moragmacpherson: (delirium)
moragmacpherson ([personal profile] moragmacpherson) wrote2012-02-18 02:21 pm

Fic: Penrose Stairs (Inception-SPN), Sam/Arthur, Arthur/Eames, NC-17) 1/3

Title: Penrose Stairs
Authors: [personal profile] moragmacpherson & [personal profile] dragonspell
Betas: [personal profile] callowyn and [personal profile] sistabro
Fandoms: Inception-Supernatural crossover fusion-AU; let's just call it Superception
Rating: NC-17
Final Word Count: 19,541
Pairings: Sam/Arthur, Eames/Arthur
Timeline: Set during "Mystery Spot" (3.11) for Supernatural, pre-movie for Inception.
Disclaimer: None of the characters contained herein belong to me and this work is not intended for any profit or other commercial purposes.
Not Such As I Was
Contents include: Language, graphic sexual situations,canonical character death
Summary: The stairs make four 90-degree turns as they ascend or descend yet form a continuous loop, so that a person could climb them forever and never get any higher. This is clearly impossible in three dimensions.

Master Post

February 12, 2008
Tuesday's Child is Full of Grace

"What on Earth could have persuaded you to go to Pittsburgh in the middle of bloody January?" Eames asked Arthur from across the office while they took a late lunch. 'Office' was the polite term for 'cheapest room the client could rent out in a random Missile Crisis-era concrete bunker turned poultry farm' a few miles outside of Havana. At least on the second floor, the scent of chicken shit from the coops in the courtyard wasn't quite as pungent.

"You know I despise Pittsburgh," Arthur replied around a mouthful of arroz con pollo.

Eames grinned. "So why were you there?"

Arthur leaned back in his chair and said, "I wasn’t," then ate another forkful.

"I have your receipts." Eames looked down in front of his desk. "Going by Hammond this time, looks like. I've always been rather fond of that alias. It makes you sound even more dashing."

Arthur finished chewing, swallowed, then leaned forward so that all four legs of the chair as well as his own feet were on the ground. "Eames?"


"Why do you have my receipts?"

"Because I lifted your wallet while you were unpacking lunch." Arthur didn't do anything so foolish as pat at his pocket: if Eames said he'd done it, he'd done it. "You really ought to clean it out more often. Mementos of three weeks ago? I expected it to be tidier."

Arthur ignored the obvious distraction attempt. "Which again prompts the question: why?"

"Have to make sure I'm still on top of my game. If I can make it with you, I can make it with anyone, can't I?" Eames hummed a few bars of “New York, New York” with a crooked-toothed leer, holding up Arthur's wallet. "I didn't take anything out or memorize any numbers, you have my word of honor." Eames tossed the wallet over; Arthur caught it and set it on top of his desk.

Eames' word of honor actually did mean something, so Arthur didn't have the need to check now (he would later). Seeing the receipts was bad enough. Arthur cleared his throat. "You are aware that I have killed for less?" he asked.

"Oh, very much so." Eames opening his own container of boliche. "Though I'm not looking forward to you murdering me on our next few practice runs, I'm hoping to encourage your creative side such that you'll find at least one method that surprises me. These are the prices professionals like ourselves must pay to keep our instincts sharp in this nasty business we call life." Arthur pondered the merits of stabbing Eames with his fork in this nasty business they called life. "You still haven't answered my question," added Eames.

Arthur wanted to sigh, he wanted to shake his head, he wanted to grab Eames by the throat and throw him out of the window into the chicken coops outside. He wanted to ask, Why the hell are you pushing this? Why are you forcing me to lie? Do you really need me to tell you that you were on Market Street wearing a pink and orange scarf and a ridiculous yellow beanie and smoking a cigarette on the day I left? Did you forget that when we aren't on the same side of a job, we don't talk about that job? Do you really want me to tell you that I know about your open contract to find Lavoisier with Proclus Global and the one with XanaCorp Enterprises? Do you want me to admit out loud that I will have no choice but to kill you if you ever give Sam Winchester so much as a sideways glance? I made a promise and I keep those and for the love of God, Eames, just shut the fuck up and don't try to be clever, just this once, because as annoying as you are I find your unfailing competence unhealthily attractive and you make me laugh sometimes when I want to die and I don't want to kill you, not most of the time, not really, except right now, when I really do.

Arthur shrugged and said, "Nothing could convince me to go to Pittsburgh in the middle of January."


