouth!
The younger man moans around him, wicked tongue fluttering over every last goddamn one of his hotspots like the kid's got a map. The temperature in Dean's body ratchets up fast and hard, everything inside of him swelling until he feels too fucking big for his skin to possibly contain. Sam's just picking at his seams, tugging at the stitches of whatever it is that's holding Dean together with his swollen, spit-slick lips and talented, satin tongue.
Dean's not even trying to keep his hips from pumping up into the tight trap of Sam's throat and Sam just eases off and takes it. A warm trail of saliva tickles down his balls and further back, getting a little guidance from Sam's finger which draws teasing, wet patterns over Dean's hole at the same time his cheeks hollow and steal Dean's breath.
On the next downstroke, Sam's finger eases in, just enough that Dean can feel himself open for the tip of it before it disappears again. For long minutes, Sam just teases him like that, ignoring Dean's whines and curses when he can't get more than just that barely-there push no matter how hard he tries. He's not even sure when he became so focused on it, just knows that he wants that fucking finger in his ass so goddamn bad that at some point Sam went from sucking to just idly holding Dean in his mouth and he didn't even notice.
"You cockteasing motherfucker," Dean growls arching his back to try and dip his hips lower but Sam just retreats the digit again, "I swear to God I will kick your fucking a-"
The rest of Dean's threat gets cut off on a yelp as Sam's finger shoves in all the way up to the knuckle without warning. He doesn't get a chance to bitch, though, because the second Sam's finger is in, it finds Dean's sweet spot unerringly - at exactly the same time that the younger man picks up on the mouth action with the kind of hardcore sucking that would make any porn star proud.
Dean rockets from 'fuck now' hard to 'there, right there, ohsweetfuckyespleasepleaseyes', the slow build of pressure in his balls doubling, tripling in a matter of seconds until it feels like he's got boiling battery acid in his veins, every nerve alight like a sparkler on the fourth of July. He's right fucking there; Sam swallowing around him expertly, his fingertip stroking relentlessly against that spot inside that electrifies Dean with razor-laced bliss. One more pull, two, and Dean can feel his balls draw up, the surge of it as his dick swells to spill all over Sam's sweet, pink mouth -
Long, powerful fingers tamp down around the base of Dean's cock, shutting a dam across the explosion of Dean's orgasm just a millisecond before it can happen and, yeah, fuck it, he screams like a little bitch because come the fuck on! He writhes and struggles and tugs at Sam's hand but Sam won't let up, the same way he's not letting up with the maddening suction of his mouth or the merciless press on Dean's prostate, keeping him right there at the edge and refusing to let him fall. There's a very real chance that Dean's crying.
So fast he can't tell what the fuck is going on - or maybe his brain is just so fried from the overload that it's not processing things quick enough - Sam mouth and finger are gone. Not the fingers holding his orgasm at bay - no, those fuckers are still right where Sam wants them - but the one that was inside of him, his ring of muscle still flutter-clamping at the sudden emptiness. He doesn't have a chance to linger on it because Sam's hard at work hauling Dean's dead weight up, only to lay him forward across the desk, never once losing his damnedable grip on the base of Dean's cock.
Dean's got no choice but to go with it, too strung out on almost to make his body do more than try to hump into Sam's unyielding hand. The glossy, dark-stained wood is cool against his feverish cheeks, the chill of it soaking through his sweat-damp shirt and doing absolutely nothing to quell the rolling boil at work inside Dean's body. He hates Sam, he mother fucking hates him.
Clumsily, Sam manages to pull Dean's limp arms behind his back and Dean doesn't figure out exactly what's happening until after Sam's got his wrists nicely bound together by some kind of slim, strong cloth... his fucking suspenders. Damn. Never let it be said that Sammy's not resourceful.
And kinky. Kinky little shit.
The pressure on Dean's dick eases hesitantly, but he's come down enough that he's just riding the edge, not sliding precariously over it. Apparently satisfied, Sam releases him, nothing but the radiant warmth from his body not quite touching the backs of Dean's legs to let him know where the other man is.
