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Dean Smith is not that sort of alpha.
Okay so the new guy is ridiculously good looking with his blue eyes and perpetual sex hair, but Dean isn’t that sort of alpha. He shakes the guy’s hand when Charlie leads him around the floor introducing him to everyone, but he keeps his grip firm and his nod of greeting professional and pretends not to notice the sweet scent clinging to him. And he certainly doesn’t stare at his ass as she leads him on towards Benny’s desk.
Except… he’s ridiculously good-looking. Like, stupidly good-looking. Dean’s never really gone for omegas, but Castiel is hitting some crazy ass trifecta of gold-standard fuckability that Dean didn’t even know he had. He’s tall, almost as tall as Dean, he’s got lips that are almost too pink and soft looking and something about the line of his neck, the sharp edge of his jaw, has Dean running his tongue over his teeth and thinking about nibbling and licking his way up that tempting curve. And his body. Fuck. He’s lean, all tight muscle sharp lines, with narrow hips without a scrap of fat on them. Dean can’t help glancing down, wondering how it’d feel to wrap his hands around them, pull him close, get that perfect ass of his wedged nice and tight up against his dick--
Aaaand these are not the sorts of things Dean should be thinking about while idly watching a co-worker use the copier machine. He’s not that sort of alpha. He shoves Castiel’s distracting hips/ass out of his thoughts and focuses on the spread sheet in front of him. It sort of works. For a while.
“Mr Smith?”
And then there’s the fucking voice. How an omega came to possess a voice any chain-smoking, film noir detective would kill for, is yet another mystery that Dean’s dick seems eager to get to the bottom of. And he’s thinking about Castiel’s ass again. Awesome.
He clears his throat and reminds himself that he’s a professional. “Call me Dean!” he says, too bright, grinning like an imbecile. “What can I do for you?”
Castiel frowns, squinting suspiciously in a way that’s entirely too endearing. “There is an inconsistency on last month’s report, do you have a moment to look it over?”
Of course Dean has a moment, in fact he has several, and as a consequence spends the next twenty minutes with Castiel sitting right beside him, smelling of lemon and apple pie and rainbows and fucking fuzzy-magical-unicorn-sex or something close enough, pointing at figures and asking questions that involve a level of complex reasoning Dean finds difficult to keep up with owing to the mass exodus of blood from his brain to his dick.
Castiel’s nostrils flare and he scents the air delicately before glancing down at Dean’s lap only once, but quite pointedly. Dean coughs, feels his entire face burn with embarrassment, but mercifully Castiel doesn’t actually come out and say anything, and five minutes later the issue with the report is sorted and he’s gone.
Leaving Dean with a throbbing, unwelcome, erection the likes of which he hasn’t experienced since puberty. Inconvenient is an understatement. Castiel’s scent lingers in the air around Dean’s desk and keeps him too hard to even consider making a break for the men’s room for almost half an hour. As it is, there’s not much he can do when he finally makes it to a stall and gets his fly undone. His dick more or less bursts out of his underwear and then just bobs there, flushed and insistent, like an excitable puppy begging to be petted. Dean glares at it, betrayed. It aches, thick and slightly swollen at the base, and Dean knows if he tries to jack one off he’ll pop his knot and be out of commission for god knows how long.
He’s leaked through his underwear, but thankfully he’s wearing one of his dark suits so the dampness doesn’t show through his trousers. Dean occupies himself for a few minutes cleaning himself up with tissue, flushing and hoping the smell of sex wouldn’t escape the cubicle and permeate the entire restroom. The last thing he wants is people thinking he’s been in here jerking off like a creep. He’s not that sort of alpha.
It takes a good ten minutes, but breathing in bleach and urine and other delightful bathroom smells finally gets his goddamn dick under control and he’s able to return to his desk back to his professional self. He doesn’t look towards Castiel’s desk. In fact he barely looks up from his computer screen for the next four hours, especially not when he picks up on that baritone rumble nearby, the one that seems to resonate somewhere in the vicinity of his balls.
