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“Tell me again what this job’s about?” Dean asks, popping another chicken nugget into his mouth as Sam chops an avocado for his Rabbit’s Delight. Fucking salad.
“Uh, it’s a start up with this genius young CEO. The guy’s got like three PhDs or something, and they’re doing really good work.” The enthusiasm in Sam’s voice doesn’t fool Dean into not noticing that Sam didn’t actually answer the question.
“Yeah, so the guy’s your wet dream, but what’s the job?” Dean shoots him a quick side-eye from his spot at the counter, leaning over his tots and nuggets, because it’s a Sunday night and what’s one more day of fucking up his diet before he hops back on the wagon?
“I haven’t met him yet, but Kevin says he’s pretty hardcore. A take no shit kind of guy, but he’s brilliant at what he does. I meet him in the morning.” Again, no actual job title, and in his usual fashion, Dean decides to be an absolute shit about it, because what else are big brothers for?
“It’s a porn company, isn’t it?” He stares Sam down, loving every second of the scandalized jaw-drop he’s got going on.
“What? No!”
“Fetish club?”
“No, it’s—”
“Sex toys?”
“Dean—”
“Kinky little designer panty enterprise?”
Sam lets out a heavy sigh, the kind that tells him he’s had about enough of his shit. Dean grins around his full cheeks, not even a little bit sorry. What does he expect? He’s the one that asked to move in for a while until he can get his feet under him.
“You’re a dick,” Sam says, dumping the avocado chunks into his bowl before grabbing his mason jar of homemade dressing and hightailing it out of the kitchen.
Dean huffs, shaking his head as he watches his brother hurry down the hallway. The fucker didn’t answer his question.
“Is he fucking kidding me?” Sam snaps, his hair hanging in his eyes, still damp from a run, as he looks down at his phone. Dean watches him from the couch, arms splayed over the backrest and his feet kicked up on the flea-market-special coffee table he scored not long after moving in.
“Hairdresser cancel on you?” Dean raises an eyebrow, twisting a little to catch the bitchy little scowl on Sam’s face, but he doesn’t bother responding as he pushes his hair back and stomps through the kitchen with a heavy sigh.
“It’s six o’clock in the fucking morning,” Sam grumbles, and Jesus Christ, his brother’s no saint, but the f-bombs are coming in hot today. “I’m not supposed to be in until eight-thirty.”
“What does he want?” It’s not the first time in the last couple of weeks that Sam’s new boss has called on him out of hours. Dean’s not surprised, really. The guy’s bound to need his new attorney outside of the standard nine-to-five.
“He’s got a call with some bigwig in Japan at, like, two in the morning and wants me to come in early to go over some things.” He shakes his head, his jaw ticking in that way that lets Dean know he’s grinding his teeth—a bad habit that started up when he was a kid. “Wants me at the office in twenty minutes.”
“Damn,” Dean says, turning back to his coffee and his pre-breakfast Captain Crunch. “What a dick.”
Another sigh whooshes out of him, this one resigned. “No, he’s just passionate.” Dean catches his shrug from the corner of his eye. “One of those guys that thinks everyone else cares about his vision as much as he does.”
“Still.” Dean takes a sip of his coffee, liking this guy less and less. He knows Sam loves his job, and he’d never admit it out loud, but Dean also knows he’s getting burnt out. It’s been five weeks since he started this gig and he’s probably amounted around forty hours of sleep, total, in all that time. He’s shocked his brother can tie his shoes in his current state, not to mention make huge decisions about the legalities of a company.
“Still,” Sam echoes, but shoots off a quick text before heading to his room to change into one of his overpriced suits. If I want to be an attorney, I have to dress like one, Dean.
Dean had rolled his eyes, but kept his comments to himself.
Dean lets out a soft snort, jerking awake as a voice carries down the hall to his bedroom. Sleep clings to him like a second skin, trying to drag him back under, but he has an itchy ass crack, he’s gotta piss, and his throat is as dry as the Sahara. The least he can do is give Sam shit for staying up late watching Youtube videos while he gets a glass of water.
