
Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/13586781.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Rape/Non-Con, Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Supernatural
  Relationship:
      Dean_Smith/Sam_Winchester
  Character:
      Dean_Smith, Sam_Winchester, Dean_Winchester, Castiel_(Supernatural),
      insignificant_OFC
  Additional Tags:
      Abuse_of_Authority, Therapist_Sam_Winchester, Doctor/Patient, Nipple
      Play, Fondling, Forced_Orgasm, Bad_Decisions, Nipple_Clamps, improper_use
      of_office_supplies, Underage_Sex
  Series:
      Part 1 of Bad!Sam
  Collections:
      Supernatural_Kink_Meme
  Stats:
      Published: 2018-02-05 Chapters: 2/2 Words: 6370
****** Acting In ******
by Anonymous_ID
Summary
     Based on an SPN Kink Meme prompt: Jensen's parents have sent him to
     therapy concerned about his interest in boys, rather than girls.
     Jared is supposed to help Jensen figure out that he's not gay, that's
     what Jensen's parents are hoping for. Jensen's not really sure what
     he is. He likes looking at naked women online but he can't deny that
     when Ty stuck his tongue down his throat and felt him up that he'd
     gotten hard.
     Jared suggests a simple test. He has Jensen take off his shirt and
     then plays with his nipples. If he gets off, then its a sure bet he's
     at least bi. Jensen gets off so spectacularly that he almost passes
     out. Jared is so turned on that he can't wait for the kid's next
     appointment.
     I have replaces 'Jensen' and 'Jared' with Dean and Sam, but otherwise
     stuck pretty close to the prompt, so read the tags carefully. The
     non-con is due more to Dean's age (unspecified teenager) than
     anything explicit, but Sam is still in a position of power so this is
     potentially TRIGGERING. I have put the serious porn in chapter 2, so
     you have no excuse for reading something you don't like!
Notes
     Posting this twice 'cause it is important: The non-con is due more to
     Dean's age (unspecified teenager) than anything explicit, but Sam is
     still in a position of power so this is potentially TRIGGERING. I
     have put the serious porn in chapter 2, so you have no excuse for
     reading something you don't like!
     "Acting In": https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Acting_in
***** acting *****
At Sam’s job—Sam’s realjob, as the lone social worker in a boutique psychiatric
practice, the job that required his Stanford degrees, the one that pays for his
Lexus and Jess’s blow-outs—there are four secretaries to handle the
scheduling.  All the paperwork is delivered in discreet buff envelopes embossed
with the practice’s carefully branded logo.  The San Mateo Counseling Project,
on the other hand, is pro bono: Cas schedules people when he can find
volunteers to see them, and client files end up in ragged, recycled manila
folders whose label tabs are palimpsests of partially erased names.  Sam
squints at the one stuffed in his mailbox; he can barely read the client's
name. 
“Just holding this feels like a HIPPA violation,” he informs Castiel.
 Cas shrugs. “Welcome to Wonderland.  Clients come and go so quickly here!”
“I’m serious.”
“I’mserious.  I can buy new file-folders, or I can keep the lights on.  Can’t
do both.”
Sam sighs.  It’s true: only about a third of their ‘clientele’ ever come back
for even one follow-up appointment. The others?  Overdose, psych ward, back
across the border.  Lots of ways to get lost if you slip through the safety net
in southern California.   
“Cheer up,” Cas says, reaching over to glance at the name on Sam’s latest
file.  “Dean Smith. It’s an intake—twenty minutes, tops, and his mom scheduled
it.”
“His mom?”  Sam flips open the folder, scans for the client birthdate, does the
math.  A teenager, just barely.  The Counseling Project sees a fair number of
teens, some of them even younger than this kid, Dean, but most of them are
referred by the juvenile courts or parole officers.  The fact that this Dean
has a family member who cares enough to track down an appointment at the one
free mental health clinic in town—well, that is something to be cheerful about,
right?  But Sam’s been volunteering his time here once a week for three years: 
he knows better than to get his hopes up.  Dean and his mother might never show
up.
                                      ***
Against all odds, they do show up.  And how.  The mother has practically worked
herself into hysterics before she makes it through the door.   Sam can hear the
wailing and sobbing right through the thin partition that separates his cubicle
from the makeshift waiting room.  He hears Castiel offering tissues, a cup of
water.  By the time Sam has finished jotting down notes from his last client
(whose mental health would improve significantly if he would stop huffing
illegal Mexican paint thinner), things seem to have settled down.  It’s not for
nothing that all the volunteers call Castiel an angel: in addition to doing all
the scheduling and manning the office phone, he has an almost preternatural
ability calm the most overwrought clients.
