Sam/Dean/Tony. NC-17. ~4100 words.
“Do you like burgers? I like burgers.”
Right in the middle of belting out the first chorus in Highway to Hell, Dean stops short. Sam glances over as he leans closer to the rearview mirror, scowling and muttering, “What the hell?”
“What?” Sam asks, twisting in his seat just in time to see a sleek silver Audi slide in right beside them on the two-lane blacktop.
“You gotta be kiddin me,” Dean says.
There’s one guy in the car, decked out in something as sleek and trendy as his ride, hair slicked back and eyes hidden behind thin black lenses. He jerks his chin at the clear stretch of road ahead, teeth flashing movie-star white in bright coastal sun.
Sam says, “Seriously,” and downs a mouthful of stale, lukewarm water.
“Rich asshole,” Dean gripes. “California, man. Bakes their brains right in their skulls.” He gives the car an obvious once-over, baring his own teeth in a grin when the guy cocks an eyebrow and returns the favour.
“You know,” Sam says, “scraping the car off the side of a cliff isn’t as much of a hoot as it sounds, honestly.”
Dean’s fingers flex on the wheel.
The Impala gains about an inch of pavement.
The guy tosses them a two-fingered salute.
“Oh Christ,” Sam prays, water spilling down his front as he abandons the bottle for the door handle.
“Hell no.” Dean gets up, brushes his hands off on his jeans. They’re ripped here, faded there, and if it weren’t for the stain near his left knee that’s either hot sauce, engine grease or harpy blood, they’d be a good match for the designer pair the other guy’s strutting around in. “Thanks but no thanks.”
After a short moment of silence, Sam feels the weight of two incredibly stubborn gazes settle on him. He makes a go at ignoring them, keeping his lean against the driver’s side casual and his eyes on the horizon, but it’s sort of like trying to pretend gravity doesn’t exist.
“Maybe you could tell your boyfriend here I’m just trying to help,” the guy says as soon as Sam looks up. “He’d be an idiot to turn me down.”
Dean makes a noise like a cat choking on a hairball. Sam ignores him, says, “I’m Sam, he’s Dean. Who’re you?”
The guy’s grin is almost the mirror image of Dean’s, huge and full of teeth, smug enough to make that spot between Sam’s shoulder blades itch. “Tony,” he says, his hand coming up on reflex.
Sam takes it in his own, notes the firm, easy warmth, the nicks and calluses no amount of money can smooth away. He flicks a glance at the Audi’s license plate. Stark winks.
Dean eyeballs their clasped hands for a long wary second before stalking between them to tug open the driver’s side door. “Alright, hotshot. Where’s this workshop?”
Stark slides his shades back on. “Just try to keep up this time.”
“This a ’67?” Dean asks, hand hovering millimetres above the glossy blue finish.
“Not an absolutely horrible year,” Stark concedes. He unzips his jacket and flings it over one of the dozens and dozens of machines haphazardly laying around. It twitches as if it’s surprised before dutifully rolling away to drop it on top of a desk already piled with an entire store’s fall line-up.
“Should have everything you need right there,” Stark says, tugging up his shirtsleeves and dropping easily into a wheeled chair. “Do you like burgers? I like burgers. Miss Potts?”
Dean pulls himself away from peering into the tinted window of a screaming yellow car to throw Sam a look over the roof. Sam just shrugs.
“Mr. Stark,” replies a disembodied female voice.
“That Jeeves’s wife?” Dean asks.
“Jarvis,” the honey-smooth, English-tinted AI corrects.
“Ah, no,” Stark says. “Miss Potts is very female. Human,” he tacks on quickly.
“Very,” she responds, wryly.
Stark clears his throat. “Two for dinner, Miss Potts. Send out for the usual.”
“An hour?” Stark asks, glancing from Sam to Dean. Before either can answer, he says, decisively, “An hour,” and taps a button on one of the many screens glowing in a semi-circle around him.
“See how he does that?” Dean says, strolling back to the Impala and shrugging out of his jacket. “‘Cause he’s a smooth operator, Sammy. You and me, we might say bossy jackass, but no.” Dean tosses his jacket in the back seat, one distrustful eye on the wardrobe ‘bot lurking silently across the room. “He’d say he’s smooth.”
