Archive of Our Own

He runs into the FBI agents again that night; the ridiculously tall guy and the shorter one with the nice smile, both of them built like brick houses, still in their suits. Embarrassed (or intimidated), he tries to sidle past their booth in the bar unnoticed, but the shorter one catches his eye as the taller slides out of the booth, making motions with his hands towards the bar.

The shorter guy – Agent Perry, Linus thinks, but he’s not sure – looks him up and down, loose and easy in his movements, grinning a little less enthusiastically since the last time Linus saw him. He doesn’t look as drunk as he did, before, but he’s still got that edge to him; eyes alight, hands spread wide over the back of the booth. Nice hands. “Hey.” He says, little nudge of his voice, and his gaze is dark but careful. Linus finds himself at a loss as to where to put his own hands.

“Hi,” he tries, and then is embarrassed. “You, uh – feeling better?”

The agent – Perry, definitely Perry – Ducks his head, briefly, with a smile. “Yeah.” He says, and offers nothing else. He shrugs. “You know how it is. Stresses of the job.”

“Sure.” He replies, dubious, and Perry hears it in his voice; he laughs.

Linus hesitates, then, not sure if he should leave; if this brief exchange will be all Perry’s willing to afford him; hell, if the partner who left, who he looked pretty cosy with, would be none too happy about the way Linus is unable to stop watching him; his beautiful mouth and eyes, the way his suit fits him (which, for the record, is well). But Perry looks briefly, awkwardly, at the table he’s sitting at, and then pats the seat beside him and speaks as if bracing for a blow.

“So, hey, can I buy you a drink?”

By the time the taller agent comes back, Dean has his arm around the back of Linus’ seat and is leaning way too close for this to be just friendly, fingers skirting the edge of his collar, breath warm on the side of his neck when he dips forward to talk against the shell of his ear. On instinct, when Perry’s partner comes back, Linus flinches away; but the taller guy just rolls his eyes like he’s used to it, and makes a gesture at Perry with his hand, prompting him to dig in his pocket and lightly toss him his keys. The taller – obviously a lot more sober, and a lot more sensible – agent waves a sarcastic goodbye to Perry, whose hand has made its way below the rim of Linus’ collar, fingers tripping their way ticklish across the back of his neck.

“Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.” He says gently, eyebrow raised – then catches himself. “Actually, uh – just – have fun, guys.” He waves gently, looks sheepish, and ambles his way out of the bar on his long legs. Perry and Linus both watch him go.

“Your partner-“ He’s not drunk, but he’s tongue-tied; “He doesn’t mind?”

“Sam?” Perry looks at him, confused. “Why would he care?”

Linus shrugs, embarrassed. “Stupid question. Sorry.”

He’s going to get fired. That much, he knows.

Neither of them are sober enough to drive, though the cold air outside is making them much less giggly, Perry – Dean’s - eyes turning dark on contact, pupils blown wide. The station is just a short walk away, and Linus has keys, has had them since his first day. Without the chief (god, that’s weird) around anymore Linus guesses he’s the boss now, if this kind of thing even works like that, and he’s not sure that it does.

But, chief or not, apparently his first action in the wake of his boss’ death is going to be to try and get a fucking FBI agent to fuck him on his fucking desk.  The thought should chill him, make him stop tugging Dean down the hallway by his elbow to his office, but honestly Linus hasn’t gotten laid in about a fucking year, this town is so fucking small, so queer-unfriendly, and if he can make it with this guy; this huge guy who is pretty much his type to a fucking T, X-files vibe and all – then he’s going to make it. Consequences be damned.

Plus, the way Dean pulled him out of the bar and all but flattened him against the wall outside it – a hand on the nape of his neck, thumb cutting a pulse below his ear – and kissed him so deep Linus found it hard to breathe for a full minute, after, pretty much decided it. He was doing this, for another kiss like that; for the hard line of Dean’s body against his.

“You sure this is a good idea?” Dean asks him as he fumbles with the key to his office, the agent leaning against the wall beside him. He glances up – makes a small noise of triumph when the door swings free from its latch, finally.

“It’ll be fine.” He assures him, and crowds into Dean’s space beside the doorframe, liking the way a smile creeps slow onto Dean’s face as he does. He leans up to kiss him, and likes that a little, too.

“Aren’t there like, security cameras?” Dean asks him warily, and Linus shrugs.

“No one watches them.”

“If you say so.” Dean’s eyebrow lifts, but he doesn’t object when Linus leans up again and kisses him in earnest, hands working their way beneath his starch-white shirt.

He thinks, fingers slipping in the slightly tacky skin around Dean’s hips, that guys in the service, even apparently high profile ones like this, are all the same; same white shirt,  same tie, same false bravado. Linus knows it when he sees it, even if Dean’s is a better cover than his; he used his to get the job, pretty much; acted like he was god’s gift to police work, rather than the truth - which was, for the record, that he was a snot-nosed, clumsy, absent-minded excuse for an officer, and even at twenty-nine, he sometimes still got carded trying to buy a fucking beer. On the day of the interview he’d summoned everything in him – every failed fitness test, every godforsaken ‘jog’ that killed him at half five in the fucking morning – and he’d walked into the office like it was already his, and it had worked. It stood to reason that it would work here, too, with Dean; if he wanted it bad enough, he could usually make it happen. It was just, he thought, a question of attitude.