"Certain parties may have been under the mistaken impression that events of interest to me were happening in Pittsburgh, but had they gone to Pittsburgh themselves, they would realize that things in Pittsburgh weren't nearly as interesting as rumored. They would have found a number of stupid people experimenting recreationally with a psychedelic plant that got themselves killed. Furthermore, the person who made all the noise about the situation turned out to be a determined and very well-spoken conspiracy theorist with a drinking problem, a Fentanyl problem, and an impressive collection of trucker hats. Said crank would also make sure to tell them all about the aliens that abducted him on the road in Ohio. For an hour or three at a time."

Arthur took another bite of chicken before he continued. "Otherwise reliable observers may have come to those conclusions, but I'm sad to say that they still would have been wrong. Because the fact is that nothing happened in Pittsburgh, and you can check the official records if you'd like. But of course, I can't say for certain, because even if something had happened in Pittsburgh last month, I wasn't there to see it. And if you ever think differently, then this is the last time you and I will work together and you will find that not many other people are willing to work with you either." Arthur dabbed his lips with a napkin, then flashed Eames a tight smile. "Are we clear?"

Eames regarded him for several long moments before he nodded. "Clean-up job for the military then? Say no more. Though, given the terms on which you parted, I can't believe you're still willing to contract with them."

Arthur snorted. "Enormous waste of time and a pain in my ass, but they dropped the assault charges on the Scofield case and it got three of my identities off the no-fly list, along with Thomas Gordon Sumner."

Eames' eyes lit up. "Arthur! I didn't realize you cared."

“Yes, well.” Arthur poked at his chicken. "I've kind of always liked that alias on you. Not that I had anything to do with it. And I ought to stab you for handing out my number." Arthur had his fork halfway to his mouth when his phone started ringing. He sighed, set his lunch aside, and answered. "Yes?"

"Arthur, I need you to cast your totem. Now," said Sam, his voice hoarse and panicked.

Arthur felt his eyes bug out of his head. Not-speaking of the fucking devil. He didn't dare look up at Eames, he just reached into his pocket and grabbed the die. It felt right, but just in case, Arthur spun around and rolled it. "This is reality," he said. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Eames nearly drop his lunch in a rush to check his own totem. Arthur glanced up and Eames mouthed we're awake. "My team just checked. We're definitely awake."

Sam sounded like he was starting to cry. The sound echoed oddly, like he was in a small space, maybe a bathroom. It amplified those choked hitching noises that always made Arthur's eyes start to mist up too. "Fuck, I— but this doesn't really tell me anything, does it? Your projection might just be lying to me. Did they fucking catch me, Arthur? I—I thought we were being more careful with the car and everything but maybe, maybe you were right. God, I hope you find me soon, I can't—I can't take this much longer."

"Hey, hey, hey. Deep breaths, come on, just relax. We're awake, okay? You're just... confused." These episodes happened sometimes, a side-effect of frequent Somnacin use. As far as Arthur knew, Sam hadn't used for years—that disaster of a dreamroot cocktail last month did not count—but then, waking night terrors had been what brought him to Arthur in the first place. "Now, why did you need my totem? Did you lose yours?" Arthur glanced at his keys sitting on the desk, at the odd metal bead from Sam's bracelet that he'd taken to fondling during down time.

"No. I've got it. It—it keeps coming up real."

"Good, good, keep that in mind." Arthur opened up his laptop. "Where are you?"

"Little town in Florida. Broward County."

Less than three hundred miles away, but in order to get from Havana to Fort Lauderdale, Arthur would have to do some tricky maneuvering. Or call in some major markers. Or both. "Okay. Do you remember how you got there?"

Sam's voice broke again. "Sort of. I can remember—how I get to—it repeats, I know how I get here, but I don't know how I get back. That's the thing— shit, is this what Limbo feels like? You've never been to Limbo, you wouldn't know. I'm sorry for every time I made fun of you for being so scared of it. I should call Miles. Limbo would make sense. But why does he keep dying?" asked Sam. "Maybe if I—"

"Hey!" Arthur shouted. "Don't you— don't even start talking about that, asshole." Probably not the best tactic; Arthur tried to follow his own advice. "You need to slow down. Please, please, calm down, just listen to my voice and try to breathe." Eames mouthed the question Who is it? Arthur scowled at him and shook his head as he opened up his notebook. "Miles is in Dhaka. I don't have his number, but I'll get it for you."

Sam was hiccuping now and Arthur could hear the snot bubbles. "That—that'd be, please..."

