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It’s easy to fuck in Dean Smith’s office.

With the door locked and the blinds closed, it’s nice and private. So private that they might as well be fucking at Dean’s condo or back at Sam Wesson’s little starter apartment. Sure the leather couch in here is crazy comfortable and there are at least two dozen creative ways to fuck on or adjacent to Dean’s desk , but it no longer gives Sam the same thrill it used to when they first started doing each other under the company’s nose.

Back then, everything was a thrill. They were high on adrenaline and ghosts were fucking real. The two of them had a secret and that added a spark to their time together. It made getting work done around Sandover difficult since Sam couldn’t make eye-contact with Dean without growing half-hard. His semis are easier to hide now that he isn’t wearing khakis to work every day (thanks for the promotion, Mr. Smith). Dean likes to see him in dark slacks and crisp shirts, and given the way Dean has taken to dicking Sam without bothering to remove most of his clothes, Sam isn’t complaining.

When Sam does eventually complain and tells Dean that he’s bored of their sexcapades being confined to his office, the man lights up like salted bones doused in lighter fluid. There’s a gleam in his greedy, green eyes and a smirk on his pretty, put-a-cock-in-me lips, and really, Sam should have known better.

They fuck in the breakroom in the middle of the afternoon. Moments before, Sam watched from just inside the door as Mr. Smith, in all his bespoke glory, thundered through the cubicle maze shouting about deadlines and missed assignments. It would be at least half an hour before anyone on their floor felt brave enough to leave their desk, let alone venture into the breakroom after their boss. No one had even noticed Sam sneaking in there first.

The plastic-backed chair creaks under their combined weight as Dean sits on Sam’s dick and rides him like a thoroughbred, silk tie between his teeth so he doesn’t scream when Sam slaps him on the ass. Deciding the cheap chair is too much of a risk, Sam ends up supporting most of Dean’s weight. It doesn’t escape him, the way Dean’s fingernails dig into the meat of his shoulders or how quickly he comes when Sam starts grunting over his final thrusts.

When they finish and Dean’s pulling up his slacks, Sam grabs one of the mango Chobani cups from the communal fridge and starts eating it.

“That even yours?” Dean asks.

“Hell no,” Sam tells him. “But if Dianna in accounts keeps flirting with you like she did this morning, I’m gonna keep eating her fucking yogurt.”

Dean opens his mouth, but whatever he’s going to say evaporates and he shrugs, heading back to his office. Sam waits a minute before following him out.

They try to hook up in the supply closet a few days later, but it’s too cramped for the kind of intense, athletic fuck Sam’s been craving, so they have to settle for sucking one another off in the dim light, stifling their moans because they can hear phones ringing out in the office and footsteps as people walk past.

Sam doesn’t get his fix until the following night when they stay late at the office and decide to fuck in one of the elevators, a first for both of them. Dean kneels on his discarded blazer while Sam drives into him from behind and screams as loud as he wants to because the building is nearly empty.

The morning after their mind-blowing fuck between floors, Sam walks into Sandover with a smile on his face and a spring in his step, absent the inexplicable tightness he felt between his shoulder blades the day before. He catches Mr. Smith’s eye before he steps into the conference room for a quarterly meeting and smirks when Dean touches the back of his neck. Under that pressed collar, there’s a bruise hiding in the shape of Sam’s teeth.

The corporate bathroom on the twelfth floor, the one with the marble countertops and brushed steel faucets, is next. Sam’s wanted to bone in here since he snuck in with another tech support agent shortly after he was hired. Turns out the counter is the perfect height to hold Sam while Dean is screwing him, nipples peeking out from his open shirt, and the marble is cool against his back.

Sam leaves smudged handprints on the panel mirror and Dean’s polished shoes scuff the waxed floor. Half of this level is empty so Sam doesn’t feel as guilty for cursing about how good it feels when Dean finds the right angle to nail his prostate. The roughness might be turnabout for the way Sam fucked him in the elevator. That, or Dean’s got his own issues to work out. Either way, it feels too good for Sam to stop and ask what's going on in Dean's head.

As they’re washing up afterwards, Sam meets Dean’s eyes in the mirror. He’s in the process of fixing his tie, and Sam is fascinated by the deft flick of his fingers. Not twenty minutes ago, those same fingers were buried big-knuckle deep in his ass.

“You doing anything tonight?” Sam asks.

Dean appears surprised by the question, but he quickly hides it. “No. Why?”

“Want to come over? I read something online about a suspicious death outside Cleveland and I thought you might want to look into it with me. You know, research.”

Dean grins. “You know research is totally my thing. Want me to bring dinner?”

Sam laughs, something unfamiliar rattling around in his chest. “Sure. Anything but those kale salads you were talking about.”

A week later, Dean’s boss is out of town and they fuck in her office while her assistant is out on a long lunch. This time it’s Dean bent over a desk while Sam rims him into incoherence, curses and moans and gasps of Sam’s name all rolling together. He’s a mess when Sam pushes into him, Dean’s mouth begging nonsensically for cock, and Sam’s stamina evaporates. It’s fast and dirty and better than anything Sam’s felt in a long time.

Later that same night, they walk into Dean’s place covered in cemetery dirt and wearing matching grins.

“Did you see the way—” Dean begins only for Sam to say, “I can’t believe that worked!” at the same time. They look at one another and start laughing.

