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O Come All Ye Faithful

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“I’ll just, uh. I’ll just wait over here.”

“You sure, man? Open bar! You can get totally smashed for free!” Ian’s eyes are already a little glassy, and his smile is as sloppy as his speech.

Sam manages a tight, lighting-quick smile.

“Thanks. I’m good. Seriously, go ahead. I’ll catch up with you later.”

“Alright, grandma. Have fun with your water bottle.” Ian rolls his eyes and pats Sam on the arm like he’s a misguided little brother, and Sam’s smile comes through gritted teeth this time.

Sam Wesson hates office parties. They’re always awkward, seeing people out of their work clothes, drinking liberally, and dancing in that horrible, mortifying way that people who don’t dance without some alcohol in their system do. And Christmas parties are even worse because on top of all that, there are also blinking lights, the incessant ringing of bells, Christmas music, and inevitably someone dressed as Santa trying to go around and sexually harass anyone and everyone.

He hangs out with Ian outside of work sometimes. They get high and play Assassin’s Creed for hours on end, never saying much except to throw vague insults at each other and deciding on pizza or wings.

But Ian’s out on a mission tonight, looking to get lucky with Mimi, the aging redhead from their department who has already had three glasses of wine tonight, from what Sam has seen. If Ian’s gonna get laid, tonight seems like it would be the night.

Sam sighs, taking a few steps away from one of the giant speakers playing Ariana Grande and leaning back against the wall right next to a taped-up, bloated Santa Claus. He uncaps his water and takes a distracted sip just for something to do. He doesn’t even know why he came. Doesn’t know why he let Ian talk him into this. There’s so much else he could be doing tonight. Johnny Marr is in town, playing four blocks away. There’s a film festival at the indie theater on the same street as his apartment, playing an amazing series of films about commercialism during--

A delighted, high-pitched shriek cuts right through the auto-tuned pop and the din of drunken coworkers and right into Sam’s frontal lobe, making him cringe, like the sound is actually going to find him and land on his head like a fucking anvil.

Most everyone turns in search of the source of said shriek, including Sam. He finds it by tuning into the laughter that followed the scream from the same voice, tracing it down to a skinny blonde with tits up to her chin, her dress tight and red and not very well-suited to the snow coming down outside. She’s kissing someone now, some man several inches taller than her wearing a nice suit, his hair slicked down, not a single strand out of place.

Sam makes a point to roll his eyes completely before he starts to look away. People act like idiots at things like this. Act like they’re at a middle school dance or on a field trip, like it gives them permission to act like complete tools.

“Goddamn.” Ian is suddenly back by his side full of color commentary, and he’s passing a whiskey sour over to Sam who takes it with a defeated sigh. “Now, she is fuckin’ fit. I would take that ass to Poundtown all night.”

“That’s not very in keeping with the Christmas spirit, Ian.”

“What are you talking about? Of course it is! I’m in the most givin’ mood tonight, you don’t even know.” Ian runs a hand through his sweaty hair, pausing in his meandering rant to take a drink of what appears to be a glass of straight vodka. Just as Sam starts to raise his own glass to his lips, Holiday Barbie pulls back from the man whose face she’s been sucking, and Sam’s jaw literally drops.

It’s probably a crime that she was blocking a face that pretty with all that shiny red lipstick and yards and yards of hair extensions. Almost certainly illegal. Because the man with his arm around her, the one now grinning like only a drunk man can grin, is the most drop-dead gorgeous human being Sam has ever seen, man or woman.

“--not wearing underwear in a dress that tight, you know what I’m sayin’, Sammy?” Ian is slurring even more now, his eyes red and glassy and trained on the girl now pulling Mr. Universe out onto the dance floor, only a few feet from Sam and Ian now. Sam grunts a reply, watching the confident movement of the guy’s hips as he pulls the girl in to dance. There’s immediately another guy behind her, grinding against her ass, and Dream Guy doesn’t miss a beat, doesn’t seem to mind at all. Just closes his eyes and curves his body to hers as the song transitions into some Diana Ross number.