His feet tangle in the sheets as he kicks them off, twisting around his ankles, and he narrowly avoids landing nose first on the scuffed hardwood as he detangles himself. The whole ordeal has him huffing and puffing, annoyance rising as that voice just keeps talking away like it isn’t the fucking witching hour.
Dean doesn’t bother keeping quiet, swinging his door open with a bang before stepping out of his room in nothing but his boxers and a scowl.
Sam didn’t even turn the lights off, for Christ’s sake.
Dean’s bare feet slap the cold floor on his way to the kitchen, the chilly air prickly on his skin. The sound of whatever video Sam’s watching gets louder, the voice deep and steady, and honestly, kind of hot. He’ll have to get Sam to tell him what he’s watching so he can pull it up when he’s got some spare time and no one to spend it with.
Sam doesn’t even look his way as he steps out of the hallway, crossing behind the couch on his way to the kitchen. The video pauses for half a second before continuing, and Dean has half a thought about rebooting the wifi router before he forgets about it and grabs a glass from the dish rack.
He leans against the counter, listening to the video. Sounds like Sam’s doing some research on international business law, or taking pointers about questions he should be researching, at any rate. All boring crap, especially at damn near three in the morning.
After a few sips, Dean pours out the rest of the water and leaves the glass by the sink. “Would you keep it down, Sammy,” Dean says, crossing back behind the couch again. This time, Sam does look up, full-on pausing the video.
“Dean! What the hell?” He’s all wide-eyed and scandalized, jaw hanging open and bitchy annoyance on his face. “Could you put some clothes on?”
“It’s my damn house,” he says, carrying on his merry fucking way. “I’ll wear what I want.” Sam huffs, but doesn’t respond, and at the door to his bedroom, he shouts one last keep it down, before closing his door behind him.
“The guy just never smiles,” Sam says, dropping onto the couch beside him with a single slice of meat lovers pizza and a heaping salad on his plate. Dean eyes the leafy greens, honest to God, feeling a little bit personally offended. It’s fucking pizza night. “He has no measurable sense of humour whatsoever, and not an ounce of boundaries in his whole body—not even personal space.”
Dean nods along, having heard it all before. Sam’s boss is a dick, yeah, yeah, yeah. But Sam’s boss is also a genius, whatever, whatever, whatever.
At this point, Dean wouldn’t be surprised if the guy was a drill sergeant in a past life with a penchant for cruel and unusual punishment in the form of two AM Zoom calls.
Dean’s still not sure what the company even is, but it’s gotta be something big if there are meetings with foreign countries that need lawyers present.
“Do you even like the job?” Dean asks, only half paying attention at this point since he’s already asked this question half a dozen times.
“Yeah, it’s great,” Sam says, same as the other six times with a look like he can’t believe Dean asked him that. Like all the complaining couldn’t possibly mean he’s not having the time of his life. “It’s my dream job.”
Dean’s been puttering around the kitchen for the last half hour, whipping up some sandwiches and finally getting around to the mysterious splatter on the wall behind the stove. Sam’s watching that Youtube video again. The one with the guy with the voice like sex. All deep and raspy.
Okay, so Dean doesn’t give a fuck about the stove stain, he just doesn’t want to go back to his room yet.
A sandwich in each hand, Dean heads over to the couch, walking up behind Sam as he watches his video. It’s full screen, and Dean almost cracks up at the guy chatting away, because he’s got on the nerdiest glasses Dean’s ever seen, and he keep pushing them up his nose like his fifth grade teacher.
Dean squints, leaning over the back of his couch, and because he is who he is, and who he is is annoying, he says to Sam, “Who’s that fucking nerd?”
The nerd stops mid-sentence.
The nerd looks at him dead in the eye.
Then the nerd laughs.
And it’s then, as Sam is cursing him out something fierce, that Dean realizes he’s made a terrible mistake.
