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Dean Smith is thirty-one and he is the youngest executive Sandover has had on its payroll since the company was founded the previous century.


By unofficial office Slack poll, Dean Smith is the most attractive executive Sandover has ever had on its payroll.


He is also the most notorious slut.


Dean Smith is the Director of Sales and Marketing, had attended Stanford for eight years and graduated with a Bachelor’s degree in Communication and a JD/MBA. 


Dean Smith had been at the top of almost every class he took, on the Dean’s List every semester, and had only been in danger of a B once, his junior year, when he had taken a sculpture class for his arts elective. Despite the fact that Dean Smith has always been good with his hands, he is lousy at art and had spent the semester recreating sculpture that he admired rather that “create something that spoke of his own soul” or so his professor had claimed. That same professor had sprawled wide legged against the front of his desk in his office, the door closed and Dean Smith looking up at him asking if there was any kind of extra credit he could do for an A.


That wasn’t the first dick Dean Smith sucked. He’d been to high school, after all. He had been fifteen and a sophomore who had no place on the varsity baseball team except they were down an outfielder and Dean was good with his hands. 


It took a few years before he was good with his mouth, but by the time he went to his knees in the cluttered office of his professor, Dean Smith was just as good with his mouth as he was with his hands.


And the A in that class meant he maintained his perfect GPA. It also got him a letter of recommendation for a summer internship at a non-profit arts organization that, while not really Dean’s thing, meant he had a more rounded application for the cutthroat admissions process that was getting into Stanford’s Graduate School of Business. 


In the grand scheme of things, sucking a few dicks hadn’t mattered to Dean Smith. It smoothed the way to a few more As, a few more letters of recommendation, a few more high-profile internships. 


Dean Smith’s first paid position after graduation had been as an assistant to the head of Marketing for GM. He had had an actual (printed) stack of job offers to sort through and argue over with his kid sister Jo before he decided on GM. It wasn’t where he wanted to be forever, and not even for long, but GM had connections all over the globe, all through the political battlegrounds, the stock market and in the garages of most Americans. 


The head of Marketing for GM was a redheaded woman, an absolute bitch named Josie Sands and not only did she teach Dean Smith more than he had learned in all of his time at Stanford about how to do his job, her job, the job, she also put Dean Smith on his knees and had him eating her pussy on a basis so regular that Dean Smith had set aside the color yellow to block out her daily schedule when she called him into the office with that tone of voice.


After two years as her assistant, Dean Smith moved on to Coca-Cola, where he worked his ass off as a junior executive in the Sales and Marketing branch and where he sucked more dick than he had in his life, combined, up to that point.


Dean Smith has been at Sandover for three months, long enough for his reputation to have not only preceded him in the C-suites but to be reinforced to all those at the company and with the clients who also compliment Adler on what an astute and persuasive man Dean Smith is. As Zachariah Adler well knows.


As all of Sandover knows.


It is easy to hate Dean Smith. Sleeping his way to the top. Sleeping his way into commissions and bonuses and his face on billboards advertising the company all over Chicago.


That Dean Smith actually works very hard, is actually very, very good at what he does, all that he does, isn’t really a factor.


Dean Smith sucks dick and eats pussy and Dean Smith is a slut who gets whatever he wants.


And he has made it clear, from day one when Norman from Finance offered to show him around the office, that he does not want to suck dick unless he gets something out of it. 


Dean Smith only goes to his knees for people better, more important, more powerful, more wealthy, than himself.


He does not go to his knees for Norman in Finance, who might handle expense accounts but is still a few rungs below Smith on the ladder. He does not go to his knees for Tom in Legal or Alice in Archives or Darren who lasted two weeks as Dean Smith’s assistant before he was reassigned.


Dean Smith is the biggest slut at Sandover, but won’t even acknowledge ninety-five percent of the staff. He is cold and polite and distant to everyone in the elevator, the hallways, the conference rooms, the parking deck.


When the email comes in to IT from Smith, requesting assistance with his printer, Sam and Ian exchange a long look between them.


There is a photograph of Dean Smith’s face in the IT breakroom in the bowels of the Sandover building. It is taped to the water cooler, with space cut out for the spigot between Dean Smith’s plush and obscene lips. 


Sam has been in the elevator with Dean Smith three times, has been politely shot down just as many times. 


Ian had been coming back from fixing a phone issue for Dean Smith’s newest - his third - assistant and literally run into the man, spilling Smith’s coffee all over the both of them and ruining a suit that was no doubt more than Ian and Sam’s combined monthly student loan payments. 


Sam types a response to Dean Smith’s email, informing him that someone from IT will be up to assist momentarily.


Sam gets to his feet and stretches his arms wide.


Ian smirks over at him.


“You’re a fucking moron, dude. I’m taking your desk when you get fired.”