Sam spits gratuitously loud, the wetness used to slick the movement of his hand as the strokes it noisily over his own cock. Dean's jumps in an outcry for the same attention, but all he gets is that one fucking finger skating down the cleft of his ass to toy with his rim again. Now Dean's just pissed - horny and pissed - and he bucks wildly against the desk, getting enough leverage to glare over his shoulder at the younger man.
Sam grins cheekily back at him, big hand working an even bigger dick that makes Dean's mouth water despite himself. That stupid yellow polo is clinging and shifting with every slightly jagged inhale that makes the sharp jut of Sam's tiny, pebbled nipples drag under the surface. Dean wants to nip at them, to get his hands free - why the fuck had he gone for the broadcloth suspenders and not nice, escapable elastic? - and torment those little nubs with quick, hard swipes of his blunt thumbnails until Sam's squirming and begging. Sam grins like he knows just what Dean’s thinking and just stands there, slowing his strokes down until Dean's muscles start to protest the angle he's holding himself at and he finally flops back down on the desk, ass up and vulnerable for whatever Sam has planned.
Once Dean's flat to the surface - put in his place, Sam's voice snarks in his head - that finger's back, wet now, and another one too, just for a refreshing change. They both slide in with only a little resistance, a flare of burn at the stretch that mellows fast and revs Dean right back up to where he was just a minute ago. Without hesitation, those fingers find that electric spot inside of him and spark it back to life, swollen and sore and goddamnit, Dean's forehead thumps against the desk at how fucked-up-good it feels.
This was not the way this was supposed to go down.
Sam works him open fast and sloppy, like he knows just how much Dean can, will, wants to take and he's already pushing back into it by the time Sam's lining up, bare and slick with spit, because apparently lube isn't part of a tech bitch's standard gear.
A part of Dean hates the way he loves this, spread out and split open and filled up so good. There's something unmanly about it, just laying across the fucking desk and taking it, biting his lip to keep from letting out the gaspy little moans that keep trying to jar free from his throat as every perfect inch of that long, thick cock pushes into him. But then Sam gets all the way in, hips pressed snug against Dean's ass, and whatever part of him was bitching a second ago goes up in smoke with the sputtering flames lancing up Dean's spine.
"Fuck, yes," comes out molasses thick, wrecked like Dean's been gargling knives and he doesn't give a shit anymore.
"You like that, sir?" Sam Wesson taunts just as thickly, but the smirk on his face belongs to a whole other Sam. The best answer Dean can come up with is a groan and a roll of his hips, which seems to be good enough for Sam since he - at long fucking last - picks up the pace.
Dean's hipbones bang into the edge of the desk with every thrust, hard enough that the bruises are going to be vicious tomorrow; tender enough that when he inevitably presses on them he'll be hard all over again. Sam rides him hard, every push sliding the head of his cock over Dean's abused prostate, pushing him closer and closer but never quite tipping the scale. He's burning up, every inch of him red-fucking-hot with wantneedplease and Sam's pounding him like it's just going to keep getting better and worse and better forever.
Dean's beyond cursing, but he knows he's still making noise; knows because he can vaguely hear the sound of the weak mewls coming out of his mouth over the machine-gun clatter of his own pulse in his ears. Sam's not silent either, half-formed filth pouring out of him between broken gasps and moans that slide over Dean's skin like body-warm honey.
Whatever finesse there may have been is swept away fast under the breaking wave of 'gotta come now'. Sam leans over, hands gripping the opposite side of the desk and uses the torque to make every thrust harder, even as his rhythm goes choppy and inconsistent. Every touch is like pins and needles on Dean's skin, too far gone to figure out the difference between pain and pleasure when all he wants is more.
"Sam, Sammy, please, God, Sam," he begs shamelessly, pushing back into every juddering roll of Sam's hips. Sweat is pouring off of his face, the wood under his cheek slick with perspiration, the salt stinging his lips as he rubs them together in a fruitless attempt to find more words. But Sam - thank fuck - Sam gets it.