He searches the screen, and sure enough, what he finds isn’t the Youtube logo, but the Zoom logo.
In an instance, his whole body goes ice cold, then hot. Humiliation burns through his veins as the guy throws his head back and full belly laughs, wiping his eyes and everything.
Sam’s still yelling, all red in the face, and before Dean can think of a better idea, he flicks a quick sandwich salute at the compute, mutters an oops, and hightails it to his bedroom, both sandwiches still in hand.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck,” he mutters under his breath, leaning back against his closed door. God, he’s such an idiot. It’s just like him to open his big mouth and say something stupid, but with Sam’s boss?
He’s so fucking dead.
Sam is suspiciously quiet when Dean dares to leave his room the next morning. He’s making coffee, both hands braced on the counter as he watches it percolate. He doesn’t look at Dean when he rounds the island, heading for the cereal cupboard.
“Morning,” Dean says, glancing his way. Sam nods, grabbing a second mug from the cupboard and setting it beside his own. Dean eyes it warily, not sure if he’s willing to drink anything Sam makes him this morning; not until he finds out just how pissed his brother is.
They carry on in silence for a while, Dean pouring himself a healthy bowl of Captain Crunch with an extra scoop of Crunch Berries while Sam fries up an egg white and spinach omelette. Dean watches him the whole time, waiting with bated breath for the anger, the yelling, but is doesn’t come.
When Sam does finally speak, it’s not what he expects at all.
“He thought you were my husband.”
“What?” Dean says, his head snapping up as milk drips down his chin. “What the fuck?”
“I’ve never seen him smile before, but you made him fucking laugh.” Sam shakes his head, a bewildered look on his face. “I didn’t get in trouble, by the way.”
“Huh.” That’s good, he guesses. Maybe he’ll have that coffee after all. “He got one look at my fine ass and thought he’d like to see it again, huh?”
“Fuck off,” Sam says, but there’s no anger in it. The bastard might even be smiling behind all that hair. “The guy might never make me Zoom call again after that show.”
“Just doing my part,” Dean says, before snatching up his bowl and Sam’s coffee and heading to the living room for his standard Sunday morning routine.
He doesn’t think about Sam’s nerdy boss checking him out. Doesn’t think of those sharp blue eyes, so intense they could freeze hell over if he wanted to, raking all over his bared skin. Or the face that belongs in a magazine or on a billboard, not behind a computer screen.
It doesn’t make his skin heat and his heart pound, and his dick stand up and take notice in his sweatpants, because he doesn’t think about it.
Not even for a second.
This has gotta be a first.
His dick in his hand, half hard, and drawing a blank. None of his usual fantasies, or his standard guy-on-guy porn, are doing it for him today.
He lets out a heavy sigh, feeling the weight of his frustrating square in the chest. Sam’s out on a run, giving him exactly—he looks at the clock on his nightstand—twenty minutes to get over himself and get off before he’s gotta pack it away and start dinner.
“C’mon, Winchester,” Dean says, shifting lower in his pile of pillows and closing his eyes. He shoves his jeans down over his ass so they hug the middle of his thighs, open just enough to let his cock and balls free. “You’re a semi-pro at this shit.”
He lets his mind wander, skipping over gold-bikini-Leia, and leather-jacket-Hans Solo. Sliding past America’s Next Top Model and that one lifeguard at the beach with his ass-hugging shorts. He’s not sure where to go from there, but somehow, he lands right smack in the middle of a Zoom call with a fucking nerd.
Fuck.
Heat zips through his veins when he pictures those penetrating blues, pooling low in his stomach as he flexes his hand and gives his erection a small tug. Blood rushes to his dick and he’s hard in seconds.
Shit, whatever works.
He pictures the hands on the guy—big and strong. The glimpse of shoulder he got was broad, like the guy works out in between board meetings. Bet he could toss Dean around real good if he wanted to—hold him down and fuck him into the mattress.