Sam undoes Cas’s hard work simply by walking into the waiting room.  The woman
sees Sam a moment after he sees her, and the waterworks start all over again. 
Her son, meanwhile, is hunched into one of the cheap waiting room chairs, all
but hiding behind an old copy of National Geographic.  Castiel’s patience is
clearly worn thin: he escorts the woman to the cubicle door with unseemly haste
and promptly hands over a box of tissues, a paper cup of water, and, as an
afterthought, the teenage boy who had been trying to disappear into the
woodwork.
“Please come in, Ms….Smith?”  Sam sneaks a look at the file he’d left on his
desk.  Sam volunteers four hours a week; there’s never enough time actually
readpatient histories.
“Mrs.”  The woman corrects between sniffles.  “Dean comes from a good home, a
good, Christian home.”
“Of course, naturally,” Sam says, immediately.  He keep casts a glance at the
boy and catches an eye-roll.  The kid looks sullen, but not particularly
disheveled.  He’s not high, no visible gang tattoos.  Jeans and a button-down
shirt; too warm for the summer weather, but Sam judges the slender frame is
just a teenager growing into his muscle, not an eating disorder.  Unless he's
hiding track marks under those sleeves, Dean Smith looks like the student most
likely to advance to middle management.
“Hello, Dean.  I’m Doctor Winchester,” Sam introduces himself.  The mother
might have gotten most of the clinic’s attention so far, but the boy is the
actual patient.
“Shake the doctor’s hand, Dean,” Mrs. Smith nearly interrupts Sam’s
introduction in an effort to wedge herself back into the conversation. Sam
suspects he'd drop significantly in Mrs. Smith's estimation if she found out he
has a PhD in clinical social work. 
“Now,” Sam gestures to the two patient chairs and pulls his own from behind the
desk.  “What seems to be the trouble?”  He doesn’t work with many young
people—Dean’s less than a dozen years younger than Sam himself—but when he
does, he tries to strike an egalitarian, back-to-school-night vibe.
Mrs. Smith isn’t having it.  She seems to crave exactly the sort of drama Sam
is trying to avoid. 
“I want you to speak to my son about his filthy habits,” Mrs. Winchester
announces dramatically.  “You’ve got to do something about it, before his
father turns up and tries to beat it out of him.”
Sam blinks.  He looks quickly over at Dean and the boy is blushing so furiously
that the freckles dusting his cheekbones stand out like watermelon seeds
against his pink skin. 
“The filthy things he’s done.  With that boy!” Mrs. Winchester repeats, gearing
up for more outrage.  Dean looks like he wants to melt into the floor and Sam
feels a sudden bone-deep sympathy.  He remembers how keenly he had wanted to
fit in when he was Dean’s age, how hard it had been with a family that always
seemed proud of standing outside the norm.
“Mrs. Smith.  Mrs. Smith!”  Sam has to repeat himself to get the woman to
stop—she's launched into something about Gomorrahand the wages of sin. 
“Clearly this is upsetting to you, Mrs. Smith.  Why don’t I speak with Dean
alone and you can get another sip of water?  A moment to collect yourself,”
he’s saying, even as he walks her to the door.
Mrs. Smith looks briefly panicked at the realization that she’s about to lose
center stage. “Oh, doctor,” she says breathily, all but batting her eyelashes,
“I don’t know if I can trust him al—”
“I insist,” Sam cuts her off.  “Really.”
And when he closes the flimsy door and finally turns to really look at Dean
Smith, the pure gratitude illuminating the boy’s face nearly takes Sam’s breath
away.
He’s beautiful.  Sam hadn’t really noticed before—he’d been so distracted by
the mother that he’d only had a vague impression of freckles and blush.  But
now he can properly see the delicate curl of Dean’s eyelashes and the pretty
bow of his mouth.  His hair is light brown, grown out a little from a crew-cut,
and it probably goes even lighter in the summer, when the California sun makes
him tan…
“Thanks,” Dean says, simply, and Sam snaps back into himself.  He is not here
to ogle.
“My pleasure,” Sam says, and it comes out sounding more formal than it should.
 There is a moment of silence—Sam wants to let it last, to forget about
families, about paperwork. To sit here, quietly, with this beautiful boy.  But
he knows that Cas’s attention won’t be enough to keep Mrs. Smith occupied
forever.
“Do you want to tell me what has your mother so upset?”
Dean flushes again, drops his eyes.  Shakes his head.
Sam lets the silence settle again.  He moves his chair back to his desk and
starts quietly sifting through the papers there. Something tells him that Dean
isn’t used to being the center of anyone’s attention.   Mild interest must burn
like a spotlight.