It’s with an intense sense of relief that Dean packs up and heads home. Castiel has already left, Dean just happened to notice, so there’s no risk of running into him or sharing an elevator. Thank god.
He gets home, toes his shoes off and dumps his stuff at the door, and then opens the fridge, just like he does every time he gets home from work. He stares at the low carb beer stacked neatly beside the lean chicken and fat free salad dressing for a minute, then gazes at the overflowing vegetable crisper for even longer. Abruptly he slams the door shut and strides towards the bedroom, swearing under his breath. His dick is already twitching when he reaches for his belt and by the time he’s lying back on his bed with his pants around his ankles, it’s throbbing and more or less doing the dick-mamba for attention.
His brain joins the party eagerly, providing him with a sensory overload of Castiel. His scent, his lips, the curve of his ass in those tailored pants... and after a whole day of very professional abstinence, revelling in his inappropriate attraction for his co-worker is glorious. He fucks up into his hand, imagining pink lips instead of his fingers, blue eyes and messy dark hair to knot his fingers in. Castiel on his knees under Dean’s desk, swallowing him down…
He lasts about as long as a 14 year old getting to third base for the first time. Thirty seconds and it’s all over, except it’s not, because his knot is pulsing, thick and hot, too big to fit his hand around, and he’s in for the long haul, shuddering and shaking through a pseudo mating, moaning and snarling, completely out of it with the waves of endorphins and hormones flooding his brain as he comes repeatedly.
By the time it’s over, half an hour’s passed, Dean’s lightheaded, and his shirt, favourite tie and goddamn bedspread are spunk encrusted nightmares.
His dick lays quiet against his stomach, sated and pleased with itself. He tries to rub at his eyes wearily, but they are covered in come. “Fucking goddammit,” he groans.
He changes his sheets, showers, weighs out his portion of chicken and steamed broccoli and then eats his perfectly balanced meal in front of the tv, muttering darkly to himself and casting accusing looks at his traitorous dick.
Come next morning he’s half expecting to wake up to a mess in the fresh sheets, so he’s pleasantly surprised when that doesn’t happen.
He jogs on his treadmill for 30 minutes, eats his egg white omelette and drinks two cups of black coffee, then showers before heading into work. Having lulled him into a false sense of security, his dick choses that moment to strike. He’s lathering up with his nice shower gel, humming to himself and generally in a pretty good mood for 7am, his coffee kicking in and the water nice and hot. Then he notices that the shower gel is actually not just nice, it’s reallllyyy fucking nice and he picks up the bottle to take a long sniff. It’s a brand he hasn’t used before – citrusy and fresh. He squeezes the bottle and inhales again. It smells amazing, actually makes his mouth water a little. There’s something about it, orangey? Lemony? Or is it something else…? He has a sudden flash back of Castiel leaning in close to point at something on his screen and from there his brain jumps straight into full on porno vision with a blow by blow replay of his jerk-off fantasy from the night before.
His dick twitches and Dean looks down to find himself already mostly hard. He sighs and palms his dick wearily. Well, if he takes care of this now, at least he won’t have a repeat of yesterday’s incident. He’s careful this time, keeps well away from his knot, just jacks himself hard and fast with a fist full of the apparently Castiel scented bath gel, but the damn thing still pops.
Castiel and his fuck-me-hair and his goddamn cocksucking mouth have officially turned Dean into a horny, knot-popping, teenager. With some sort of fruit fetish. His perfect ass must have mystical powers, there’s no other explanation.
Dean spends twenty minutes sprawled against the tiles of his shower, dick gushing in little shivery spurts as he suffers through the orgasmic aftershocks part and parcel with having a knot, and then he drags himself out and towels down, movements dopey and slow. His dick is still hard, but he’s pretty sure the party’s finally over. Or at least he’s sure until he ends up inhaling toothpaste and nearly suffocating as he gets hit by one last wave, his dick spurting and twitching. He manages to aim most of it more or less in the sink, but still ends up with a thick line of come up near his belly button.