“Fuck,” he breathes, tipping his head back as pre-come beads on his tip. He collects it with his thumb, spreading it down his length as his other hand palms his balls. His lips fall open, every breath puffing out as his heart rate quickens.
He imagines those full, pink lips trailing down his spine, licking and sucking little marks into his skin, tasting him all over. Worshipping him like he’s always wanted to be worshipped. God, it’s been too damn long since he got laid.
Dean twists his wrist, picking up the pace as he digs his heels into the mattress, jerking his hips in time with the steady rhythm of his fist. He tugs gently at his balls, feeling the pinprick of pain that sets his teeth on edge. The delicious hum of pleasure builds inside him, collecting in every muscle, tightening until he’s ready to snap.
That whiskey-rough voice, like honey and gravel, whispers in his ear, telling him what a dirty little fuck he is. That he’s a good boy, but so, so bad. That he needs to be punished, and taken care of, and fucked until he’s screaming. Until he can’t walk, or think, or breathe.
A cry slips out of him as his back arches. Dean orgasms with a shout, spilling hot come up his clean shirt, over and over. He shakes with the release, pleasure ripping through him, and he milks or for all its worth with Sam’s boss’s face locked in his mind.
When he comes down from his orgasm, he’s shaking. Sweat clings to his skin with the drying evidence of his release. Fuck, he needs a shower.
He sits up, tugging off his shirt and tossing it in the general direction of the laundry hamper. There’s a pile of clothes in there just like that one, too. He needs to do some laundry. He needs to make dinner.
With a heavy sigh, Dean rubs at his forehead and closes his eyes. What he really needs is to get laid.
“My boss asked about you today,” Sam says over dinner on Wednesday night. He doesn’t even look up from his heaping plate of spaghetti as he says it. Just casually slips it in there like it doesn’t have Dean’s heart skipping a beat. His head snaps up to look at his brother, eyes wide, because even though he’ll never admit it to a soul, he’s been thinking about Sam’s boss.
A lot.
When he shouldn’t.
So, the fucking nerd is also fucking hot. Sue him.
“Oh yeah?” Dean says, trying not to sound too eager. “What’d he say?” He twirls his fork in the noodles before giving up and shovelling the saucy pasta into his mouth. It slops all over his cheeks and chin, and Sam gives him the most disgusted look, but Dean doesn’t care. He wants answers, dammit.
“Not a lot.” Sam shrugs, taking his sweet ass time as he wipes his lips and takes a swig of beer from his sweating bottle. “Asked if you were older or younger, what you do for a living, that kind of thing.”
Dean perks up at that. “What’d you say?”
“What do you think I said?” Sam gives him a look. “I told him you’re a stripper down at Fanny’s and you have enough babies crawling around Kansas for a full Super Bowl turn out.”
“Fuck you,” Dean says, flinging a noodle at his face for good measure, but his insides are practically doing a little happy dance. Sam’s boss was asking about him. Fuck, he feels like a giddy school girl with a crush. He doesn’t even know the guy’s name, for Christ’s sake.
“Kind of a weird guy, huh?” Sam says, doing a prefect noodle twirl before dropping the conversation altogether to bring up this girl he’s been seeing—Eileen, if Dean remembers right.
Dean just nods along, his brain still stuck on Sam’s boss.
It’s been a long time since Dean’s had a day off in the middle of the week. He’s usually got the mechanics shop open Monday to Friday, but the parts shipment doesn’t come in until Monday, and he’s got a couple guys that needed the day off, so he figured, why not?
He’s got a bowl of Party Mix on the couch next to him, a crisp, cold beer on the coffee table, and Die Hard 2 playing on his flatscreen. That’s the extent of what he’s got planned for the day. He might throw some steaks on the grill later, maybe flip through a dating app or two; try to find someone for some fun.
He probably won’t do that last one, but a guy can have high aspirations, if nothing else.
It’s gotta be getting close to lunchtime, what with the way his snacks just aren’t cutting it, and he debates getting up to make a sandwich, or if he should just order in. It’s been a while since he had a decent burger that he didn’t cook himself; maybe he’ll head over to the Roadhouse—
His plans are interrupted by the doorbell.