"I just need one second. Promise me you're won't do anything drastic while I'm getting the number." Arthur scrawled out 'Get the number and then get me a flight to Miami, NOW!' in his notebook and flashed it at Eames, who pulled out his phone. "Just for a little bit. I need you to trust me when I say we're all awake and this isn't Limbo or a dream or anything else." Except for possibly a psychotic break, but Arthur would worry about that once he got there.

"Then what the fuck else could it be?" Sam screamed in a voice that ripped Arthur's heart in two, loud enough for Eames to hear it and blanch.

On the other end of the line, Sam was now openly sobbing. In the background Arthur could hear a door being kicked in and Dean yelling, "Fuck, Sam, what is wrong with you today?"

"Hey, hey, maybe you should let me talk to your brother," said Arthur, words that he'd never thought would ever pass his lips—but he'd never heard Sam like this, not once, not when Jess had died, not even while exploring his nightmares.

But Sam wasn't listening to Arthur. "Dammit, Dean! I told you not to touch the guns today, go put it—no, don’t, I’ll do it myself.” The sound of a scuffle, and something indistinct from Dean. Sam’s voice got more desperate. “Dean, give it to me. Just give me the gun, now. I mean it." Arthur hoped against all evidence that Dean wouldn't be stupid enough to arm someone in Sam's condition.

"I'll give you the gun after you give me the phone and tell me what the fuck's going on," Dean shouted.

Eames tapped Arthur on the shoulder, his scrawl utterly, deadly legible. 'You can be there in ten hours legit commercial, seven if I can put together some papers, four if we both give the Grajales cartel a marker and don't get caught, here's Miles' hotel number, Ivan and Stella understand.'

"Thank you," Arthur whispered at Eames and pointed at 'Grajales cartel'. Dean was still yelling in the background and Arthur needed to get Sam's attention back. Arthur gave Eames one glance and decided, for once, to hope. "Sam. Sam. Sam!"

"Yeah, yes — Dean, I mean it, gimme the goddamn gun!"

Arthur heaved out a breath. "Sam, I'm on my way to you, it'll be a couple hours, I'll find you, just stay where you are and don't—"

"That won't be fast en—" Sam started, but then there was a sickening, wet, bone-crunching sound. Human skull against porcelain, if Arthur had to put money on it. The cold facts passed through the front of his mind while his heart dropped out of his chest. Then he heard Sam whimper, "Fuck. Dean!" before the phone cut out.

Eames stared at Arthur, white as a sheet. "What the hell was that?"

Arthur couldn't stop looking at the phone. "I have no ide—


Arthur generally slept well in Cuba, whenever his job permitted him to actually sleep in the country. This job was not one of those times. Arthur rolled over, saw it was 7:30, grabbed the ringing phone, and mumbled, "Yes?"

"Hi, need you," said Sam.

Arthur flopped over again, rolled his die, and confirmed this was waking reality. He grunted. "I was working until five this morning, I'm sleeping now, you already owe me, call again in two hours."

"I need you to get to Miami as soon as you can."

"I'm in the middle of a job, I'm exhausted, and I'm not your fucking errand boy."

"Dean and I are holed up in a shitbag motel and there are thugs from XanaCorp Enterprises sitting in a van outside my door," said Sam. The reply came a little too quick, but Sam did sound desperate.

Arthur rubbed grit out of his eyes. "I'm... I'm really not in the best position to get to Miami right now."

"Call your contact in the Grajales cartel, they'll be the fastest."

Arthur sat up in his bed. "What? How the fuck do you know—? What's going on over there?"

Sam had the decency to sound embarrassed. "I'll explain later. They're the quickest way to get you from Cuba to Florida and I need you here."

"Well, that's something of a change from the last few times we talked," said Arthur, feeling just a little bitter. "Why do you need me?"

"Because if you decide someone's going to live until tomorrow, then they will," Sam said, like it was gospel truth. "There's no one better," he added, and that almost made Arthur's eyes sting. "Please."

Arthur pinched the bridge of his nose and swung his legs off the bed. One day he'd say no to Sam. Somehow. "Okay, I'll be there in a couple of hours. Just, hold tight, okay?"

Sam sounded hopeful for the first time in the conversation. "We will. We'll try, we'll—hold on—" Arthur heard something in the background that might have been Dean, then Sam called back, "You'll thank me when it's Wednesday!"

Arthur wiped his eyes, starting to reconsider his offer. He'd forgiven Sam a lot of things over the years but this was really beginning to sound like a practical joke. "Sam, can you tell me what's going on?"

"Not really, I don't—" Sam stopped. "Dean?" he gasped, and the phone cut out.