Sam grins back.


“You’d better remind Ernie he said he’d owe a hundred bucks to whoever made Smith their bitch.”


Ian rolls his eyes, but he looks Sam up and down.


“Good luck, bro,” Ian says and then turns back to his own computer.


Sam grabs his bag, filled with cables and tools and a few candy bars, and he heads up to Dean Smith’s office.


The assistant waves him in and Sam opens the closed door without knocking.


Dean  is on his feet, pacing, headset on and jacket off and suspenders offensively bright red against the pale blue of his shirt, the white of his collar and the butter yellow of his tie.


He scowls at Sam, who closes the door and offers his best, most charming, deepest dimpled smile.


Dean’s scowl deepens and he ends the call with a terse, “I’ll call you back, Jim.”


“Can I help you?” He asks Sam.


Sam lifts his eyebrows.


“I think that’s my line.”


Another scowl, but then realization dawns.




“Yes, sir. You emailed about your printer.”


Smith gestures at his desk, where his computer is, and then at a built in mahogany bookcase that houses an assortment of shit that ranges from books and photographs and trophies to, of course, the printer.


“It stopped working.”


Sam gives Dean a look.


“Did you assistant look at it?”


“Her job isn’t to fix my printer, that’s why there is an entire division of IT,” Dean is less polite now, clearly frustrated and anxious.


Sam would like to see what Dean looks like when he is completely unhinged and not just teetering on the edge of tugging at his tie or mussing his perfect hair.


“Would you like me to take a look?” Sam asks and doesn’t bother to keep the smirk off his face.


Dean makes a gesture, something that says both ‘fuck you’ and ‘be my guest’.


Sam takes off his bag, sets it on the floor beside the desk and sits down in Dean’s very expensive ergonomic chair.


Dean stands uneasily off to one side, still wearing his headset and watches Sam log onto his computer and pull up a series of diagnostic reports.


It is, of course, a very simple issue of the computer network forgetting the printer. It will take all of thirty seconds, maybe sixty, for Sam to fix this.


“Huh,” is all he says.


“What? How long - I have contracts to review and I need a functioning printer.” Dean actually does it, reaches up to tug at the perfect Windsor knot at his throat.


Sam spins in the chair, faces Dean and lets his long legs spread and fall open.


“It’s an easy fix,” Sam assures him.


Dean looks relieved until he really takes in Sam’s posture, green eyes tracing the miles of Sam’s khaki clad legs and resting on his crotch before jerking up to meet Sam’s gaze.


Sam arches an eyebrow and rests his elbows on the arms of the chair. It is a very, very comfortable chair. Nothing like the squeaking, slightly tilted piece of crap Sam struggles with every day.


Dean walks away and Sam is struck with nearly overwhelming fear as Dean approaches his office door - Ian was right, that shithead - but Dean flicks the lock on the door and looks back at Sam with narrowed eyes.


Another dimpled smile doesn’t change the expression, but Dean does come back to Sam’s side of the desk.


Dean takes his headset off and sets it very carefully on the desk before he goes to his knees, the movement practiced and hot as hell. Not that there is anything about Dean Sam doesn’t find hot as hell. Even the absent minded way he had shot Sam down in the elevator all three times, barely sparing Sam a glance as he did it, because anyone in this building that Dean didn’t already know wasn’t worth his time.


Sam rolls closer, legs bunching up a bit and he unbuckles his belt.


Dean is watching Sam’s face and not his hands, which is more than a little distracting.


But Sam wrestles down his fly, shoves aside his boxers and pulls out his dick.


Dean’s eyes go wide.


“No fucking way,” he snarls and starts to get to his feet.


This is not the first time someone has balked at the sight of Sam’s dick. 


He was already half-way hard, had been since he closed the door behind him minutes ago, but the very real trepidation in Dean’s gaze gets him even harder.


Sam grabs Dean’s tie, uses the silk as a leash to haul Dean in close, until his shoulders are shoving Sam’s thighs wide and Dean’s bright lips are almost touching the curve of Sam’s dick.


Dean looks furious as he meets Sam’s gaze again.


Sam gives the tie another tug and Dean’s lips part, his little pink tongue wets his lips and Sam is pretty sure it’s a tease, but he likes the idea of it not being one, of Dean still struggling over how to get Sam’s dick in his mouth.


Dean keeps his hands to himself, digging into his own thighs and instead stretches up to catch the head of Sam’s dick in his mouth.


It’s just a kiss, a short flirtation of smooth skin and this close, Sam this intent, he sees that Dean has freckles on his lips. 