Dean twists around, looking at the door. Probably a solicitor, but maybe it’s Sam. The bastard probably forgot his key again.
With a grunt, Dean heaves himself off the couch, setting his snacks on the table before heading for the door.
Dean swings the door in, already cussing Sam out. “I’m gonna install a doggy door and make you crawl through it every time you forget your damn key—” He cuts himself off, his heart leaping into his throat when he meets the eyes of the person on the other side.
Sharp, endless blues, so intense they practically melt the clothes right off him. He’s not wearing the glasses now, but his hair is a wild mess, like he’s been running his fingers through it for hours. His shoulders are even broader in person, and his hands…
Sam’s boss smiles, just a twitch of his lips as those eyes trail down the length of his body and back up again. “Hello,” he says, and it’s that voice. The one from all his fantasies, but so much better.
“Uhhh-m,” Dean says, like the complete and utter idiot he is, eyes taking a slow tour down the man’s body. “Hi.” Fuck, fuck, shit, fuck.
“Is Sam home?” he asks, eyebrow raised and still smiling that little smirk as he shoves his hands in his pockets and rocks back on his heels.
Oh, damn. Dean clears his throat and swallows hard, scrambling to pull himself together. “N-no, not yet.” He jabs his thumb over his shoulder. “You wanna come in and wait?”
“I would.” He nods, and Dean steps back to let him in. His entire body hums with anticipation. For what, he doesn’t know, but there’s a kind of electric energy in his veins that he can’t seem to shake.
“I’m Dean, by the way,” Dean says as an afterthought when it occurs to him he still doesn’t know this guy’s name.
“Castiel,” he says, looking around Dean’s home like he’s assessing it. “You’re Sam’s brother.” It’s not a question, but Dean nods anyway. “The stripper.”
That motherfucker. “Mechanic,” he corrects, making a mental note to kick Sammy’s ass. “My brother’s an asshole, apparently,” he adds for good measure.
“I see.” Those eyes turn back to him with an intensity in them he doesn’t understand.
“Have a seat,” he says, waving at the couch. “You want a drink?”
“No,” Castiel says, all calm and even and unreadable as he settles onto the couch with the kind of smooth grace that makes Dean want to see him lose it a little.
Dean hovers between the kitchen and the couch, trying to decide what to do. He knows what he wants to do, but jumping on Sam’s boss will almost definitely have his brother on the other side of the courtroom from him while he’s tried for sexual assault.
That doesn’t mean he can’t flirt, though, right? Test the waters a bit?
Yeah. Yeah, he can do that. Dean knows how to flirt—with women. With men, he’s not so hot, but what’s a little bit of practice with a guy that’s practically sex on legs.
He drops onto the couch beside Castiel, maybe a little closer than he should, and twists to face him, one leg bent under him with his arm resting on the back cushion.
“Tell me ‘bout yourself, Cas,” he says, turning on the Winchester charm with a dazzling smile as he leans in a little closer.
Castiel tilts his head to one side, and Dean may not be as good at this with men as he is women, but he knows interest when he sees it. “What would you like to know?”
Everything, he thinks, because from what Sam has to say about him, he’s fucking fascinating, and Dean wants to know all about it. But for now, he says, “You can start with why you’re in my house a twelve-fifteen on a Thursday afternoon.”
Both eyebrows up this time, and there’s definitely something a little more than electric between them. “Well,” Castiel starts, sucking in a deep breath as he takes in Dean's face. “I suppose I could lie and tell you I’m here for your brother,” he starts, and if that doesn’t get Dean’s heart racing, nothing will. “Or I could tell you that I’ve been thinking about your little stunt the other night every time I’m even halfway unoccupied.”
Fuck. “Come looking for a repeat?” Dean’s instincts aren’t too far off, then. Good. Castiel’s lashes flutter, a flush rising in his face to sit hot and pink on his cheekbones. His lips part on a soft exhale before his tongue flicks out to wet them.
