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Elevator Guy wants to fuck him. There’s no question about it.
For Dean, it’s not so much of a conscious realization as it is an instinct—the same kind that raises the hair on the back of your neck when you realize you’re not alone. Elevator Guy (tech support, those polos are awful) wants to fuck him and has zero game. “Do I know you?” Is he serious?
Dean turns him down, of course; that, too, is instinct. It’s not that he’s not interested exactly—
can’t can’t can’t can’t
—but he doesn’t have time to mess around, let alone with someone from the office. If he wants to make it in this division he can’t go around courting a meeting with HR before he’s even hit the one-month mark. He’s got a ten-year plan and no button-pressing cubicle-dweller is going to interfere with it, no matter how big his shoulders are.
Dean doesn’t look back after the doors close and he doesn’t think about the guy the rest of the day, even as the hairs on the back of his neck stand straight up.
*~*
Elevator Guy might be stalking him. And no matter what the man claims, he definitely wants to fuck him.
Weirdly, the guy keeps dancing around what he actually wants in favor of asking about ghosts. Has Miss Cleo on speed dial for sure, the weirdo (or freak; bet he hates that, freak). But he’s had a rule since college (or since before college; he can’t quite put his finger on when... doesn’t matter):
Don’t stick your dick in crazy. Even if...
Dean doesn’t entertain the thought for more than a second before smashing it down reflexively, quick and easy as a knock on the knee at the doctor’s office. Or, perhaps, as with the ease of practice.
After he sees a (different) yellow polo-wearing shmuck stick a pencil in his neck and bleed out all over the bathroom floor, he doesn’t think. He talks calmly with the cops, locks eyes with Elevator Guy, and combs through personnel files he’s not supposed to be looking at until he finds Elevator Guy’s number and orders him up to his office.
There’s no conscious thought as he does this. None. He doesn’t even realize he‘s done it until Sam Wesson (Wesson, Wesson, why does he say his own name like it’s a lie?) is standing in his office, messenger bag slung over his shoulder, ready (and eager) to talk about ghosts. At least Dean has enough sense to tell him to shut the door.
This is not an office affair. It’s so much worse. This is not a part of his ten-year plan.
*~*
He calls Elevator Guy—Wesson—Sammy.
It rolls off the tongue. When he hears the nickname, the man frowns. Wesson doesn’t like it. Somehow, Dean knows he’s lying about his dislike. Knows it in his gut, like when he grabbed the wrench to go after that ghost (ghosts, Jesus Christ, goddamn ghosts—).
Dean doesn’t call him Sammy again. But he has to think about it.
The guy still clearly wants to fuck him.
*~*
Elevator Guy, Sam Wesson, Sammy, is sitting on his desk covered in blood and Dean wants to fuck him.
He wants to fuck him even as the guy starts babbling nonsense about hitting the road and hunting spirits for a goddamn living. Maybe even because of it. Wesson’s eyes get real big when he talks earnest, all honest and open in a way he hasn’t been in forever—
wait that’s not
—and Dean has to laugh it off because if he doesn’t he might actually start listening to him. Ten-year plan. He has a ten-year plan. There’s no ghost-busting in his ten-year plan.
Then Wesson says he has a confession and Dean thinks, Fucking finally, but he’s talking about dreams and ghosts again and Dean wants him to shut up. Needs him to shut up because he has an inkling of where this is leading and he won’t have it.
“More like brothers, really,” Wesson says with a furrowed brow. Dean stares because he’s right, it sounds right, and Wesson stares back, looking caught out, and opens his mouth.
No.
“You know, when someone tells me I star in their dreams they’re usually dreaming something a little more flattering,” Dean drawls. The words twist out of his mouth lazy and flirty and edging on skeezy even though he hasn’t actually said anything that risky. But he feels salacious and raw and desperate and what he’s said (or, at least, how he said it) has some effect because Wesson looks completely derailed. Good.
“But you said—” Wesson blurts, face reddening. Save it for the health club, pal.
“So did you,” Dean counters smoothly and lays a hand on Wesson’s knee. Wesson’s eyes dart from Dean’s hand to his face, uncertainty growing. Battling with himself. Dean can read him clear as day. Can read the creeping doubt telling him not to take this leap. That he’s missing something.
ignore it ignore it ignore it you want me don’t lie
Dean slides his hand up and in. “C’mon,” he murmurs. “Could use another workout.” Wesson’s face twists, tormented, but Dean knows he’ll give in. He always gives in. Acts like he has it together when really he’s constantly on the verge of self-destruction, total nuclear meltdown, just who’s the weak one here—
“Fuck—” Wesson moans and then dives in, grabbing him by the head, pulling him in with his huge goddamn hands (couldn’t have always been that big, could wrap him up once), and bringing their lips together in a violent, devouring kiss.
He tastes like... Dean’s not sure, but still everything he expected. Cheap beer. Carbs. Copper—no, blood. Salt. Something unnameable. Everything new, but also familiar.
Wesson goes after his shirt but Dean bats him away—no way he’s getting naked in the office—so he jumps to his belt buckle instead, swearing into Dean’s mouth the whole while, c’mon, c’mon, let me, and panting like he’s dying. They twist and claw until Dean finally slows them down by getting a hand into those stupid khaki pants and grabbing Wesson’s dick.