“Isn’t it all in your file anyway?” Dean says, finally, voice barely above a
whisper.
Sam shrugs.  “I’d like to hear your side.”
When he glances up, Dean is staring at him, wide green eyes, plush lips
actually parted in astonishment.  It’s like no one has ever said that to him
before.
“You don’t have to say anything if you don’t want to,” Sam checks his watch. 
“We’ve still got fifteen minutes for this appointment, if you just want to
sit.” 
He returns to shuffling papers—America’s mental health system might be broken,
but you’d never know it from the amount of paperwork it generates, even at this
low-rent, sliding-scale clinic. 
And then, just when Sam figures Dean will take him up on the offer of some
quiet time, the boy says, “There’s this kid in my neighborhood…”
It spills out then: the number of times the family has moved, the awkwardness
of always being the new kid, the embarrassing way his mother is always putting
on airs.  And on top of it all: puberty.  Girls.  “I don’t…” Dean stammers, “I
don’t know anything about girls.  Don’t have no sisters or anything, even.  But
Ty, he’s in the apartment upstairs, and he’s got internet and his Mom works
afternoons after school.”
Sam doesn't have to say anything.  Dean tells everything. Ty promising to show
Dean how to kiss, to show Dean what girls liked.  Ty telling Dean how pretty
his eyes were (“so I’d know what to say, ‘cause girls like that stuff.”). Ty
letting Dean straddle his lap so they could both see the computer screen.  How
Dean could feel Ty ‘getting, uh, b-bigger’ (a shy glance from under his lashes,
to make sure Doctor Winchester understands what that means).  The funny squeak
Ty made when Dean shifted—even now the memory makes Dean smile, then bite his
lip, drop his eyes. 
It’s only when Dean finally glances down that Sam realizes he’s been staring. 
He’s been watching a new kind of flush creep up Dean’s throat to stain his
cheeks. 
“D’dja like it?” Sam asks. His voice comes out rough and he’s pretty sure that
is not the question he should be asking.
Dean doesn’t hesitate.  “Yeah.  I got...” Dean’s eyes lose focus for a moment. 
Sam would give a lot to know what he was going to say next: hard? horny?But
Dean changes tack.  “Uh, but I liked the girls on the computer, too.  And then
one day…my brother was looking for me.  He came home from school early and got
scared and it’s not his fault, he’s only little.  And we were, uh. In bed, me
and Ty. And then my mom…” he trails off. “Well.  You heard.  They think I can
just.  Just forget it, how I felt.” A spark of indignation, one that Sam
recognizes from his own teenage years: outrage that adults can so quickly
dismiss something as essential as feeling.
“Just dunno what to do,” Dean concludes, miserably.  “Isn’t there any way to
just know?”
He’s not asking rhetorically, Sam realizes.  Dean really believes there’s some
sort of test that can give him definitive information about who he’s meant lust
after. And he looks so sweetly needy, sitting there inside his big, unseasonal
flannel shirt, like he hadn’t just detailed how he’d let another boy feel him
up.  Sam suspects Dean already does know—he just wants permission.
“Yes,” Sam hears himself say and, again, there’s that look of glowing
gratefulness.  “There is, uh.  Something I could try. We could try.” Sam
doesn’t really even know what he’s saying, just that he wants to see that
expression again.  He wants to see Dean again, to tell the boy what he wants to
hear: that everything will be okay, that life contains pleasure and people to
share it with. 
“Now?!” Dean is so eager that Sam has to scramble for an answer.
“I want you to go home and think about it.  If you’re interested—if you really
want to know—you can come to my office tomorrow.  Not this office,” Sam
stammers.  His blazer is hanging on the back of his chair and his fingers
tremble so much he has trouble fishing out a business card. He waits ‘til they
are steady before jotting his office extension on the back.  He holds it out on
the flat of his hand, the way you might offer oats to a skittish horse.  But
Dean seems to have shed his shyness.  He doesn’t simply pick it up.  No, Dean
caresses the little rectangle out of Sam’s hand, making sure that the tips of
his fingers brush every centimeter of Sam’s palm. 
And then, just as Sam is wondering if he possibly could have imagined that
touch, Dean taps the edge of the card against his bottom lip, as seductive as
any starlet down the road in Hollywood. 
“Thank you, doctor.”
“Uhm. My last appointment is at seven, so come after that.” Sam only hopes that
will give him enough time to figure out what in the hell he is doing inviting a
strange, sexually confused kid to his office after hours.  He clears his
throat. “Oh, and Dean?”