“And then some, if you’re interested,” he murmurs, only a breath away now, and Dean’s not sure when they leaned closer, or even who started it, but here they are, and Dean wants him so badly, he could scream.
“Fuck yes,” he whispers, and the words are barely out of his mouth before Castiel’s kissing him, all tongue and teeth and wicked want. Castiel’s tongue pushes past his teeth, licking into his mouth with wild need. He sucks on his lower lip, kissing him hard and desperate, and Dean gets a little lost in it.
Hands find his hair, pulling him closer, tugging on the strands as fire burns through him. He fists his hands in the collar of Castiel’s navy button-down, wanting nothing more than to rip it open.
Castiel releases him, scrambling for the hem of his shirt as he presses Dean into the cushions with the full force of his weight. Dean’s shirt climbs up his torso with Castiel’s hands, his calloused palms scraping over his sensitive skin. Castiel thumbs at his nipples, rolling and pinching and driving Dean insane as he writhes against him, grinding his aching cock against Castiel’s thigh where he jams it between Dean’s spread legs.
Castiel pulls the shirt up over his head, his mouth moving along Dean’s jaw and down his neck, sucking dark marks into the sensitive skin just above his Adam’s apple.
Dean gives into his earlier thought, flexing as he tears the shirt apart. Buttons fly, hitting the hardwood and rolling under the coffee table. It’s gotta be a few hundred dollars worth he’s just ruined, but he doesn’t fucking care.
Castiel leans back, his shirt hanging open to reveal an expanse of smooth, muscled skin. Fuck, he’s gorgeous, all flushed, chest heaving with every breath. “You just wrecked my shirt,” he says, like the idea of it doesn’t quite make sense.
“You got a problem with that?” Dean pants, pushing it off his shoulders and down his arms, the whole time never breaking eye contact.
“What if I do?” It’s a challenge, that much is clear. He wants Dean to bite, and Dean sure as shit won’t disappoint.
“What’re you gonna do about it?” he says, all low and gravelly, his voice dropping an octave as pleasure sparks inside him.
Instead of answering with words, Castiel goes for his sweats, tugging them, and his boxers, down his thighs with quick, rough jerks until they sit just above his knees. Then Castiel is manhandling into position, knees digging into the cushions, hands gripping the back rest, with his ass on full display.
“You got lube?” Dean pants, looking over his shoulder at Castiel, who’s got his wallet in hand, digging out a single use pack of lube and a condom.
“Told you I came here hoping,” he says, stunning Dean speechless with a dazzling grin, then knocking the breath right out of him with a quick, hard smack to his right ass cheek. Dean gasps, rolling his hips as liquid heat spreads across his ass. Castiel does it again, then again, and Dean’s nowhere near ashamed of the moans that fall out of him.
Just when he thinks it’s too much, that he can’t take any more without coming right then and there, Castiel’s fingers graze over his exposed hole, slick with lube and pressing gently at the tight ring of muscle. A hand slips into the hair at the back of his head, then his face hits the cushion, held down under Castiel’s tight grip.
“Tell me if it hurts,” he murmurs, before a thick finger pushes inside in one quick, smooth motion. Dean shouts, the burning almost too much as he’s forced open, but it’s good. So fucking good, and he wants more. Wants all of it.
“Cas—Cas,” he pants, spreading his legs as wide as he can with his sweatpants around his knees. His cock leaks pre-come on the cushions, hard as a fucking two-by-four. It’s been way too fucking long since he’s had a cock in his ass, and he can already tell Castiel is gonna be one hell of a fuck. “Don’t you fucking dare go easy.”
With that permission given, Castiel shoves his head down a little harder, presses a second finger in before he’s stretched out from the first, and whispers dirty promises in his ear like Dean’s a bought and paid for whore.
And he fucking loves it.