“Jesus fuck,” Sam breathes.

“Right? I know she doesn’t work here. I would definitely remember-- oh.” That oh from Ian sounds like realization, and Sam’s eyes widen as he snaps out of it and cuts his gaze over to his friend who is watching him, blinking owlishly.

“What?” If Sam sounds defensive, well. Shut up.

“Dude. I didn’t know you were a butt pirate!”

Sam just stares at him.

“...What the fuck is a butt pirate?”

“You know.” Ian motions vaguely over at Holiday Ken: Corporate Twink Edition, and Sam can’t help but look back over, but stare all too blatantly at that full mouth and almost too-pretty face. He swallows.

“A butt pirate,” Ian continues, “wantin’ all the booty. Yanno. Gay.”

Sam doesn’t dignify that with a straight-forward response, but he does glance over at Ian with his eyebrows raised. “Dude. Seriously. Look at that guy and tell me you wouldn’t want that mouth wrapped around your dick on a cold night.”

Ian gives Sam a dubious frown before he does what Sam told him to and looks. And looks. And looks way too damn long, and Sam is just about to open his mouth and tell him to get his eyes off his future long-term boyfriend before Ian shrugs.

“His tits aren’t big enough.”

Sam sighs, giving a disappointed shake of his head and tipping his head back to drain the contents of his glass, catching the cherry between his teeth and chewing as the whiskey slithers down his throat. He snatches Ian’s glass, not even hesitating even though Ian is pulling out his very best bitchface, and downs that as well, at least two full shots of straight vodka.

Sam shudders, handing both glasses and the water bottle to Ian.

“I’m goin’ in.”

Ian just stares at him. “Going in where?!”

Sam walks away without another word, the alcohol burning down his throat and through his veins, and he already feels a little tipsy by the time he starts to wade through the writhing group of bodies. Even though he’s six and a half feet tall, he’s still surprisingly easy to get drunk.

Another song change, this one a dirty, grinding hip hop song, one that Sam finds himself moving to, his body getting caught between faceless others, and he feels like he’s swimming, drifting toward the guy and the girl he’s dancing with. He stops a few bodies away, facing them, the liquor and the heat already getting to him, making sweat bead at his temples and his upper lip, his pits dampening his white button-down.

A woman steps in front of him, grinning up at him as she starts to dance against him, too drunk to really find the rhythm, but it’s a good cover for him while he watches Mr. Sex-Ass over there who has his hands on Holiday Barbie’s ass now and dancing against her like they’re naked. Sam moves with the woman against him, not paying her any mind otherwise, and so he sees the first time the guy looks up, spies him, feels Sam’s eyes on him.

Sam doesn’t look away.

The guy smirks at him, giving him a little wink, probably thinking that Sam is watching him with envy, wishing that he had the girl he’s grinding against. He looks away but Sam doesn’t, his skin on fire now that he’s seen those eyes, now that he’s been the focus of Pretty Boy’s attention, even for just a second. When the guy looks at him again, Sam knows there’s no way he mistakes Sam’s hunger for anything else this time.

He’s so familiar now from this close, the careless fling of freckles across his nose and cheeks, the exact color of honey-green of his eyes, the pattern of flush on his face and down his neck. Sam knows it, knows all of it. Knows him. Feels it all the way down to his bones in a way that doesn’t leave room for questioning.

He moves toward the guy like he’s in a dream, not really knowing how he got from here to there and if he said goodbye to the woman he was dancing with. He’s just suddenly here, only one body separating him from Him, and their eyes are locked. Unmoving from each other.

Sam takes one more step forward, and he ends up flush against the girl, his dick trapped in his pressed black slacks snugging up right against the small curve of her ass, essentially confining her between his body and his boy’s body.

She arches her back and lets out a pleased little purr when she reaches back to tangle her hands in Sam’s hair blindly.

“Ooh, Dean, I like this one. He’s big.”