“One thing’s for sure,” Dean says, “that dumb son-of-a-bitch won’t be haunting anyone else at that school ever again.”

They fuck in Dean’s bed that night, high from smoking the ghost of a sadistic schoolteacher, and even though slow and thorough isn’t usually their cup of tea, the sex feels just as good as when they’re sneaking around Sandover. Sam doesn’t stay over, though there’s a part of him that wants to know what would happen if he did. Dean sees him off with one last kiss at his door, this one halfway between sweet and dirty, and Sam spends the drive home trying to think about anything besides what it all means.

A few days pass, and Sam and Dean are back to fucking in Dean’s office. They came in early to work on a project—Dean’s project, really, but Sam offered to help without hesitation—but it doesn’t take more than thirty minutes alone together before Sam’s riding Dean in his office chair with the door wide open. Sam straddles him reverse cowboy-style, leaning most of his weight on the arms of the chair, and Dean takes advantage of the position, grabbing Sam’s hips and thrusting even harder until Sam is having a hard time keeping his balance. Eventually he’s forced to stand on shaky legs, shuffling backwards until Dean’s filling him again and letting himself get pounded at an angle that lights him up from the inside.

“Trevor in marketing asked me to grab coffee later this week,” Sam says once they’re cleaned up, put back together, and sitting on either side of Dean’s desk with papers spread out between them. He’s not sure why he tells Dean, but he’s anxious while he’s doing it.

Dean doesn’t look up when he asks, “Did you say yes?”

“No, I thought—I don’t really know why he asked.”

“Maybe he caught us once,” Dean offers, his grin tight at the corners. “Can’t blame him for wanting some of that for himself, you know?”

“Well he’s not gonna get any,” Sam scoffs. “Unless...did you want me to say yes?”

“No,” Dean’s quick to say, the word falling like the crack of a whip. “I figured you and I were kind of a thing when it comes to sex, you know?”

“Right,” Sam stammers. “I mean, that’s good. I thought so, too.”

“Okay.” A pause. “We good?”

Sam nods. “Good. Yeah, definitely.”

He doesn’t tell Dean that he was kind of hoping for a little more of a response than kind of a thing when it comes to sex, but he doesn’t want to press his luck. What they have is good, better than good when you factor in the time they spend chasing ghosts, and miles ahead of any relationship Sam’s had since he graduated high school.

They go on like that. During the day, they earn their respective paychecks and make time to fuck all over the building in ever-more creative spots. Sam doesn’t even mind when they have sex in Dean’s office where they can lock the door and take their sweet time bringing each other to ruin. Then at night and over the weekends, they get together, usually sharing a meal at Dean’s place, to comb through online newspapers for potential hauntings. When nothing pings, Sam sticks around anyway to binge watch their mutual faves. Some nights it’s Netflix and chill, and other nights it’s just Netflix.

One day, Sam suddenly realizes that it’s been six months since he and Dean teamed up to waste the ghost of old man Sandover. His life has changed in so many unimaginable ways already that it’s tough to imagine where he’ll be after the next six months. One thing he realizes with startling clarity, however, is that he sees Dean there beside him, too.

He’s nervous when he follows Dean into the parking garage after work that night and the feeling lingers all the way back to Dean’s place and throughout dinner. Afterwards, while Dean’s taking the bag of garbage out to the trash chute in the hallway, Sam grabs a small box out of his bag and meets Dean back on the couch.

“This is for you,” he says, handing Dean the unwrapped box and almost immediately regretting it when he sees the expression on Dean’s face. “I read that silver can help protect against the supernatural, so…”

To Sam’s surprise, Dean lifts the thick silver chain out of the box and slips it over his head. It’s a simple anchor chain, no wider than a charging cord. Sam licks his lips when he sees the way the metal looks against the freckled skin between Dean’s collarbones.

Dean’s smile is bright enough to repel evil spirits. “And here I thought I was the only one who remembered our anniversary.” He disappears into his study and returns with a long box that he hands to Sam. Inside, he finds a sawed-off shotgun wrapped in an obnoxious red bow.

Sam laughs, joyful, before he realizes what the gift signifies.

“There’s this guy on the dark web who posts about hunting—the real supernatural stuff—and he told me where to order a gun like this. Even found someone who makes shotgun shells filled with rocksalt. Figured that would make things a hell of a lot easier for us.”

“Holy shit,” Sam mutters reverently. Then, “I fucking can’t wait to use this next time.”

They fuck right there on the couch, the shotgun responsibly moved to the coffee table. Sam holds Dean by the throat as he pounds into him, turned on by the way the silver chain digs into their skin where it’s pressed between Sam’s hand and Dean’s neck. Three positions later and Sam is fucking Dean from behind, kneeling on the couch and reaching around to fist Dean’s cock so that he comes while Sam’s inside him.

Later, after round two, they lie side by side on Dean’s bed, sheets shoved all the way down. Only then does Sam feel confident enough to ask, “We weren’t just celebrating the anniversary of smoking our first ghost together, were we?”

Dean’s voice is rough when he says, “Nope.”

“Good, ‘cause I don’t want to fuck anyone else. Or hunt with anyone else—”

“Or date anyone else,” Dean adds, turning his head to face Sam.

“So we’re on the same page.”

“Apparently.”

“Then happy anniversary, Dean.”

“You too, Sammy.”

“It’s Sam.