“I’ve been think about this ass all morning. I had decided last night I would come over, you know? It never occurred to me that you might not want to, of course.” Castiel grazes the shell of Dean’s ear with his teeth, sending a shiver down his spine as he thrusts his fingers in fast and hard, knocking moan after moan from Dean’s parted lips. “But from the minute I got here, I knew you wanted it.”
“Fuck, yes,” he pants, eyes rolling back in his head as Castiel’s fingers grind down on that spot inside him, pressing hard enough that he sees stars. “C’mon, Cas—fuck me.”
He doesn’t. Not yet. Instead, he slides another finger inside him, stretching his hole until it burns, and it makes Dean absolutely wild with want. He’d be embarrassed if it didn’t feel so good, and Castiel keeps on whispering in his ear.
“You take it so well,” he says, his voice a low rumble, almost a purr. “You’re such a good fuck, Dean. Do you know that?”
And Dean melts under the praise, sinking deeper into the cushions as Castiel slides his fingers free. Dean closes his eyes, listening to the sound of Castiel’s belt buckle jingling as he undoes his pants and pushes them down.
Then he rolls on a condom, slicks his cock with the rest of the lube, and presses the thick head to Dean’s hole.
And, God, it’s fucking big.
For a second, Dean almost panics. Starts to think he’s not stretched enough to take it, but Castiel’s already pushing inside him, splitting him wide, and it aches—God, it aches—but the pleasure almost sends him to tears, because holy fuck is it good.
The hand in his hair slips free, moving to his hip, fingers digging into his hipbone, and he’s almost frantic with the need to have Castiel buried so far inside him, he can feel it in his stomach.
But Castiel takes it slow. Rocking back and forth, in, in, in, then out, out, out, getting a little deeper with each thrust. He’s done this before, obviously. Probably tons of times, which is just fine by Dean, as long as he’s using all his hard won tricks to send him into fucking orbit.
When he’s finally, finally, buried balls deep, he stops, grinding his hips in small, slow circles as Dean whimpers like a little bitch, wound so tight he could snap.
“Good boy,” Castiel whispers, hitting Dean’s biggest kink right on the head. Lips graze his ear, his cheek, before teeth scrape at the hot skin. “Going to have to give your brother a raise.”
“What the fuck for?” He’s not the one with a cock in his ass.
“Being annoying enough to get you out of your room, I suppose,” he says, but doesn’t give Dean a chance to respond before he’s pulling out and thrusting back in with a quick snap of his hips, punching a shout from Dean’s lips.
He doesn’t slow down after that, fucking fast and hard, hands grasping, nails digging into delicate flesh as he rambles on about Dean’s ass fitting him like a glove.
Each thrust has Dean bouncing up and down, jarring moan after moan out of him as he grips the cushions in tight fists. He rolls his hips back, desperate for more as the slick slide of the lube starts to tug. Not enough to hurt, but enough to feel every inch of Castiel. He delirious with pleasure, lost in it, desperate enough to beg for it, and Cas eats it up like a starved man.
“That’s it, Dean,” he pants, an edge to his voice that lets Dean know he’s close. “Fuck yourself on my cock.” Castiel grips his jaw with one massive hand, his long fingers squeezing hard as he turns Dean’s face just enough kiss the corner of his mouth, his nose, before breathing hot and damp against his temple.
Dean lets himself be manhandled, and practically drools over it when Castiel’s fingers slide down to wrap around his neck. They flex, squeezing just enough for him to feel it, and it just about sends him over the edge as the wet slap of skin and harsh breaths fill his ears.
“Cas, I’m gonna—”
The front door swings in.
While Castiel is balls deep in his ass, thrusting hard enough to send him over the back of the couch, with a hand around his throat.
Dean’s on the brink of orgasm when Sam’s eyes lock on his.
“What the fuck!” Sam shouts, throwing up a hand to cover his eyes, but he doesn’t move, and Castiel doesn’t stop. “Dean, what the fuck!”
“Get,” Dean starts, Castiel still ramming his ass like his life depends on it, “the fu—ugh—ck out!”