“Hey, I can eat your share too,” Stark says, hands up, palms out. “Metabolism of a teenager.”
“Is that why?” Sam nods at the neon glow centred in Stark’s chest.
“This?” Absently, Stark drums his fingers against it, the odd metal-plastic sound echoing flatly. “Keeps me going. And going.”
“And going,” Dean cuts in. “Awesome. I’m gonna fix my car now. You know, the one you fucked up.”
Stark smiles, wide and self-satisfied.
Sam chokes on his tongue. Both men toss him irritated glances and he waves a hand, confident he’ll get his breathing back under control in time for the Apocalypse wrought about by Dean willingly letting anyone but a Winchester near his baby. Any second now, the sky’s going to explode, tear the roof right off Stark’s impressively modern house. They’ll all probably have five, ten seconds to piss themselves before the world implodes.
“Put my hands all over another man’s business?” Stark says. “Hardly fair if I don’t return the favour.” While Sam tries not to choke on his tongue a second time, because Jesus Christ, even Dean’s got to be picking up on it now, Stark rolls himself over to the open hood of an old roadster. “’32. The output’s been giving me grief for a week.”
Dean gets up on one knee, wiping his hands on his jeans instead of the rag jammed into his pocket. He eyeballs the roadster like a stray scenting a prime rib. “A week, huh.”
“Want to take a look at it?”
Dean wanders over, cautiously sniffs around the engine for a minute, a minute more, lets Stark inch closer and closer until there’s a wide palm braced on the small of his back, and then he says, blunt and bald-faced and so Dean it actually makes Sam’s heart kick at his ribs, “You gotta move that hand down and around if you wanna get a handful of the good stuff.”
“And here I thought you were playing hard to get,” Stark says, and Sam would laugh, he really, really would, except Dean’s picked up Stark’s hand and put it right over his crotch, curled those long fingers tightly beneath his own. Stark’s tongue darts out to wet his lips. “Just hard, then.”
Stark throws a loaded glance Sam’s way, but Sam just settles lower in his seat, legs spread wide, hands loose between his thighs.
Dean lets Stark’s hand go but it stays right where it is, flexing slowly. He puts his own on Stark’s shoulder, slides it up to cup the side of his neck, managing to leave one perfect smear of black grease in his wake. “Me or him?” Dean asks, voice dipped low, eyes gone heavy.
Right off, no contest, Stark says, “Both.” His eyes glitter like the reactor’s sharp light. “One to suck, one to fuck.”
That hits Sam hard in the gut, hard as when those words roll silk-smooth off Dean’s tongue. But if it gets to Dean, it doesn’t show. He just says, “Guests get first choice,” slick conman tilt to his mouth that dares Stark to say no.
“That sounds fair,” is what Stark says, starting to lean closer to Dean before hesitating, his gaze sliding to Sam again.
Dean glances over his shoulder, eyebrows raised.
So, maybe sometimes, Sam’s as slow on the uptake as Dean. They’re both watching him, expectant, impatient, and he’s wondering if there’s going to be ground rules about kissing, or who puts what where and when before it hits him: they’re looking for permission. His permission.
“Dean fucks you,” Sam says, rougher than he meant to but he sees the shiver that trips down Dean’s spine, sees Stark feel it, recognise it. “You suck me.”
Stark lets out a slow, even breath, grin flashing back full force. “That sounds more than fair.” He looks up, because Dean’s got more than an inch or two on him and Sam wonders if Stark finds that as hot as he does, and says, “Will there be broken bones if I kiss him?”
Dean’s hand curls on Stark’s side, slides possessively down to his hip. “You asking him or me?”
Sam says, “No,” and Dean breathes, “You heard him,” into Stark’s mouth, following the words with the wet slide of his tongue.
Stark doesn’t hold back a thing, moans right into it and presses himself to Dean for more. His hand is trapped between them, smooth muscles in his forearm flexing, and Dean widens his stance, grinds. With a hard grunt, he jerks his hand free and slaps it flat to Dean’s ass, fingers scrabbling and twisting for a decent grip on worn denim pulled tight.