Dean pauses at the door of the cubicle.  Surely Sam had imagined the bowlegged
sway of his ass.“Yes?”
“Don’t tell your mother.”
                                      ***
***** In *****
Chapter Summary
     This is the porny part. Please review the tags and decide if this is
     really something you are comfortable reading.
Sam had lied.  Not just about there being a test to determine Dean’s sexuality,
but about something much more minor:  his last appointment ends at a quarter to
six.  By seven on a nice summer Friday, the private practice is as empty as a
plush, well air-conditioned Sahara.  The psychiatrists, the psychologists, the
four secretaries have all cleared out for the weekend. The cleaning crew will
come in on Saturday, but for now, the place is abandoned.  In the quiet,
luxurious hush of the office, Sam's plans for the evening seem almost unreal.
He calls Jess, tells her he will be home late tonight.  He lies to her, too. 
Something’s come up at the Counseling Project, he says.
“Are you sure, babe?”  Jess pouts. “I was hoping we could pick up where we left
off yesterday…”  She thinks he ‘wastes’ time in San Mateo, time that could be
better spent at the country club, or by the pool she insisted on putting in. 
He’d found her lounging by that pool last night. After handing Dean his
business card, Sam had rushed through his paperwork (“no further counseling
appropriate at this time”, he’d written in Dean’s file), raced home, plucked
the ever-present wine glass out of Jess’s hand, lifted her onto the
outrageously expensive patio table she’d picked out, and gone down on her until
she’d wailed his name.  The whole time, he’d thought about Dean’s shy smile
when he talked about Ty’s cock. He and Jess had fucked in the kitchen (the
feather-light feel of Dean’s fingers on Sam’s palm) before finally making it to
the master bedroom, where she’d ridden him into the mattress with the sort of
athleticism that spoke well of her expensive yoga gym (Dean glancing up from
below those impossible eyelashes).   This morning, Sam had woken to Jess’s
mouth on his cock, but he’d kept his eyes closed, imagined it was someone
else’s.
Now, sitting alone in the empty waiting room at the job that had promised to be
everything he’d wanted when he was Dean’s age—helping people!  and being
handsomely paid to do it! never having to set foot in another trailer park!—Sam
wonders if he’s been foolish. He could leave right now, drive right  home to
his lovely wife in his lovely home in his lovely gated community by the
Pacific. But he doesn’t. 
Sam has turned the air conditioning in his office almost as high as it will
go.  He fidgets around the chilly waiting room.  Unlike the Counseling Project,
this place is too classy to have outdated magazines.  Finally, the telephone
rings.  It’s the one on Sophia’s desk (the secretary Sam has thought of as
‘his’ ever since their dalliance in the supply closet).
“It’s me,” Dean says, like Sam should just know who is calling.
But then, Sam does know who is calling. And he’s only a little surprised that
Dean actually came.  Something made him doubt Dean ever backed down from a
challenge.
“Come on up,”  Sam says, and buzzes him in from the lobby. 
Sam sees Dean’s eyes widen when he enters the waiting room. This practice
caters to the sort of people who appear above the title cards on movies; its
name sounds like a high-end law firm; it bills at minimum $400 for a 50-minute-
hour.  Most of the clientele live in LA or Silicon Valley; some fly down by
private jet for their 50 minutes.  Overall, the practice has done very well by
being just a little inconvenient, playing hard to get. No expense has been
spared.  That’s one reason Sam had wanted to meet Dean here: he suspects that
Dean is not impressed by material things, but that he’s probably been raised to
submit to authority.  It is hard to set yourself up as an authority figure at
the San Mateo Counseling Project.  Also, Sam had wanted to give Dean a night to
think it over.   He’d cum all over Jess’s back last night thinking about the
way Dean’s hand had lay in his for a moment before picking up the business
card.  Kid knew what he was getting into.  But he hadn’t been absolutely sure
until the phone had rung. 
“This way,”  Sam gestures toward his office.
Sam opens his office door, sees Dean’s gaze alight immediately on the sofa. 
It’s a lavish, high-backed Empire-style chaise longue, so absurdly comfortable
that Sam rarely lets patients sit in it, lest they fall asleep.  He keeps it
mostly for set-dressing: the Hollywood crowd expect every shrink’s office to
have a couch.  The leather upholstery is a deep, chocolate brown that is going
to look astonishing with Dean’s coloring.  Yes—Sam had wanted to give Dean a
chance to consider what this offer meant, and he’d wanted a place that was calm
and quiet and his.  He’d wanted a space private enough that Castiel wasn’t
going to come knocking on the door with yet one more file.  But if he’s being
honest, Sam had mostly invited Dean here because he wanted to get him on that
sofa. 