And, okay, maybe a little shy smiling didn’t go awry, either. He knows his strengths.

He half-breaks away, and pulls Dean around the doorframe into the office, Dean’s bulk pliant, easy to move, beneath his hands. It actually surprises him – he nudges the door shut behind him with a foot, and Dean lets himself get crowded against the edge of the desk, his big hands sliding down Linus’ back, tightening around the curve of his ass. He laughs.

“This is a little-“ he laughs again, glancing around them; the mess of papers on the desk getting nudged aside by Linus pushing against him, Dean pushed back against the desk.

“Little bit-“ he avoids saying softcore porn, “– yeah.” He grins. “I know what you mean.”

“So, do I have to call you Sherriff now, or-?” Dean in return, and then the smile leaves his face, just as quick. “Sorry. I didn’t –“

Linus shrugs. “S’fine. We weren’t close.” The air between them has cooled slightly, but not enough, it seems, to deter them; Dean’s cock is hard, between them, and he feels slightly boozy, and not just because of the booze; slightly lost. Part of him thinks he’s constructed this, cut Dean straight out of a fucking Uniform Kink Monthly magazine, because he’s almost too perfect; his tan, his green eyes, freckles fucking all over him, revealed as he skins out of his shirt and tie and drops them deftly onto the floor, hands going immediately to Linus’ collar again; this time, to undo it.

Linus helps him with it, huffing a laugh against the backs of his fumbling hands. They stand nose to nose, Dean against the desk, Linus between his legs, flipping the buttons on his shirt open, then turning their attentions to belts and pants. When Dean finally gets a hand in his underwear, sweet callused heat looped around his cock, Linus chokes a noise so embarrassing that he almost turns around, right then, and leaves the office entirely. He’s so worked up he can barely breathe, and Dean is only making it worse by taking the whole thing in stride; pulling his hand from Linus’ underwear to lick it heel to the tips of his fingers, then slide it between them again. Linus stumbles forward, burying his forehead against Dean’s collarbone, a low whine pulled from his throat, taut and shameful but fucking honest, at least. Dean’s mouth is so close to his ear as he pulls on his cock, long, slow, measured strokes that make his knees go jelloid and weak.

“M’gonna,” Dean’s not even being touched at this point, cock straining at his boxers, but he sounds wrecked, all the same, “Gonna take you in my mouth, okay?” He says, slow, easy, syllables rolling out of his mouth in a liquid drawl. “Gonna suck you off, and then I’m gonna fuck you, right here, okay?”

Linus laughs. As if he had to ask – and his yes, please is cut off by an intake of breath, Dean’s hand twisting. Dean hears it, he knows; he smiles against the curve of Linus’ cheek.

The hand disappears, and in the same moment Linus is turned, gently but firmly, to take Dean’s place against the desk, the wood pressing against his lower back, pants yanked down all the way as Dean crouches to kneel in front of him. He feels suddenly, dimly embarrassed, cock damp with pre-come, with the spit and sweat from Dean’s hand, so fucking eager and right in front of Dean’s eyes, his thighs fucking trembling. He tries not to do this; live up to the baby face, get too obviously into it, but it’s hard when Dean licks his lips, once, and slips the head of his cock into his mouth without warning; starts to suck his way down. Linus braces his hands against the desk, and grips it tight.

If someone does, by some fucking miracle, ever check the security footage from his office, he thinks at least they’ll get a decent show.

The thought of someone watching them somehow makes it better; Linus ignores the obvious (the fuck is this ridiculously hot, fucking FBI agent doing with Linus’ cock in his mouth?) – and wonders what they look like to an outsider, his hands white-knuckled around the edge of the desk, Dean holding onto his hips, keeping him still as he takes him almost all the way down. Linus throws his head back briefly, but can’t for too long because he has to see it; Dean’s eyes flick up to look at him and he god damned smiles around the base of his cock, directing the pace. Somehow he’s gentle, though, rather than domineering; Linus has been with a couple of guys who just wanted to get a little rough with him, fuck his face or vice versa, and usually they’re built a little like Dean is (or wish they were) – but Dean doesn’t seem to want it that way, and when Linus chokes a gasp, “oh my god-“ one of Dean’s hands leaves his stuttering hip to palm himself through his boxers, eyes flickering briefly closed, as if he’s getting almost as much out of this as Linus is.

Linus lets himself lifts his hand from the desk and bury it in Dean’s hair and gets an appreciative, muffled moan for his trouble; Dean moves his mouth just that little bit faster, taking him a little deeper, cock slurring against the inside of his cheek, making Linus almost bite his own tongue, the vibration of Dean’s hot, slutty little noise around him pushing him so much closer to the edge.