Dean releases Stark’s mouth in favour of rasping his teeth over Stark’s chin, working his way around to finding all the best places to chew on Stark’s neck. Stark’s full of helpful, pushy encouragement, mumbling, “There, there, no there,” and cutting himself off with a groan when Dean gets it just right.
“Guy’s as bossy as you, Sammy,” Dean says.
Grinning, Stark scratches blunt fingernails through the hair at Dean’s nape. “You looked the type to enjoy it,” he says, and to Sam, “Tell me I’m wrong.”
To Dean’s fierce scowl, Sam can only raise his hands helplessly. “He’s not wrong.”
“That so,” Dean growls, and Sam has to wonder if Stark has the same hit of lust shivering through his gut when Dean smacks the Ford’s hood down and shoves him over it face-first.
Stark might be a little bit more breathless this time, but he hasn’t lost an ounce of that cocky swagger when he says, “Yep.”
Dean twists a hand in Stark’s shirt, rucks it up right underneath his armpits. “Sam, grab my duffle, would ya?”
Before Sam’s out of his chair, Stark counters, “Main workstation. Top drawer.” He pushes up on his elbows to point out the one, stretching out the long, smooth line of his back like a lazy housecat beneath Dean’s palm.
Sam finds four bottles of mostly-empty Gun Oil, the sort that’s distinctly not meant for actual weaponry. He lobs two to Dean, one after the other, and holds up the other two between the fingers of a hand.
With a shrug, Stark says, “I really love my work.”
One-handed, Dean reaches beneath Stark and starts fumbling at his belt. “Can’t fault the man for that.”
“Most certainly can’t,” Stark agrees, thumb hooked impatiently in the waistband of his jeans, ready to shove them down the second Dean unzips him. “Do you need some help there?”
Wearily, Dean says, “Sam?”
“What?” Sam nudges the chair he’s claimed from Stark’s workstation about a foot to the left, bracing it against one of the desks. Perfect.
“Get over here, asshole.”
“Yeah,” Stark agrees, his smile not budging an inch when Dean grabs his hand and slaps it back on the car, muttering irritably for him to keep it right the fuck there this time. “Asshole. Get over here.”
Sam sighs, one long, heavy sound of his eternal suffering, and heaves himself to his feet. His dick is fucking killing him, trapped in jeans that are never, ever loose enough. “You know, maybe I wanted to watch you fuck him first.”
Dean grins that smarmy, shit-eating grin of his and jerks his chin at Stark. “Hold him, princess.”
Helpfully, Stark sticks an arm up and waves it in Sam’s face. Now the two of them are grinning at him like loons. He fights to keep back an answering smile as he grabs at Stark’s wrists, stretches him right out across the narrow hood and drops down so they’re face to face.
There’s a rustle and thump of cloth hitting concrete and Stark breathes, “Finally,” gaze jumping up to meet Sam’s before dropping to his lips. “Hi. You should kiss me now.”
Sam glances up to see Dean watching them, his hand sliding down Stark’s side to disappear between his legs. “I should?”
“You should,” Stark repeats, breath puffing out on a moan as his eyes flutter shut, open again. “Really.”
It’s not the worst idea ever. Sam brushes his mouth lightly against Stark’s, feels soft lips and the prickle of short hair. He’s used to the roughness of Dean’s stubble but this is new. He mouths at Stark’s lips, lingers at the edges where smooth skin gives way to neatly-trimmed beard, and blatantly ignores the way Stark strains to make it sink into a deeper, real kiss.
When Stark’s mouth goes completely slack beneath his, Sam opens his eyes. There’s a tiny crease between Stark’s brows, eyes squeezed shut, breaths coming faster, shorter. Dean’s gaze catches his, the whole of Dean’s bottom lip caught between sharp white teeth right before Stark lets loose with a grating curse.
“He’s good with his hands,” Stark explains, voice rumbling low in his throat. “Nice fingers.”
Sam’s cock jerks, a pulsating rush of hot-wet at the tip. “Thick,” he says.
Stark nods, twisting against Sam’s grip in an attempt to get some leverage, push back harder.