And now he’s here, and looking just a little bit apprehensive. 
“Have a seat.  Let me explain what we’re going to do.”
A moment of hesitation, thin as thread, but critical:  Dean seems the type to
do things whole-heartedly or not at all. 
“If you want to.”
It’s that nod to Dean’s own autonomy that helps him make up his mind:  foolish,
but his own decision. When Dean plunks down onto the sofa, slovenly-graceful as
only a teenager can be, Sam knows he’s not getting up.
“Not gonna hypnotize me, are ya, doc?” Dean gives a sly smile that makes Sam
doubt he ever really had trouble getting girls.
“We’re just going to talk, for a bit.  You can close your eyes, though, if you
want.  Maybe take off that flannel.”
Dean unbuttons about half of his flannel, revealing the threadbare blue t-shirt
underneath, pale from too many washings.  His mother would probably have been
shocked to know he'd left the house dressed like that.  Sam feels like he's
meeting the real Dean Smith for the first time.  Dean kicks back on the sofa
with an exaggerated sigh—but, Sam notices, he’s toed off his heavy boots. 
Independence only goes so far: Sam would bet money that Mama Smith tans the ass
of anyone who puts shoes on furniture in her house.
“There, now, close your eyes.” Sam draws over the ottoman that usually holds
his notepads next to the chair he uses when counseling his real, paying
patients.  Given the high back of the chaise, he is almost eye to eye with
Dean.  Dean’s right hand, resting by his hip, twitches enough to brush Sam’s
knee.  He looks at Sam steadily for a long moment and then, perfectly obedient,
he closes his eyes.
“Good,” Sam says warmly, letting his knee jostle Dean’s fingers for a split-
second.
“Now, I want you to tell me what you liked about the movies you used to watch
with Ty.  What about them appealed to you?”
Dean’s forehead wrinkles.  “I thought we were gonna do a test?”
“Oh, we will,” Sam promises.  “But I want a little more information first.”
“I liked.  Uhm, I guess I liked how they just couldn’t stop.  I mean, how it
would get like they just couldn’t hold back.  The girls, or, or the women, I
mean.  And the guys, but mostly we watched…  I mean, I know some of them were
actors,” he deprecates like a true, jaded Californian.  “I mean, some of them
were just pretending.  But maybe some of them weren’t?”
“Good,” Sam says again, and this time he lets his hand rest on Dean’s wrist. 
Reward for a job well done.  He feels Dean draw his hand into a fist and then
relax.
“Did you ever feel like that with, uhm, Ty?”
Dean’s eyes dart under his eyelids.
“It’s okay if you did.  Sexuality is a spectrum,” Sam shifts into his usual
soothing patter, the one he reserves for starlets who are having doubts and
leading men who aren’t sure how much they want to risk.  That is not what he
went to Stanford for, not why he slogged through grad school.  But it pays the
bills, and he can always drive down to San Mateo to calm his conscience.  And,
looking down at Dean, he can hardly complain.
Somewhere between assuring Dean that you can like many people many ways and
launching into the importance of good, giving, game, Sam starts to lightly
brush his hand along Dean’s forearm.  By the time he works his way up to how
Dean can have a rich, fulfilling life wherever he falls on the spectrum, he’s
got one hand spread flat on Dean’s chest, rising and falling as the boy
breathes.
“I did,”  Dean mutters.  “With Ty.  He would show me, uhm, how to move so he
would feel good.”
“Mmmhmm?” Sam fiddles with a button, inches down to undo another.  The flannel
is so worn, he can work with just one hand.   Sam's always liked flannel; never
has any excuse to wear it anymore. He brings the other hand up to stroke Dean’s
arm. He can’t quite tell, but he suspects that, under the flannel and denim,
Dean's dick is starting to get hard.
“I felt good, too,” Dean says, and Sam realizes his eyes have opened.  He’s
looking at Sam somberly, older than his age.  “I felt good, when Ty kissed me.”
“That’s important,” replies Sam, his own vice low and gravelly.  “It’s
important to be with someone who makes you feel good.”
“Yeah?” Dean shifts almost imperceptibly.  Definitely getting hard.
“Yeah.  Whether that person is a woman or a man.”  Sam pauses. “Will you undo
the rest of your buttons for me?” 
Dean obeys  languorously, as though he really were acting under hypnosis.  When
the flannel is open all the way, he lets his hands drop back to his sides. 
Under the old t-shirt, his nipples have peaked in the chill of the air
conditioning. 
“Very good,”  Sam encourages, noticing that Dean flushes a little at the
praise.  He tries not to keep his eyes on Dea's face, not pay undue attention
to the bulge now evident in the kid’s jeans. 