The freckles had been it, for Sam, that first time in the elevator. Even in the shitty florescent lights, or maybe because of them, the freckles across Dean’s cheeks and nose had stood out, had been a siren song to Sam. Summer and sun and firelight and fireflies and toasted marshmallows and sex in the bed of a pickup truck under the great big night sky in the middle of nowhere in Texas. Weird that the freckles on a stranger’s face jolted Sam into such intense sense memories, but Sam is a big believer in dealing with what is in front of him. Whether that be getting the hell out of Texas by taking a shitty IT job or getting Dean on his knees and his freckles up close because of a network error.


Sam tugs again, gets a truly annoyed glare from Dean that has Sam sporting dimples almost spontaneously now. 


But then Dean is parting his lips around the fat head of Sam’s dick and Sam’s smile slides into an open mouth moan because Dean is not stopping, is actually swallowing Sam all the way down to the root and for all that Dean had tried to get away from Sam’s dick he has his lips pressed to Sam’s pubic hair and his eyes closed in an expression that looks damn close to bliss.


Sam’s dick is down Dean’s throat and he can feel the muscles constrict as Dean swallows, as he gags and tries to breathe and fails and Dean just takes it, doesn’t fight it at all and Sam’s grip on his tie goes lax in absolute shock.


Dean pulls back slowly, lips and tongue surrounding Sam’s length and leaving him exposed and wet and shivering until Dean is just tonguing the head, teasing.


His eyes are still closed. He still looks like he’s at prayer and not being pulled down onto an underling’s dick.


Sam is too greedy, too desperate for more of that wet, hot choking embrace and he wraps the tie around his fingers again, shortening the leash and Dean goes back down, not as far this time, but with a lot more intent, more focus.


Despite, or maybe because, Sam had grown up as a good christian boy in Texas, this wasn’t even close to the first blow job he had been given. Girls and boys alike had exhausted themselves on Sam’s dick for years and Sam had a highlight reel of the best, the hottest hookups and hardest times he’d ever come.


But none of them came anywhere close to Dean. To the way he worships Sam’s dick, the tears that clump his long lashes together as he impales himself again and again.


“Get your dick out,” Sam breathes out, sounding a hell of a lot less commanding than he wants.


But Dean fumbles to obey all the same, one hand battling with his trousers while the other tugs his crisp shirt away.


“Get yourself off,” Sam says, craning his neck to the side to get a good view of Dean’s dick, as pink and perfect as the rest of him, as goddamn pretty as the rest of him. Sam can’t tell if there are freckles on it. 


Dean starts to jerk off, fisting himself tightly and moving his hand in a fast pace that makes Sam’s blood boil because shit .


And he goes back down on Sam.


And shit .


Sam wants this to last forever, wants the building, blinding heat in his gut to dig deeper and deeper until it’s the only thing he can feel or think but then Dean does something, this kind of choking-moan thing that has him shuddering and his throat convulsing around Sam’s dick and that’s it, Sam comes like he’s dying.


Dean swallows and swallows and swallows. He chases after Sam’s dick when Sam leans back in the chair, not really trying to get away but pretty much collapsing because shit .


He does let go, though, eyes still closed and lips giving way to Sam’s sensitive dick and he is a complete wreck.


Tears staining his cheeks, flush faced and mouth a ruin, come clinging to one corner.


Sam looks down and Dean is still holding his shirt aside with one hand, but the other is cupped close to his dick, a little pool of white in his palm.


Shit .


Sam struggles to draw in a deep breath but eventually succeeds.


“Lick it off,” he says and gives Dean’s palm a significant look.


Dean holds his gaze and does it, eyes still wet, more dark pupil than green.


When he’s done, the spot of Sam’s come is gone too.


They both sit there, dicks soft and exposed, breathing hard and staring at each other.


Eventually, Sam gets himself together enough to type in the command on the computer that has the network searching for the printer.


It finds it immediately. Sam allows it to connect.


His job is done.


He stands up and tucks his dick back into his pants, zips up, buckles his belt.


Dean is still on his knees, still watching him.


Sam picks up his bag and starts for the door.


He stops short of unlocking it and looks back at Dean who finally gets to his feet, still looks at Sam.


“Buy me dinner and I’ll fuck you,” Sam offers.



Sam is on a new level of Bejeweled and Ian is on a call trying to walk some idiot from Finance through rebooting their computer (off, on, off) when his desk phone rings the next afternoon.


“Wesson,” he answers after six rings, since whatever idiot on the line isn’t going to give up.


“My office. Right now.”


Dean hangs up only seconds after Sam had lifted the receiver to his ear.


Sam considers the phone, sees Ian looking over at him with an ‘oh shit you are so fucked’ expression.


Sam just gets to his feet. Stretches his arms. Tries to think of whose couch he could potentially crash on when he gets fired and loses his apartment.


Thinks too of Dean’s ass, which always looks so good in his perfectly pressed pants but would look better after Sam gets the chance to wreck it with his dick like he had so recently wrecked his mouth.


Sam gets his bag and heads for the elevator.