“Big boy, Sammy,” Dean murmurs and Wesson shudders and gets wet all over his hand. Knew it. Knew he liked it. “Older or younger?”
“Huh?” Wesson asks distractedly as he sucks a bruise into Dean’s neck. Hacker-freak gets stupid soon as someone’s touching his cock and Dean can’t help but chuckle. He repeats himself twice more before Wesson gets it. Older or younger? Is he the older brother or is he the younger?
already know but say it
Wesson can’t look him in the eye as he whispers his answer. Dean laughs as he gives the fat cock in his palm a firm squeeze. “Big little brother,” he says and Wesson’s furious but his body is scorching and hard and eager as it presses against him. “Baby brother.”
It feels good on his tongue. Feels right. Feels even better when he somehow gets Wesson bent over his desk, papers and keyboard and Newton’s pendulum sent crashing to the floor in their haste. He’s gotta whisper teasing and syrupy the whole time, knows Wesson’ll buck and rage if he’s not careful, but knows just how to handle him. Atta boy, that’s it. Be good for big brother. And Wesson goes along with it. Splays flat over the desk when told and spreads his legs wide after Dean yanks his pants down, cocks his hips back when Dean calls him Sammy.
“Jerked off thinking about me,” Dean mutters. “Didn’t you? Thought I didn’t know. Been doin’ it for years.” Dean can picture it perfectly, some little stick of a kid just figuring out what his dick’s for, catching glimpses of his older brother coming out of the shower and using it as his mental centerfold. Wesson shakes his head but smears precome over the glass desktop. “Give you what you want.”
The petroleum jelly in his desk is for his hands. They’re rough as hell and he’s not sure why because whenever he does drag himself to the gym he wears gloves. Whatever the reason he’s thankful for having it now to make his for-now little brother slick and sweet for him. Rubs his back as he fingers him and doesn’t wonder why he’s not bothered by the presence of bright red blood all over the yellow shirt as he does it.
Wesson gasps his name and thrusts back but Dean stops. No more until he calls Dean what he is. Asks him for what he wants nicely. Says please. Please, big broth—
Dean shoves inside because he’s tired of being nice and he’s tired of waiting. He can’t wait another minute and Sam takes it like he’s been waiting for at least as long which just doesn’t feel possible. Dean’s been waiting forever. He fucks into that warm, tight space, and everything else slips away. Ten-year plans and pissed-off spirits and master cleanses are all secondary to the slip-drag of his dick inside that clenching hole that he’s been starving for since Sam side-eyed him in that elevator. Since before then.
“Harder,” Sam demands and Dean gives it to him because he’s not some little princess: he’s a tank who kicks in doors like an action star with arms like tempered steel cables, so he can take it. But he still whines and squirms pretty like a brat and Dean takes it pettily out of his ass and refuses to touch that monster cock dripping like a faucet all over his workspace. He’ll never get anything done in here again after tonight. He’s not sure he cares.
“Jerk off,” Dean orders. “Like you used to, trying to be quiet. Could hear you. Heard you every time—”
Sam jams his palm into his mouth while he tugs at his dick, quick little tugs right below the head that lack the tell-tale slap of flesh against flesh. Can’t have big brother hear what you’re doing the next bed over, or worse, Dad; and Dean comes to that thought, Sam hot all over and ashamed of anyone knowing that he gets off to thoughts of his big brother doing just this. He comes and comes, harder than he has in weeks, alone in his apartment too tired and too cautious to risk a one-night stand, and quietly miserable for it. He creams that baby brother hole up and pulls out fast so he can watch his spend drip down the back of Sam’s thighs.
Before Sam can get too pissed (no condom, Jesus Christ, has he lost his damn mind?), Dean flips him back over, kneels, and takes that beautiful dick into his mouth. Before tonight, he’d pretty confidently identify as heterosexual; but this comes easy (practice, he’s had practice) and he happily gags on the length. Encourages Sam to grab his head and fuck down his throat even as he struggles to breathe and the corners of his eyes go wet. Only pulls off long enough to whisper, “Give it to me Sammy, wanna taste you,” and Sam readily chokes him with his dick. He pulls away at the last minute though, not so Dean can catch his breath but so he can shoot off on his face, whimpering his name and begging that his brother take it, take it all. Dean does and licks his lips when Sam’s done.
They clean up after, again. It seems important that he tucks his shirt back in when he’s through. He doesn’t watch Wesson wipe his legs clean with tissues or drop the evidence in the waste bin. Dean hopes the janitorial staff had already been by tonight. With all the problems they’ll have in the morning, though, they probably won’t notice a few cum tissues in the trash.
Dean cringes but he thinks he can recover from this. They both can. He’s not the first or last person on Earth to hook up in an office. They haven’t even been caught (yet). But then Wesson has to go ruin it all.
“This isn’t you,” he insists. “I know you.”
Dean kicks him out of course. It’s the logical thing to do. These past few days have been a brief lapse of judgment, a temporary fit of insanity. Dean Smith knows who he is. And he’s not the kind of guy who runs around the countryside with some guy like they’re Bonnie and Clyde hunting ghosts. It’s ridiculous. It’s totally insane.
Wesson leaves. Dean ignores every instinct screaming in him to follow. After all, it’s his instincts that got him into this mess in the first place.
(The hairs on the back of his neck stand up and stay that way.)