Almost a rasp, Sam asks, “How many?”
Slowly, Stark’s eyes open. His pupils are blown wide, black eating away at soft brown. He wets his lips, says, “Just two.”
Without looking up, Dean says, “He’s tight, almost as tight as you,” and guesses, “Been awhile.”
Another slow, lazy curl of pleasure winds up the base of Sam’s spine. He has to swallow twice to get enough spit to wet his throat before he says, mouth to mouth with Stark, “Hasn’t even touched your dick yet, has he.”
“Wouldn’t really mind if he did,” Stark says, sharp edges of his words lost to softer noises as Dean works him open. “I’m not really- Jesus fuck.”
Stark’s head dips down and all Sam wants to do is grab it, force it up again so he can see what Dean’s doing to him writ clear across his face. So either Stark’s really good at guessing what people want or he’s just greedy for more of a kiss than Sam’s given him yet, because he lifts his head, surges forward to get his mouth skipping across Sam’s cheek, saying, “That’d be three,” before the slick glide of his tongue touches Sam’s lips.
And Sam wants to kiss him. He really, really does, just shove his tongue in Stark’s mouth and listen to him moan. That doesn’t really do much to explain why he transfers Stark’s wrists to one hand, letting the sharp sound Stark makes feed his ego as he leans up, props his free hand on the hood and leans in to claim Dean’s mouth instead.
Dean makes a surprised noise but doesn’t miss a beat, twisting his arm harder when Sam’s tongue licks into his mouth. Sam imagines he can taste a little bit of Stark on Dean’s tongue. It whets his appetite to find out just what Stark tastes like all on his own.
“Hey,” Stark says, more than a little breathless and well on his way to fucked out. “I’m in the middle here, pay attention.”
Against Dean’s mouth, Sam whispers, “You’re not fucking him hard enough.”
Dean grunts. “Bitch, bitch, bitch,” he mutters and pulls back, fumbling one-handed at his own jeans this time. “Slick me up.”
Stark twists and turns between them, trying to wrench around far enough to get a good look. Before Dean can complain, Sam eases back, tugs Stark’s arms hard enough to have him fall heavily against the hood.
“I’m not above incessant begging to get what I want,” Stark warns.
Sam smiles, smooth and cocksure. He’s not above making Stark do it, either. He brings his mouth close to Stark’s again, lets their lips brush together lightly. “Just tell me when he’s in you.”
The sound Stark makes then gets right under Sam’s skin, ripples through him like a wave of hot desert air.
“All the way,” Stark says, not really a question.
“All the way.”
Dean says, “Fuck,” but doesn’t interrupt again. There’s another rustle of cloth and the chime of loose change spilling to the concrete. Under the tight circle of Sam’s fingers, Stark’s wrists flex, hands curling into fists.
Just for Stark’s ears, Sam murmurs, “Dirty talk makes him crazy.”
“Yeah?” Stark breathes, tongue darting out to dampen his lips, catching on Sam’s. “What about you?”
“Why d’you think I don’t have my dick in your mouth yet?”
Stark’s lips start to curl into a grin and then stumble right out of it again. He twists, there’s the scrape of metal on metal beneath his chest, and he lets out an irritated noise, somewhere just south of a groan. “He’s fucking teasing me.”
“Don’t tell me you don’t like it,” Sam says. He almost pulls away to look for himself but he’s getting off a hell of a lot harder than he thought he would on the way Stark’s pleasure-thick words spill into his mouth. The air’s warm and close between them, heavy with sweat and the smell of Stark’s overheated skin. “How?”
Another clang of metal; Stark’s knee banging into the roadster, Sam thinks. “Just dragging his dick over me,” Stark says, pulling against Sam’s grip like he doesn’t even mean to. “Pushes in, pulls out.”
Sam’s going to blow his load long before he even gets his cock near Stark’s mouth. “Tell me how far.”
“The head, little more- there, c’mon, keep going.” Stark’s tongue glides along Sam’s bottom lip, barely dips inside before he’s cursing again. “He do this to you, just hold you open with his cock?”