“I’m going to touch you now.  Touch your chest.  Is that ok?” 
Dean nods silently.  Sam puts his hand on Dean’s belly, feels the ridges of
muscle there as Dean’s abs tighten at the half-expected touch.
“This area can be an erogenous zone for men and women,”  Sam explains, bland as
a high school biology teacher.  “More for women, though.” He moves his palm in
smooth wide circles, slowly up to Dean’s collarbones, then down to his belt. 
By the third pass, he can feel Dean’s breathing slow and relax. 
“Erogenous?” Dean says at last, stumbling slightly over the pronunciation.
“Means it should make you feel good.”  Two more circles.  “Like with Ty.  Does
it?  Does it make you feel good, Dean?”
It takes the boy a second to realize he’s been asked a question. He looks up at
Sam with sleepy, trusting eyes. “Uh-huh.”
“If it makes you feel reallygood, then that’s an indication that you might be
what we call ‘bi-sexual.’  Do you know what that is, Dean?”
“Uh-huh,” Dean repeats.  And then, his hands flicker at his sides, “Can I—uh,
is it okay if…?”
“Of course.  Whatever makes you comfortable,” Sam assures him, like he hasn’t
been sneaking corner-of-the-eye glances as Dean thickened under his jeans. 
The boy fumbles with his belt, fingers urgent and clumsy, until Sam reaches in
to help.  Dean gasps, and Sam can’t tell if it’s regret at losing the warm hand
on his chest, or relief when the belt opens.  His cock pushes up with enough
force that Sam can make it out clearly against the denim.  A good size for his
age, a handful that Sam wants to squeeze.  But he doesn’t.
“Better?”
Dean nods and it may just be Sam’s imagination, but he thinks the kid thrusts
his chest out a little, inviting Sam’s hand back.  Certainly he settles himself
against the high back of the chaise when Sam’s hand does settle on his t-
shirted stomach.  He droops like a Victorian maiden on a fainting couch, limp
except for that rampant dick that will soon start to edge over the waistband of
his jeans.
Without the belt, Dean’s pants sag, revealing a hint of soft cotton boxers. 
The jeans are clearly second-hand, bought so he can grow into them.  This time,
when Sam slides his hand between Dean’s side and the upholstery, his thumb
tucks right under the t-shirt, along the sliver of bare belly.  Dean shivers,
the tremor running along his whole body. 
Sam leans in to put the word right in Dean’s ear. “Cold?”
“Nnn,”  Dean shakes his head. 
“Good.  Now, did Ty ever touch you here?”  Sam folds Dean’s t-shirt back,
revealing two inches of stomach: trim, flat, a sparse trail of pale brown hair
starting low.  His mouth floods with spit and he has a sudden, almost
unquenchable desire to put his tongue into the whorl of Dean’s belly button. 
“Not really.”
“Here?”  Sam lets his hand slip up under the shirt, to the faintly defined
curve of Dean’s pectorals.
“Uhm, we mostly.  My mouth…”  Dean’s eyes have drifted shut again and he seems
dis-inclined to form full sentences.
Sam is glad Dean can’t see his disapproving frown.  Not that he can’t see the
appeal of Dean’s mouth—particularly now, the way Dean is chewing on his ripe
bottom lip—but he wishes Dean’s first experiences had been with a more
considerate lover.  Not some neighborhood kid looking for a willing body. 
Well.  Sam will make it up to him. 
He’s been teasing so far, giving Dean time to reject the efforts if he’s going
to.  But now Sam puts both hands on Dean, runs his palms over the corrugations
of his ribs, cups his pecs with two broad palms.
“Oh!” Dean’s eyes pop open, startled at the sudden warmth.  His nipples feel as
hard as pebbles under Sam’s hand. Sam digs his fingertips into the muscle. 
Under the layers of oversized shirts, it had been hard to tell, but Dean’s got
some meat there, despite his lanky teenaged frame.
Sam slides his hands down to settle at Dean’s waist.  He watches Dean look down
at his own nipples, poking up plainly through the cotton of his t-shirt.
“Does that mean I’m…?”
Sam puts on his most studious expression.  “Not sure.  We’ll need to try a few
more things.”
“Yeah,” Dean sounds breathless, “okay.”
Sam folds the t-shirt up, inch by inch, and Dean huffs a laugh when Sam tucks
one edge under his armpit.
“Ticklish?”
Thatis what finally makes Dean blush, and Sam can’t resist:  he brushes a kiss
on Dean’s warm cheek, the way he’s wanted to since he first showed up at the
Counseling Project.