Even the buzz of an extended mating orgasm isn’t enough to keep his mood up after that and as he cleans himself up he mutters resentfully at his penis. He has to more or less fold his dick into his underwear and eventually settles for leaving his belt and fly mostly undone. He can tuck himself in properly at work, or in the car once his damn erection finally goes away.
He heads out to his prius with his briefcase and jacket covering the situation he has happening out front. Luckily none of his neighbours are out and about. The first half of the drive into town passes quietly enough, his dick tingles and throbs, but behaves itself, and there are no traffic jams or accidents, so he makes up a little of the time lost during is very long shower.
He’s humming along to the radio when he feels the tell-tale throb and ache in his balls and he glances down at his crotch in disbelief. His stubborn dick is dribbling wetly where it’s tucked into the elastic of his underwear and he recognizes the pulsing hot throb travelling up his spine. “You’ve gotta be fucking kid--"
It was a skill he wasn’t aware he had, but it turns out Dean can actually get come in his own eye.
A pile up is avoided narrowly and Dean ends up pulled onto the shoulder of the road, swiping at his face and shirt with napkins left in the glove compartment and calling his dick every swear word he can think of. It appears unrepentant, but finally, finally, seems to be going down. Once he’s cleaned up Dean’s actually able to do up his fly.
He douses himself with some of the deodorant from his gym bag and once he’s satisfied that he doesn’t look like a man that just spontaneously came in morning traffic, he pulls back out and continues his morning commute.
When he gets to work he exits the car gingerly, adjusting himself. He’s still half hard, but that tingly ache is gone and he’s certain that he’s done this time. For reals. He still keeps his briefcase and jacket looped over his arm as he heads towards the elevator though, just in case. Of course, since god apparently hates him as much as his own penis does, when the lift stops at the ground floor, it opens to reveal a pair of wide blue eyes, bed hair, and a set of chapped, pink lips Dean has masturbated to twice in the last 12 hours.
Castiel stares for a moment, and Dean stares back, and then he nods in greeting and steps forward into the lift and Dean gets a deep hit of his deeellicciouuusss scent, sweet and lemony and oh fuck. It’s happening. It can’t be happening but it is. Dean takes a step back, stumbling against the side of the elevator. Castiel turns and gives him a confused look, his head tilting. “Dean?” he asks in low rumbly oh-god-fuck-me concern. Dean’s head smacks against the wood veneer behind him as his dick more or less explodes in his pants.
He tries to stay still, stay silent, but he can’t stifle the long gasping inhale and he can’t look away and so he ends up gazing into Castiel’s pretty blue eyes as he shudders through the most intense, most humiliating, orgasm of his life. Dean’s brain is left more or less liquefied and all he can do is stand there, sort of… panting, as Castiel scents the air and shoots a look of intense disbelief at the jacket and briefcase Dean’s holding like a shield in front of his treacherous Voldemort dick.
The lift jerks to a stop and he whimpers. He’s gonna be fired. He’s gonna, he doesn’t even know what happens to guys who accidentally sexually assault co-workers in elevators, but he imagines HR aren’t just gonna give him a slap on the wrist. His mom will be so disappointed. He’s one of those alphas.
Castiel turns and presses the stop button before the doors can open.
Dean’s jerked from his morbid, orgasm-hazed, imaginings of doom.
The look that crosses the omega’s face is intent and smug and nothing like the cool reservation he’s shown so far. He steps up close to Dean, enveloping him in a cloud of sweet lemony atomized sex, pulls the briefcase from his stiff fingers and sets it down to one side. Dean whimpers as his jacket is eased from his fingers and likewise tossed aside.
He can feel his come leaking down his thighs and there’s a sizeable wet patch to one side of his fly. Castiel looks down at, nostril’s flaring as he inhales deeply. When he raises his head and meets Dean’s eyes again, he’s almost smirking. “Mr Smith,” he purrs, leaning in close and cupping Dean through his sodden pants, fingers sliding unerringly over the bulge of his re-awoken knot. “Dean… do you need a hand?”