Dean doesn’t respond, doesn’t look coy or even very confident right now, looks maybe just a little lost, confused, like there’s something he’s so close to remembering but he can’t quite make it out.

“Excuse me. Do you mind terribly if I dance with you two for a minute? You’re the sexiest things on the dancefloor right now, and I just can’t help myself.” Truth is, Sam has no idea what she looks like. Knows what she smells like and how her ass feels against his cock, knows that she’d be totally down with him grinding against her until he comes, but he still hasn’t really looked at her. Hasn’t seen anyone but him. But Dean.

Dean whose face is flushed an even deeper shade of pink, making him look freshly fucked, making him look young and wanton and like he needs to be devoured to feel good.

“We don’t mind,” the girl answers for both of them, turning just a little and whispering near to Sam’s ear. “As long as you promise I’ll get to see this monster that’s digging against my ass a little later.”

Sam presses in even tighter, even closer, so close to Dean now that it has to look scandalous, especially with the way they’re looking at each other, can’t look away. He doesn’t reply one way or another to the girl, just moves his hips forward in a sudden, hard thrust, just a display of power, a silent show. A promise. He hears her gasp, feels the way Dean strains in closer, digging so hard against the girl that it has to be hard for her to breathe at this point.

“I’m Sam,” he breathes, so quiet that he’s sure Dean can barely hear him, wouldn’t hear him if their faces weren’t so close, weren’t inches apart like this. The girl says something, laughs somewhere near Sam’s neck, but neither of them look her way. Sam puts his hands on her slim hips, his fingers spanning out past them and grazing Dean’s waist, slipping beneath his suit jacket and pressing into firm flesh under damp cotton.

“I don’t know that I’ve seen you around here before, Sam.” They’re so near now that Sam can taste his breath, can taste the tequila there, can smell the synthetic scent of the girl’s lipstick on Dean’s mouth. His hair isn’t as perfect upon closer inspection, is in fact sweaty and falling in longish strands around his face, reminiscent of a 90s boyband member or an Abercrombie model or an ass-up twink in one of Sam’s favorite vids. He smiles, his eyes dropping down to study Dean’s mouth up close.

“Just started a couple of months ago. I work down in tech support. I’m assuming you make somewhere near six figures and have an office with a view and an assistant who wears short skirts and no panties?”

“But you can call me Heather,” the girl offers, pulling back and putting an annoying amount of space between Sam and Dean to grin up at Sam. Dean snorts, straining forward to get that pretty mouth against Sam’s ear.

“She’s not my assistant. I hired her from Temporarily Yours just for this party.”

Sam lets his hands slide completely off of Heather’s body and right over Dean’s waist, cupping his hips and pulling him in closer, just seeing how well he responds to being moved and pushed and pulled. Dean just goes with it, arches a little around Sam’s hands, keeps his mouth so near Sam’s ear that Sam can hear the shuddering little exhale he lets out when Sam tightens his hands on him.

“I saw an empty room with a few chairs in it on the way in here,” Heather offers, looking up and between them as she sneaks a hand down to grip at the front of Sam’s pants, holding on tight to the meat of his cock. He tenses, and the flash of possessiveness in Dean’s eyes tells Sam all he needs to know.

“Lead the way,” Sam tells her, still not looking at her, couldn’t pick her out of a fucking line-up if his life depended on it. He searches Dean’s eyes, looking for any hesitation, any protest at all. Dean just licks his lips, pink tongue sliding over an even pinker bottom lip, and Sam thinks God, I’m so gone. I’m already so, so fucking gone.

Sam follows Dean who follows Heather across the dancefloor and toward the exit, thrilled beyond all reason for this change of scenery, for the brief and deceptive feeling of some time alone with Dean. He moves to Dean’s side, still slightly behind him to hide it when he brings a hand up to the small of Dean’s back under his jacket, spreading it out there so Dean can feel how big his hand is, of how unflenchingly proprietary his touch is on Dean’s body.