Dean’s chest is smooth and still hairless, but better developed than Sam would
have expected.  What kind of heavy lifting is a kid this age doing to develop
those kind of upper-body muscles? Sam puts the thought firmly out of his mind. 
Propped up as he is, back arched by the curve of the chaise longue, Dean almost
looks like he has shallow little breasts, an illusion enhanced by nipples, so
firm and pink that Sam feels he could pluck them like raspberries.
When he tries, Dean's hips lift off the chaise.  The gasp he makes fades into a
moan when Sam twists a little.  Sam thumbs the other nipple gently, a confusion
of sensations that has Dean nearly levitating off the couch. 
“So sensitive,” Sam murmurs. “No, no.  That’s good,”he says when he sees the
slightly doubtful look on Dean’s face.  To prove it, he switches his
attentions: pinching the left tit and fondling the right.  With Dean’s
uncoordinated assistance, he peels off the layered shirts, then dives back in
to touch and tease. Finally, when Dean’s whimpers start to sound a little
pained, Sam leans back to observe his handiwork.
He was right: Dean does look gorgeous on this couch.  The deep brown leather
makes his early-summer tan glow, and the tan, in turn, draws the eye to his
reddened nipples.   He looks up at Sam, dazed, breathing shallowly.  Dean’s
squirming has worked his jeans half down his ass and his he’s blurted enough
pre-cum to make a nearly-transparent spot on his boxers.  When Sam traces the
wide, flat aureole of his left nipple, Dean’s cock jumps visibly. 
“Can I try something?”  Sam asks.
Dean’s response is a moan, but from the way he leans into Sam’s hand, it is an
affirmative moan. 
Sam walks to his desk, aware of his own cock grown heavy.  In the top drawer,
he’s placed two small binder clips on the cloisonné tray Jess purchased when
she took on the project of decorating his office.  The clips are the anonymous
black metal with little silver wings; they come in boxes of 25 from some random
office supply company.  Sophia the secretary uses them to hold billing slips
together for invoices.  If Sam had more time to plan, he would have gotten
something more suitable, or at least colored ones from the supply closet.  He
thinks Dean would look particularly lovely in green.
Dean’s got his right hand shoved into his boxers when Sam returns.  His left is
idly circling his nipple, not quite daring to touch.  Dean’s hips move with a
liquid grace; the flexing of his right arm makes his pecs tighten and jump.  He
looks at Sam, daring him to intervene.  As though Sam would do any such thing. 
Instead, Sam kneels next to the low couch and holds up the little clips, linked
together.  He jingles the once, then leans in close enough to feel Dean’s warm,
ragged breathing speed up.  He licks his thumb and draws a spit-wet ‘x’ on the
nub of Dean’s right nipple.  “If this were mine,” Sam breathes, “I’d have it
pierced.”
Dean shouts when he cums, a rough, wordless sound that is as sudden and
surprising as the orgasm that slams into him.  Sam can see Dean’s eyes
practically roll back into his head, can feel the slender body writhe like it’s
been electrified. Dean’s free hand snags in Sam’s shirt, pulling him close,
spasming and shaking.  Sam's face is crushed into the side of Dean’s neck,
right where it joins his shoulder, where he can feel the hot pulsing blood and
hear the way his breathing finally slows to a winded panting. 
Sam pulls back, smoothing one hand down Dean’s front, hearing him whine when
the palm passes over his chest.
“Fuck!” Dean manages, his eyelids fluttering and finally opening. It takes him
a moment to summon his usual cocky smile.  “Would you call that really good?”
Dean opens when Sam kisses him, lets Sam plunder his mouth: all lips and
tongue, hot and wet.  He doesn’t stop until he hears the jingle-click of the
binder clips falling from the edge of the chaise to the hardwood floor of the
office.  He blinks up at Sam, bashful again.
“Will it hurt?”
Sam is done with lying.  “A little.  But you’ll like it.”
Dean doesn’t disagree.  “Can I, uh…?”
“Anything, sweetheart.”
“Can I sit in your lap?”
That precious flush again, like he’s ashamed to be asking for something he
can’t have. 
“Please,” replies Sam.
Dean is so dizzy and strung out from the intensity of his orgasm that he needs
Sam’s help untangling himself from his clothing.  Cumming seems to have burnt
away all his inhibitions, though: he lets Sam tug off his jeans, steps out of
his damp boxers, straddles Sam completely nude.  He doesn’t seem to care that
Sam is still fully dressed, though he gasps, tender, when his softened cock
brushes Sam’s shirtfront.  Nestled into the corner of the chaise, still warm
from Dean’s body heat, Sam curls an arm around his hips and strokes his back
until he settles.