He tightens his hand in Dean’s hair, knees finally going from ‘weak’ to almost entirely giving out; scrabbles against the desk and knocks some of his papers to the floor; laughs hysterically, comes down Dean’s throat with a yell, and thinks maybe he might have collapsed if Dean hadn’t been holding on. Dean pulls his mouth away and sits back on his heels as he swipes at the strands of saliva and come dripping from his lips with the back of his hand; he swallows audibly and looks up at Linus with a grin, casual as you please. He rises to his feet, pressed close enough, thank god, that Linus can lean against him, his softening cock drooling against the front of Dean’s boxers, sloppy wet.

“Do you have-“ his heart is fucking racing, and he might have come already but he wants Dean to fulfil his second promise, and his lower back itches with the anticipation of it, how messy it’ll be, it’ll look, both of them with pants around their fucking knees. “Y’know, stuff?” he finishes lamely, and Dean seems briefly dumbstruck – Linus takes a moment to note how red and shiny his mouth looks – before he nods, and dips again to his knees to dig around on the floor for his discarded jacket.

He returns looking boyishly triumphant, two foil packets clutched his hand. There’s a fumble – “you’ll go-“ “if I just-“ “Yeah, turn- yeah, okay” –but it isn’t long before Linus has both hands braced against the desk and is looking back over his shoulder at Dean, who wastes no time rolling the condom over his cock and slicking up his fingers, pushing one, almost achingly slow, between Linus’ legs, and inside.

It’s always uncomfortable at first, of course, but Linus bears it, knows it’s worth it, and even pushes back against that careful ache, the burn, when Dean gets two inside and works at him, scissoring, pushing and twisting them inside him, just on the edge of frantic, but careful enough that Linus gets impatient, looks over his shoulder at Dean to huff, “oh my god, would you just-“ and is rewarded with Dean’s exasperated laughter, forehead against his spine, fingers trembling minutely, still inside.

“Okay, lemme just-“

“Dean.” He dips his forehead, stares at the desk, and sighs out when Dean finally, finally starts to slide into him. Dean has one hand on the desk at his side, the other against his hip, and he pushes all, all the way in, painfully slow, until he’s snug against Linus’ back, and his breath is heating the back of his neck; Linus can feel his fucking heartbeat, for god’s sake. He makes a noise, low in his throat, and hopes it sounds encouraging because oh my god, he needs him to move.

Dean takes the hint but drags out of him too, too slow, and Linus feels every weird fucking second of it until he pushes back in again, slightly faster; Dean draws back, pushes in again, harder, breath hitching just a little, damp against Linus’ neck, a curse dropping from his lips so quietly that Linus feels it more than hears it.

“This – you good?” Dean murmurs, sounding strained, and Linus holds himself back from rolling his eyes.

“I’m good. I’m good.”

Dean’s hands move; he lets go of the desk and holds onto Linus’ hips, fingers tight, and finally, finally starts to fuck him in earnest.

Linus isn’t young enough to get it up again so fast but he thinks he could maybe have come just from this, Dean clutching his hips and then, with a ragged, muttered, “Fuck, baby, oh my god-“ moving his hands to splay them over his stomach, index finger just shy of the dip of his navel, and hanging on tight. It doesn’t take long, Linus pushing back against him when he pushes forward, the desk rattling making his face flush, before Dean is opening his mouth over the juncture between Linus’ shoulder and his neck, kissing him with his lips wide, pace stuttering, murmuring nonsense. He pulls back, pushes in, shakily, one more time, then curses and squeezes the flesh of Linus’ stomach tight; bites down on his shoulder - not so hard that it’ll hurt, but he definitely feels it - and then goes boneless against his back, all but a dead weight. He slips out of him and then, arms wrapped around Linus’ waist, pets his stomach with his hands spread wide, palms gentle, kissing at the indents his teeth left behind.

Linus slides to the floor, leans against the desk, and takes Dean with him. They sit beside each other for a second; Dean absently peels the condom from his cock, ties it up, and looks at Linus, questioning; it takes him a full minute to get enough mental faculty to point to the waste paper basket, and when Dean stands he shamelessly watches the way he moves across the room, hooking one thumb into his pants and underwear to pull them back up, tuck himself back in.

Dean comes back, brushes his hands off, and sits beside him with his knees drawn up. He cants his head back against the desk.

After a moment of heavy silence, their breath the only sound, Linus turns to him and smiles, blissed out.

“You want to go to the security office, see if we can get a copy of that tape?”

Dean starts laughing, head tilted towards the ceiling, eyes closed.

Linus thinks in different circumstances, maybe they’d have been friends; but, then again, maybe not. There’s a thin sheen of sweat on Dean’s upper lip; Linus can feel the same on the backs of his legs. “How about I just get your number, instead?”

Linus grins, amused by the emptiness of the promise; not, to his surprise, totally cut up about it. “That works, too.”