They walk quickly down the low-lit hallway, past giggling and kissing couples, girls crying on the phone, men ballbusting and laughing with each other, and Heather opens a door to the left near the entrance that is indeed empty when she turns the light on, that seems to be some kind of conference room, a large table in the middle with chairs around it and a lock on the door.

“You’re a genius, Heather.” Dean sheds his jacket while Sam locks the door, and he’s loosening his tie when Heather pulls off her stilettos and sinks to her knees right between Sam and Dean, staring up at both of them hungrily.

“Get your dicks out.”

Sam and Dean look over at each other instead of down at her, and Sam doesn’t even realize that his hands are already on his pants, big thumb flicking the button and edging down the zipper. Dean’s eyes slide down to watch the progress, to watch Sam slide the pants a little off his lean hips so he can reach into his underwear and heft himself out of them.

He’s a big boy, his cock more than a throatful, as impressively thick as it is impressively long, and he’s already half-hard, precome oozing out of his slit when he feels Dean’s eyes take in the sight of him.

“Fuck,” Dean whispers, leaning back against the wall and palming himself through his tailored black pants, his mouth fat and damp because he can’t stop licking his lips.

“Off,” Sam tells him, practically begs, moving when Heather gets her hands on him and pushes him toward Dean. He falls against the wall next to him, his hand on his own dick, around the thick base of it, and he can’t take his eyes off of Dean’s hand and the way he’s kneading his cock through his pants. “Take yours off, too. God, please.”

“Don’t think I’ve ever sucked anybody this big,” Heather is remarking, gathering all of her long blonde hair over one shoulder and tucking it behind her ears. She shuffles forward on her knees and gets an authoritative, sure hand around Sam’s cock, licking her lips before she closes them around the head and sucks it firmly.

Sam presses in harder against Dean, their shoulders shoved up tight together, and Sam can’t help but cant his hips forward and try to feed his dick more into her mouth. He closes his eyes for a minute just to feel the warmth around his cock and to smell Dean at the same time, to listen to his already breathless little pants and the unmistakable sound of a zipper sliding down, of a hand slipping into underwear.

“Pretty cocks,” Heather sighs happily, and that makes Sam’s eyes fly open.

She’s got a hand on each of them, jacking them slowly as she moves back and forth between them, sucking and licking at the heads as she brings their dicks closer and closer together. Sam wants so badly to reach out, to slide an arm around Dean’s lean waist, to grab him by the scruff of his neck and haul him in for a bruising, licking kiss, but he’s still not sure what Dean wants, what he’s into, what he’s really expecting out of this scene.

Heather is slowly but steadily pulling them so they’re facing each other, and Sam lifts up away from the wall to get at the right angle because, well. She’s got a hold of his dick, and it’s much easier not to resist.

He’s practically crowding in against Dean now, trapping Dean between himself and the wall, and that’s when Heather breaks out the big guns, when she pulls out her fucking magic bag: she brings the heads of their dicks together, making their slits slide right up against each other, kissing each other like little hungry mouths. Sam lets out a painful, stuttering groan, straining forward but still not touching Dean, not getting his hands all over him to grip and bruise like he wants to.

Dean has his eyes closed and he’s breathing open-mouthed, his cheeks pink with exertion, his dick leaking slick all over Sam’s, the combination of their precome dripping down to the carpet just in front of Heather’s knees. She kisses and sucks at their still rubbing cockheads, jacking them off at the base in exactly the same time as the other, so they’re moving together, their bodies moving at the exact same rhythm.

Sam growls as he lifts his arms and folds them up against the wall over Dean’s head so he can lean forward, face dropped and almost pressed into Dean’s sweaty hair. He fucks his hips forward, fucking right at Dean’s dick, loving the catch and slide of them together, the way he can feel Dean’s frantic pulse in the press of his cock against his own.

“Feel so good,” Sam breathes against his forehead, hands clenched into fists over Dean’s head, using every single ounce of his restraint to keep from touching him. “That pretty dick feels so fucking good against mine, Dean.”