Arthur picked up his die, just to make sure he'd seen it right the first time. He rolled a—


Eames' eyes lit up. "Arthur! I didn't realize you cared."

“Yes, well.” Arthur poked at his chicken. "I've kind of always liked that alias on you. Not that I had anything to do with it. And I ought to stab you for handing out my number." Arthur had his fork halfway to his mouth when his phone started ringing. He sighed, set his lunch aside, and answered. "Yes?"

"Hi, Arthur," said Sam.

Arthur felt his eyes bug out of his head. Not-speaking of the fucking devil. He fought the urge to glare at Eames: with Eames there, he couldn't scream at Sam about proper precautions because come on, they'd just had this talk. "Are you fucking kidding me?" he asked instead.

"Don't hang up and don't worry. I just wanted to tell you a few things."

Arthur gazed up at the heavens, wondering what the hell he'd done to deserve both Sam and Eames acting up at the same time. "And what makes you think I’ll listen?"

"It's demon blood," Sam said quickly.

Arthur paused. That sounded serious, but if this was one of their codes, it wasn't one Arthur remembered. "I'm sorry, I think I missed that. Try again?"

Sam laughed, the little prick. "It's not code, Arthur. You always said you wanted to know, right? I promised you I'd never lie about my past. So, just as an experiment, I'm going to see what happens when I don't hide it."

"Uh, okay." Arthur felt more than a little confused.

Sam took a deep breath. "Okay, here goes: I have a little bit of demon blood, that's why my dreams are so clear and stable. I used to have some psychic powers in reality too, but I haven't had any visions since we killed Azazel."

"Killed who?"

"Azazel, the yellow-eyed-demon who killed my mother and Jess. Try to keep up."

"This isn't funny."

"It isn't, is it? You should try living it for awhile. My mom died when she caught Azazel feeding me his blood when I was a baby, that's why Dad took us out on the road. We're professional demon hunters." Christ, Sam sounded serious. "And monster hunters, we kill a lot of those too. The reason I've been so freaked out lately is because after this other guy with demon blood killed me last year, my brother sold his soul to bring me back, and on my birthday hell hounds are going to show up and rip him to shreds. I've spent the last nine months trying to figure out how to save him, and you know what, that's really not funny anymore either." Sam still sounded serious, but his voice was starting to edge toward manic.

Arthur clenched his jaw. "Are you high?"

"I wish. That's the truth I've been hiding from you all these years. Also, there's a pretty good chance I'm the Antichrist. I don't think it's contagious, though, so you shouldn't worry."

Whatever face Arthur was making, it had Eames alarmed enough that he was standing up and coming over to check on him. "I— what?"

"I told you it was crazy. Now you know. Go ahead and check your totem: you're not dreaming." Arthur froze, a little freaked out about the fact that he'd already been reaching for the die when Sam spoke. He dutifully checked it: at the very least, Arthur was awake.

After the silence stretched out a few moments too many, Sam sighed. "It's not because I don't trust you. It's because my life is seriously fucked up and no one should have to put up with this shit. Especially not you."

Arthur cleared his throat. "Any particular reason you decided to tell me now?" he asked.

"Yes, but that doesn't matter," Sam said, resigned to... something.

Arthur opened up his laptop. "I, uh. Tell me where you are, I think we need to talk about this in person." He dashed off a quick e-mail to Mal: Sam's having a psychotic break, get packed, more details when I have them.

Sam sighed. "Wish we could. But you can't get here in time. You've tried, but it looks like we're all just stuck where we are on Tuesday. I just... between this and everything else, I was sick of lying. I wanted to see how this would go. But I guess it's going about as badly as I expected. You think I'm nuts, don't you?"

Arthur paused. "I didn't say that."

"I heard you typing. You can check— I've been using the Oblivion File as a journal. You'll find all of the evidence you need there. I'm not crazy, not yet." Sam said, and he sounded ancient. "Give me a few more Tuesdays."

Arthur felt his heart lurch up into his throat. "Just... tell me where you are. Maybe Mal can get there if I can't."

"She can't. Unless the universe is genuinely conspiring against me and this is the day Dean actually survives, in which case, I guess I'll see you soon. Love you."

"But where—" Arthur began, but the line cut off. He fell out of his chair when Eames put a hand on his shoulder. "Jesus," he yelped, stumbling down to his knees.

Eames had the decency to look apologetic. "Sorry, it's just that— you look a bit stricken. Is everything all right?" he asked, offering Arthur a hand.

