It wasn’t the first time for Dean. Not close to ten, but more than three. He hated when following the hunt brought him and Dad close enough that it was just a drive away. Hated it, because he knew he couldn’t not go.
He’d tried. But it simmered and bubbled in his blood. It burned at the back of his head until his brain felt like it was going to explode.
It was sacrilege and Dean blamed Sam. If his brother were with them and not off pretending to be something he wasn’t… pretending to forget who he was…
Dean’s fist wouldn’t be knocking on the door.
He wouldn’t be standing in a private room. He wouldn’t have his hands dug in around leather, his cock deep inside a mouth that could kill him without a second thought. He wouldn’t feel the matching black and silver under his own chin because the blond vampire with the sinful sneer, the shocking ice blue eyes and the twisted mind that never failed to come up with new games, wouldn’t put on a collar until Dean had.
When he left, he felt dirty. Felt like he should have used that stake in his pocket instead of leaving it untouched. Felt like he didn't do what his father would’ve, burnt the place to the ground. Salted the earth and Dean told himself that he would never come back. Never do that again.
As he drove, his hand stroked over the crotch of his jeans and if he hadn’t just come three times in a row, he’d be getting hard… just thinking of Spike’s wet, skilled tongue and the way he growled when he came inside Dean’s sore ass. Narrow hips slapped and pushed deep.
Sharp teeth bit into leather instead of flesh.
The more Angel fought with him, the more Spike smiled. The more Angel postured and ignored him, the more Spike laughed.
The afternoon culminated with Angel throwing whatever he could reach and grab at Spike’s head. And even down on the first floor they’d heard the slam of the office door.
Spike amused himself with the poetry of new rock and smoked too many cigarettes. He found Angel in his apartment after dark, paperwork littered the table and a bottle of Irish whiskey on the floor between his bare feet.
“Go away, Spike.”
Spike kicked off his boots.
“I’ve got work to do.”
Spike tossed his jacket over the back of a chair.
“I don’t have time for this.”
Spike unbuttoned his shirt, let it drop to the floor.
“Don’t you understand? I’m not playing.”
Slow zip, jeans off.
“Don’t push me, boy.”
Spike won when the bottle tipped and Angel didn’t catch it.
A slap of leather, the smell of heated arousal. They didn’t need the light, but Spike liked the way hot wax felt on Angel’s chest. He really liked the way it made Angel jerk and twist and pull.
He liked the way the straps cut into Angel’s wrists and ankles. He liked the spill of blood and he liked it when Angel broke for him.
“Who pushes you, ‘Gelus?
“Who plays with you?
“Who do you have time for… who do you have forever for…?”
Shivered sigh, trembling muscles, reflexive breathing.
“You, Spike. Only you.”
*dances with you*