“Yeah?” It comes out a little like a whimper and Dean’s got one hand in a fist at his side and the other resting tentatively on Heather’s head, like that’s not at all where it wants to be but the only place nearby that seems safe. His eyes are still closed, those long lashes fluttering, and Sam feels like a fucking barbarian with the lust coursing through him right now, the mindless, primal need to get in, get in and fuck and breed and own this boy. This man. This beautiful, beautiful man.

“You ever been with a guy? Ever let anybody inside of this gorgeous body?” Sam’s arms slip where they’re braced on the wall above Dean’s head, and his fingers uncurl so they can slide a little into Dean’s hair, stroking shallow through the strands to loosen them up, to free them of product until Dean’s hair is soft.

Dean nods, chewing fitfully on his bottom lip, his eyebrows drawn together in what seems like painful, controlled pleasure.

“Y-Yeah. Back in college. Back at Stanford. Slept with a few guys, but.”

Sam sinks his fingers into Dean’s hair to the scalp, tightening until he’s got a good grip and he pulls, pulls back until Dean’s head is tipped up and those intense green eyes find his own.

“But what?”

“But that’s. Th-That’s.” Dean shakes his head, long lashes lifting and falling but not closing. They’re staring straight into each other’s eyes, and Heather’s got her mouth on Sam’s cock now, drawing him in and tipping him down into her throat before she gags a little, pulls back. Dean hears her, looks down, watching with a tensed jaw.

“That’s what?” Sam prompts, pulling on his hair again, a firm but still gentle tug.

“That was college. I don’t do that shit anymore. I’m not.” Dean pauses again, his eyes completely zeroed in on what Heather’s doing to Sam, on the way she’s bobbing and slurping on his cock, and Sam studies him, fascinated.

“Is she doing a good job? Is she taking care of my big dick?” He watches Dean closely, watches him grit his teeth before he lifts those eyes back up and focuses them on Sam, a pretty frown tugging at his mouth. Sam gives him an innocent, questioning smile, his head tipping to the side. “No?”

Dean shakes his head, just a single movement back and forth, almost hesitant. He keeps looking down, keeps watching her suck Sam off, and Sam crowds in even closer to him, bringing his other hand down finally to skirt his fingers over Dean’s cheek. Dean’s eyes snap to him again, big and surprised and vulnerable. He licks his lips.

“You wanna put this mouth on my dick, don’t you?” It’s a whisper, an intimate conversations in the scant inches between their mouths. Sam slides his thumb over Dean’s bottom lip, pressing into the fat pink of it before slipping inside, right over Dean’s wet tongue. Dean brings his lips into a soft purse, kissing at the tip of Sam’s finger before he’s sucking on it so, so gently, so sweetly, like he doesn’t want Sam to know he’s doing it. He’s looking up at Sam through his lashes, making his mouth soft and slack again so that Sam tugs his thumb free and spreads it over Dean’s bottom lip again, smearing it with spit before he leans forward and kisses him tongue-first, diving right into that hot, gasping mouth.

He feels Dean’s dick pressing into his hip as he surges forward into the kiss, practically trapping Heather between them again but neither of them are paying her any mind right now. There’s still a hesitation in Dean’s mouth, a shyness to the way he’s kissing Sam back, like he knows he shouldn’t, like this isn’t what he should be doing, but his hand is sliding up blindly and slipping under the long fall of Sam’s shirt, his fingers playing over Sam’s happy trail, pressing in and rubbing over the scant, dark line of hair that leads straight down to his cock.

Heather takes a deep breath and goes for broke, sinking down deep, her throat opening up for the first inch or so of Sam’s dick. Sam moans into Dean’s mouth, a shiver driving up his spine as he cups Dean’s face in his big hands, holds him still and feeds at his pretty mouth.

Dean breaks away with a gasp, his eyebrows knitted together, his lips glistening they’re so soaked with spit. “No,” he pants, shaking his head once and then several times, licking his lips and letting his eyes slip open. “No, I.”