A broad palm stumblingly finds Dean's hard-on where it bobs painfully in the empty air and a lightning-bright jolt zings across Dean's nerves. His head tosses on the desk, no chance of staying still, and then Sam's finger finds the rough knot of nerves just under the head and the world goes blank.
Maybe one day when Dean's brain grows back, he'll feel bad about whatever poor fucker has to go into work tomorrow morning to find Dean's come spattered all over the underside of his desk, but it won't be happening anytime soon. Right now, he's way too caught up in the way his whole body is switched on, tingling like a sleeping limb that's just beginning to wake, even the brush of Sam's grunted breath against his neck is too much. Perfect.
At some point Sam must come but Dean misses it by a mile, not really back in the game until after the sweat on his forehead is already cool and beginning to dry. That's the only cool part of him though, since he has 6-foot-whateverthefuck of giant, human space-heater crushing him steadily into the wood grain.
There's a liquid tickle running slowly down his leg and it's enough to give him the energy to groan, "A creampie was not part of the deal, man."
He doesn't hear so much as feel the laugh that quakes in Sam's chest.
"You love it," is the murmured reply he gets, slurred around the kiss Sam's sucking just below Dean's ear. His brother wiggles his hips enough to make the warm fluid trapped inside of Dean by his cock shift and squelch. Dean grimaces to voice his distaste but neither that, nor his attempts to force Sam off of him gain any ground.
"Only love it when it's your ass full of come," he grumbles from underneath his baby brother. His arms are really starting to cramp where they're trapped between their bodies. "And what the hell happened to me being the top, huh?"
He can feel Sam shrug against his back. "Yeah, that wasn't working for me."
"Controlling bastard."
"One of my finer qualities."
Dean huffs and at last manages to shift forward enough that Sam's soft dick slips free. Sam whines against his shoulder and reluctantly eases back to let Dean up.
His wrists are a little chafed where the suspenders rubbed them, but otherwise he's in good shape. Can't say the same for the office - man it sucks to be whoever works here. Papers are scattered all over the floor, displaced from their former residence on the desk; the computer screen is hanging onto the corner for dear life and there are some questionable stains coloring the wood.
It's probably bad karma or something to just leave it like this, but hey, if Dean's biggest problem was walking in one morning and finding that somebody had had some truly rockin' sex on his desk, he might have to do a little victory dance over how easy his life had suddenly become. Not that he's itching to be a desk jockey ever again, but seriously, they're going up against heaven and hell - whoever has this office can deal.
Sam at least scoots the computer screen into a more stable position, but he doesn't seem particularly inclined for a game of clean up either. Instead he smiles at Dean, all lazy and self-satisfied, that tight little shirt of his clinging even more now that it's soaked with sweat. Whoever this office belongs to better thank their lucky stars that Dean just came so hard his legs are shaking because otherwise he'd definitely be shoving Sammy up against that nice, sturdy bookcase and making an even bigger mess.
As it is, he stalks over to the corner where he tossed his jacket before they started and slides into the worn leather like a second skin, feeling more like Dean Winchester by the moment.
Sam's come is making the cheap wool pants stick to his legs as he moves and the suspenders are still hanging loosely from his hips, but he's instantly more in control of the situation. And damn does it feel good.
"Get your shit, Sammy," he commands, smacking his brother on the back of the head just for kicks. His hips are going to be black and blue, afterall.
Sam rolls his eyes but walks over to grab the small bag of gear they'd needed to break in and cut the security cameras. He slings it across his broad shoulders, shirt seams straining to allow the movement and something warm and not-yet-urgent curls low in Dean's belly.
"What?" Sam quirks an eyebrow at the smirk Dean can feel crooking his own lips. He turns it into a full on dirty grin.
"Just thinkin'" he breezes, turning around halfway out of the door to watch Sam's eyes go dark all over again, "Better find a laundromat. We definitely aint done with that shirt."