Sam shifts to ease the ache in his knees but he can’t do a damn thing about the bone-deep throb in his dick, not without making it too easy for Stark to jerk free. “That’s what I do to him.”
“Inhumane,” Stark says, and sounds like he’s going to add more but his voice dissolves into a ragged, panting moan. He tries again a second time with no luck, his fingers stretching out to snag in the buttons of Sam’s shirt.
Sam fits their mouths together, the clumsy way Stark kisses him sparking like fresh gunpowder in his veins, and then Stark breaks away from it, gasping out, “Shaves his balls and if he doesn’t fuck me right the hell now, I’m going off without either one of you.”
“You heard the man,” Sam says to Dean. He gets a grunt in response and Stark’s mouth back on his. From the shaky, hungry way Stark’s tongue lashes at his, he figures Dean’s decided to make sure Stark’s the last man standing.
This time, when Stark breaks the kiss, it’s to gesture impatiently at Sam’s crotch. “Can’t talk now,” he grates out. “Getting fucked.” Another hurry up, c’mon motion. “Blowjob.”
That’s not the worst idea ever, either. Sam lets go of one of Stark’s wrists to open up his jeans, tug his cock out and give it a few quick pulls just to take the edge off. Which doesn’t work at all, because Stark’s gaze is glued to the shining smear at the head, his jaw gone slack on a quick intake of breath.
Stark wraps his free hand around the one Sam’s got on his cock and yanks the other one towards the back of his head. He scrambles up on his elbows, grunts absently when one of Dean’s harder thrusts makes him slip. Once Sam’s fingers are buried in his hair, both of his hands still over Sam’s, he says, “Try not to choke me too much.”
Then it’s all wet, sloppy heat, the accidental scrape of teeth that Stark obviously isn’t one bit sorry for because he’s not actually doing a goddamn thing. He’s nothing but pliant between them, body loose and moving easy with the unsteady rhythm. Dean looks up, his face sex-flushed and sort of awed and Sam’s got to agree, he really does, because Stark’s letting them just give it to him.
From the choked-off noises Stark’s making, it’s the best damn idea he’s had all year.
Dean loses it first. The exact moment Dean goes still, head dropped down, body curved sharply over Stark’s, Stark’s lips tighten up around Sam’s dick. His tongue goes from flat and firm along the underside to licking hard at the head when Sam pulls back far enough, the thick noises in his throat turning harsher, more demanding.
Teeth clenched, Sam manages to spit out, “After,” and he doesn’t know how but Dean gets it. Both his hands dip beneath Stark. Sam imagines one wrapped tight around his dick, pulling in long, hard strokes, the other with fingers buried to the first knuckle inside tight, come-slick heat.
He feels Stark’s coordination go to shit all over again and tries vainly to hold off from delivering a surprise shot in the mouth. Over the pounding rush inside his own head he hears Stark cough, feels his own come spill back over his dick, but Stark doesn’t let him slip all the way free. He opens bleary eyes to see Stark doing his fucking best to lick up whatever he can’t swallow, come smeared in wet strings down his chin.
After a long, long minute, while Sam’s waiting for his knees to unlock and maybe his heart to quit trying to smash through his ribs, Stark’s forehead thunks softly against the hood. Dean urges him back up, hand splayed wide on his belly sliding up, smearing glistening over his ribs. Stark just looks down, turns more towards the light and says, “Good thinking. Wouldn’t want that mucking around in the engine.”
“No problem,” Dean says, tugging his jeans back halfway up his thighs and rummaging for the rag still in his pocket. “I’m a considerate guy.”
Stark snatches the rag and tosses it to Sam, then points to the scratches all over the hotrod’s paint job. “You know you’re going to have to fix that, too.”
A light, feminine throat-clearing noise draws their attention to the stairwell. Sam guesses it’s Miss Potts standing there in a crisp green suit with three sacks of Burger King in one hand, two beers in the other and a third bottle tucked under one arm.
Dean quickly tugs his jeans all the way up. Sam’s got the rag to preserve his modesty and his jeans never made it down his hips anyway, and Stark? Well, Stark just stands there, grins cheekily and says, “This still isn’t the worst thing you’ve ever caught me doing.”