Sam swallows, trying to clear his mind enough from its sex-induced fog to come up with a rational argument as to why Sam and Dean need to be doing this, why that should be a yes and not a no, but Dean is pulling out of Sam’s grasp completely, gone all of a sudden until--

“Oh. Fuck.

Dean is somehow on his knees now, pushing Heather away from Sam as gently as he can, but he wraps a hand around Sam’s dick the second he gets possession of it, he looks straight up into Sam’s eyes as he parts that gorgeous mouth and plunges Sam’s dick between his lips, sinks it right into absolute, pure Heaven.

Sam just kind of melts back against the wall again, both of his hands on Dean, worshipping more than controlling, stroking through his hair and over his eyebrows and down his cheeks, his hips pumping as Dean fights with his gag reflex to take more and more cock. He easily takes more than Heather did, and he’s clearly showing off now as he sucks in a deep breath and sinks down even deeper, his face blood red, green eyes glassy and fuck-stupid, his throat bulging with Sam’s dick.

Sam is pretty sure he’s in love.

“Know what I need, Dean,” he praises him between pants, his voice soft and just for him. “God, you just knew exactly what I needed, didn’t you? So fuckin’ good for me, Jesus Christ.”

He sees Heather moving around behind where Dean is on his knees in front of Sam, and she stops right behind Dean and pulls his pants down to his thighs, exposing the pale curve of his ass.

Dean chokes as Sam fucks forward in sudden lust, his hands tightening in Dean’s hair again.

He knows what Heather’s going to do before Dean does, and he’s equal parts turned-on and almost shockingly jealous, angry that it isn’t him.

He can tell when Heather gets her tongue on Dean’s asshole because Dean arches his back and moans low around Sam’s cock, those green eyes finding Sam again.

“Yeah. Suck on that boy’s ass. Get your fucking tongue in there and get him ready for me,” Sam manages to grit out, holding on to the back of Dean’s head so he can fuck shallowly at his throat, savoring it when he can make him gag, when he can get the best of him. He wants to take Dean home with him and stretch him out on his bed, tie him up and see exactly how much he can take, how hard and deep and long he will let Sam fuck his throat before he’s sobbing, begging him to come, coming untouched himself just from sucking dick.

He mirrors what Dean did not five minutes before and pulls Dean off of him, unearthing his dick from Dean’s throat and they both stare at it, at the way it sways heavy and so hard it’s pulsing, dripping with all of Dean’s hard work.

“Turn around,” he tells him, searching Dean’s eyes, eyes that feel so painfully familiar, like they’ve looked up at Sam just like this a hundred times before. “Gimme that ass. Let me taste it.”

Dean stands up then, pants around his ankles, his jacket still on, shirt still buttoned, but he obeys immediately. He shuffles over to the conference table and bends over on it, his ass lifted up, presented for Sam like a fucking present.

Sam gets a hand around himself again, jacking just the head of his dick as he makes his way over, eyes trained on that ass.

He falls to his knees behind Dean.

“So, I guess there’s nothing for me to do.” Heather sounds bored, casual, and Sam can tell that she’s pissed, her pride hurt, that she won’t be letting this go any time soon.

Dean speaks as soon as Sam pries his ass cheeks apart, when he first lays eyes on that hole that is already slick from being licked open, that is the filthiest shade of pink and winking hungrily at Sam.

“I’ll call tomorrow and leave you a big-- fuck!” Dean shoves back against Sam’s mouth when Sam licks into him, sliding his tongue right up and flicking at Dean’s insides as best as he can.

Heather’s gone, the door closed behind her but not locked this time. Sam closes his eyes and holds Dean’s hole open with his thumbs, pressing a few licking kisses on it before he dives back in, fucking him open with the firm press of his tongue.

Sam kind of trances out then, falls into a strange kind of meditative state where he knows absolutely nothing but the rhythmic, curling press of Dean’s ass against his face, where he tastes nothing but Dean’s tight, musky insides, where he feels nothing but an ache in his jaw and a possessive need to eat Dean out until he begs Sam to stop.