“Mr. Novak—Dean, that’s my boss!”
“I kno—” Castiel pushes his face back into the cushion, cutting off the rest of his failed speech as he tightens his grip around Dean’s neglected cock.
“I’ll give you a two percent raise if you get the fuck out right now,” Castiel says, getting some leverage somehow and boosting Dean up higher with his jackhammer thrusts, balls slapping his ass and all.
Sam pauses. Doesn’t move. “Ten percent.”
“You fuckin’ kidding me?” Dean squawks. Is he seriously going to stand here negotiating his salary while Dean gets pile-drived into next week?
“Three percent and you don’t make a big deal out of this,” Castiel counters, actually leaning into the hand he’s got pressing down on Dean’s head. His fingers slide around to touch Dean’s lips, and it’s only then that he notices he’s whimpering like a fucking porn star.
“Eight percent and you buy my lunch for the rest of the year.”
“Six percent,” Castiel grinds out, and Dean can hear he’s getting desperate. “And I’ll consider not firing you.”
Sam doesn’t respond right away, and Dean can feel the cresting wave of his orgasm building. Fuck, his brother’s gonna see his O face and there’s no way they’re recovering from that.
“Look,” Castiel says, his grip on Dean’s cock tightening, slick with pre-come as he jacks him off fast and hard. “Your brother is about to orgasm, so unless you want to see and hear what that’s like, I suggest you take the deal and get the fuck out.”
“Fine. Deal.” But he doesn’t leave, and Dean’s starting to think he’s got some sick kink. “You’re going to ruin the couch.”
“It’s my fucking couch!” Dean shouts, his patience drained to nothing as molten pleasure pumps through his veins. He can’t think straight, can’t see straight, and Sam’s about to miss out on the opportunity of never seeing him orgasm.
The sound of the door closing it like music to his fucking ears, and all it takes is Castiel sinking his teeth into the meat of his shoulder for him to come undone.
His orgasm rips through him, tearing him apart with its force. He might actually scream, his throat raw and aching, but he can’t be sure. The room whites out and he shakes with the strength of it.
Castiel loses his rhythm, fucking him with abandon with one hand on his dick and the other leaving bruises on his throat, all the while whispering the filthiest shit in his ear as he comes.
“You’re such a fucking slut,” he whispers, driving deep enough in Dean’s ass that he knows he’ll be feeling it for a while. “A little cock slut, huh? You like it when I choke you.”
And he does. Fuck, he does.
By the time the pleasure ebbs, Dean’s fucking wiped. The couch cushions are ruined; soaked with enough come to make them go stiff. Dean sags into them, his ass sore as fuck and his shoulder aching from the bite that’ll definitely bruise.
“Fuck,” Dean breathes, his chest heaving and his throat stripped raw as Castiel leans into him, laying all his weight on Dean’s back. “We’re doing that again, right?”
“As often as you’ll let me,” Castiel says, pressing kiss after kiss to his cheek. “But right now I need to head back to my office, put on a new shirt, and have your brother draw himself up a new contract.”
“Hmm,” Dean hums, soaking up the comfort of having someone else so close to him for the time being. He doesn’t want to let it go just yet, so he asks a question that’s been twitching at the back of his mind since Sam started working for him. “What do you do, anyway?”
“Well,” Castiel says with heavy sigh. “I have a PhD in neuroscience,” he says, running his fingers up and down the outside of Dean’s thigh. “Specializing in certain… pleasure centres of the human brain.”
Dean blinks. “Okay…”
“My company develops scientifically tested pleasure apparatuses.”
When it finally clicks, Dean grins. “Sex toys.”
Castiel lets out a heavy sigh that Dean feels against his cheek. “Yes.” There’s a pause. “Does that bother you?”
Dean thinks about that for a minute, but honestly? “No,” he says, before turning his head just enough to meet one of Castiel’s sharp blue eyes. “Just means we’re definitely doing this again.”
Castiel laughs, and it’s a sound Dean could get used to.
THE END