When Sam puts his mouth on Dean’s hot, swollen left nipple, he feels the boy’s
ribs expand and contract around a deep sigh. 
“Oh, oh! Fuck!”  Dean curses when Sam starts to suckle. 
Just a hint of teeth and Dean’s bare, gangly legs come up to circle Sam’s
waist.
Sam pulls off when he starts to feel Dean’s cock stir.  He holds up one binder
clip, “Ready?”
“Yeah, I wa—”
Sam doesn’t wait for Dean to finish; he just pinches the clip open and closes
it on the spit-slick tip of Dean’s tit.
Dean’s mouth opens and closes soundlessly.  His body bucks in Sam's arms and
then goes limp, head lolling on Sam’s shoulder, so suddenly that Sam wonders if
the kid has passed out.  He kisses the boy’s sweaty temple, the nearest part he
can reach. Dean drunkenly lifts his head, opens his eyes, pupils blown wide.
“Do t’other one,” he slurs. 
Sam suckles the other nipple until he feels Dean’s hips start to rock with the
rhythm of his mouth.    
“This how you used to, with Ty?” he asks.  The last binder clip is resting on
the floor, right by an air conditioning grate.  It will be icy when Sam picks
it up, and he wants to leave it ‘til the last possible moment.
“Nnn…Used to face t’other way,”  Dean mumbles.  “See computer better.  Like
this better.  Like how big you feel,” he rolls his hips, smirks when Sam pushes
up. 
“I think our test has been…?”  Sam starts.
“A success?” Dean gives him that under-the-lashes glance; how could Sam have
mistaken ‘coy’ for ‘shy’? 
Dean’s young enough that his little cock is blood-thick again by the time Sam
puts the second binder clip on his little nipple.  The cold makes Dean yelp. 
His red nubs look obscene against the dark metal and Dean touches one, gently,
wonderingly. 
“How’s it feel?” Sam’s hips are moving of their own accord now, grinding up
against Dean’s weight, making the clips bounce.  The silver catches the last
long rays of the evening, slanting through the window, staining Dean’s skin
pink and orange.  “Think you can cum again?”
It takes Dean a solid thirty seconds to answer.
“No.  But I want your mouth,” Dean whispers at last, sounding strung-out, “I
want your mouth on me.”
And Dean is always going to get what he wants, as long as Sam can give it to
him.  So Sam holds his hips steady and gently, so gently, takes one sore
tit—nipple, clip, and all—into the warmth of his mouth. Then he soothes the
other.  He’s got one arm supporting Dean’s increasingly lax body, which leaves
a free hand to pull out his own rigid cock and align it with Dean’s. 
Dean is clinging to Sam, one hand fisted at the back of Sam’s shirt, but Sam
guides the other hand down to stroke their joined dicks.  It’s only the
awkwardness of the angle that keeps him from cumming, that enables him to wait
until the greedy shoving of Dean’s hips indicate that he’s on the verge. 
“Too much,” Dean gasps.  “Gotta stop…”
No way in hell is Sam going to stop.  He's bigger than Dean, stronger, and he
has more leverage.  He can pin Dean's slim hips with one arm, hold him down,
make him ride the heavy weight of Sam's own cock. Sam's got Dean's right tit in
his mouth, suckling hard, and he flicks the clip on the other.  Like they just
couldn't hold back, is how Dean had described the online videos that had
aroused him so much.  Fuck: the kid has no idea.
This time, Dean's eyes do roll back into his head.  There's a split-second
where Sam is holding his gaze, a half a breath after he's plucked the clips off
Dean's nipples—one with his fingers, one with his mouth—but before the prickly-
hot sensation of blood flowing back to the sensitive tissues. And then Dean is
cumming, harder than ever before, sobbing with sensation, and the twisting of
his slick young body is pulling Sam into orgasm behind him. 
Sam loses time: it is almost full dark before he can be bothered to shift
himself out from under Dean's hot, heavy body. Dean clings for a second, then
subsides, letting Sam lay him back out on the sofa, press a kiss to the smooth
skin of his chest, between his bruised nipples, now puffy as a girl's. Dean
runs his fingers through Sam's sweaty hair and Sam wants to stay like this
forever.  Kneeling on the floor of his too-cold office, head pillowed on Dean's
chest. But they need water, clean clothes.  He needs to get the boy home, or at
least find him a decent hotel.   
Sam is at the door of his office when he hears the slip of damp skin against
leather.
“Doctor?” Dean props himself on one elbow, debauched as any odalisque.  “I
think I'm going to need to schedule another appointment.”
 
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