He’s aware of words being spoken, a whisper of them, almost like a chant or a prayer, and when he comes back into himself, he realizes with a start that it’s Dean; Dean begging, Dean pleading with him.

“Fuck me, fuck me please fuck me fuck me, Sam. Fuck me. Please.

“Yeah,” Sam murmurs around a slurping, probing kiss inside of Dean’s ass, his dick swinging fat and ready between his legs. “Fuck, Dean, I.”

He stands up, his pants still somehow on his hips but he doesn’t take them off, doesn’t want to waste a second because now that he’s thought about it, really thought about it, he can’t stand not being inside of Dean for a single second longer.

He sinks inside of him bare and with just a thick wad of spit for lube, he feeds his dick into Dean’s ass until Dean is shaking against the table, one hand between his legs and the other reaching back to light trembling fingers on Sam’s thigh, trying to stop him or bring him in deeper, Sam doesn’t know.

He digs in until he’s rooted all the way inside and then he drapes himself over Dean, locks in tight inside of that ass, feeling the heartbeat-pulse of muscles surrounding his dick, the hungry way Dean’s body just took him in, brought him home, begged him to be right here, dripping ready and throbbing inside of Dean.

He buries his face against the back of Dean’s neck, mouth opening up to suck just beneath his ear as he starts to fuck him in sharp, deep slaps of skin against Dean’s ass, his cock buried so good in Dean’s guts, inside of that hungry ass.

“Own it,” Dean breathes, his body tense, ass lifted and pressing back against Sam to give him something to fuck at, some resistance to get his thrusts in deeper. “Own that ass, Sam, own it.”

“Yeah,” Sam growls, one hand gripping Dean’s hip, fingers sinking in hard to mark him. “Give it to me, Dean. Give it up to me.”

“Own. Me.” They come out like last words, like they’re all Dean can ever manage to say again before he’s clamping down like a vice on Sam’s cock, his orgasm quaking all around Sam, his insides spasming and sucking at him and Sam just grits his teeth and pounds into him harder, the table they’re on moving in slow, jerking slides across the floor, all the chairs going reluctantly with it.

Sam fucks into all that shivering tightness, fucks that ass until it smoothes out inside, open and sweet and still just as hungry for cock. He’s sucking on Dean’s neck, drawing blood up to the surface in a starved kiss, a bruise already starting to form under his lips. He’s growling as he feels his orgasm build, he’s growling and rutting like a wild animal, fucking into him now in punishing, painful lunges of his cock, not even pausing, not asking permission when the time comes. He just sinks right back in, locks right into place as deep as he can get, and comes inside of Dean.

“Oh, fuck yeah,” Dean sighs, his lashes fluttering but mostly closed, eyes rolled back in his head, his hips moving to take Sam in deeper, to milk his cock as Sam pulses into him. “God, I can feel your load. I can feel your big fucking load.”

“Goddamn,” Sam barely manages to whisper against the back of Dean’s sweaty neck, perhaps the first human sound he’s made since they came into this room. He gives one last shuddering, exhausted push of his hips, digging as deep as he can into Dean’s sore hole before he finally just melts down against him, his eyes falling closed. “Sorry, I’ll. Gimme a minute. I’ll move.”

“No, it’s.” Dean trails off, the thought apparently complete even if the sentence isn’t. He seems perfectly content to be smashed under Sam’s heavy, sweaty body, to have about nine inches still shoved up inside of him, so who the fuck is Sam to complain? Dean gives a little laugh that makes his hole tighten for a jolt around Sam, and Sam whimpers.


“Nothin’. ‘s just,” Dean mumbles, turning his face a little more to smile up at Sam tiredly, “work is sure gonna be a hell of a lot more interesting with you around.”

Sam grins, self-satisfaction laced all through it. “You mean life is gonna be more interesting.”

Dean smirks, his eyes falling closed again. He sighs contentedly, boneless against the mahogany table.

“Sure is, Sammy.”