His hand was warm, strong, and solid around Arthur's: everything Arthur needed at that moment. "No, I don't think it is," Arthur told him.

"Can I help?" Eames asked.

"I don't—


Arthur settled his plate of arroz con pollo in his lap, tipping his chair back to get a little more comfortable. Even though he technically slept for a living, this particular job left him exhausted, in part because of the heat, in part because of a difficult mark, and in part because Eames thought it was fun to 'keep him on his toes' when they worked together.

His fork hadn't even touched the plate when his phone rang. Arthur twitched, the chair slipped, and then he was falling backwards.

Really? was his first thought, watching his rice fly like fireworks, followed by: Eames is never going to let me live this down. Then the back of his head hit the concrete floor at exactly the wrong angle and he really saw fireworks.

After that his vision went kind of dim. Everything felt distant. The damn phone was still ringing, and somewhere over him Eames was not acting at all like himself. Eames hardly ever shouted; when Eames was angry, he got quiet. And Eames wouldn’t let his face twist in all those horrible ways just because Arthur had fallen down.

Someone was stroking his cheek, pushing his fingers through Arthur's hair. Eames was also talking. "Arthur, darling, stay with me. Don't try to move."

Arthur would have smiled but it felt like too much work. Even moving his mouth was getting difficult. The phone was ringing again. "You should get that," he muttered.

The last thing Arthur heard was Eames shrieking, "Arthur can’t come to the bloody phone because you've gone and likely killed him, you fucking twit!"


Arthur had his fork halfway to his mouth when his phone started ringing. He sighed, set his lunch aside, and answered. "Yes."

"I wish you were here," said Sam, his voice low and warm.

Arthur felt his eyes bug out of his head. Not-speaking of the fucking devil. "What's going on?" he asked. This was not how their phone calls started. Ever.

"There's somebody with you right now."

Arthur frowned and glanced at Eames. "Yes, but I can go somewhere a little more—"

"Don't," said Sam and it was a command. Arthur froze. "Want you to stay right there at your desk. It's almost a hundred degrees in there and you've got your sleeves rolled up but you're still wearing your tie, aren't you?"

Sam had it exactly right, actually, but Arthur's response to the words wasn't exactly... verbal.

"You can turn towards your desk. Pull out your moleskine if you need an excuse." Arthur did both. There was a promise in Sam’s words, a hint of what was to come, and Arthur was waiting. Waiting and listening.

“Of course you’re wearing your tie,” Sam continued. “You’re always wearing your tie.” A sigh shivered through the line and Arthur closed his eyes. He could picture Sam, right there, in the room, standing just behind him, breathing into his ear. “Always wanted to...” Sam brought himself up short, then finished with a growl. “Wanted to fuck you in it and nothing else.”

Arthur flicked his eyes over to Eames, ice water in his veins, chased by a heat he didn’t want to admit to. “You—”

“But this time I wouldn’t want to wait. I wouldn’t have the patience to get you naked. Probably rip your shirt if I tried. I'd just go straight for your cock, wouldn't even push those fancy suit pants down further than your knees cause you'd already have gotten them messy just thinking about me, wouldn't you?”

“Presumptuous,” Arthur said. Presumptuous of Sam to think that he could. Presumptuous to think that Arthur would allow it.

“Would you mind?” Sam asked, and there was a thread of amusement in his voice.

Arthur swallowed, his eyes fluttering closed again. He was about to have a problem with his suit pants right now and Sam wasn’t even in the room. “No.”

Sam growled into the phone, the sound rumbling past Arthur’s ear. “I like that,” he said and Arthur was reaching out, needing something to ground himself. His fingers closed over his keys, the metal jingling, and he smoothed his thumb over the small metal bead. “If you were here, I’d bend you right over. If I was there. Take you against that desk.”

Arthur could feel Eames' eyes on his back but he couldn't—Sam had told him to stay put. He so desperately wanted to move, find somewhere quiet to take care of the problem pressing against his zipper. He wanted to listen to what Sam said. Arthur took a breath to steady himself, grasping at the control he felt slipping. His keys dug into his palm, reminding him of where he was, of what was happening. Jesus, Eames was right there—but whatever Sam’s game was, Arthur knew he wasn’t going to hang up.

He could hear Sam breathing, harder than normal, a harsh panting that seemed to echo. “Are you listening?”


“Are you hard yet, Arthur? I’d be working you open right about now. You’d be tight. Always so damn tight.” There were sounds echoing through the phone, a slick, familiar slide that had Arthur unable to breathe. Sam’s voice was starting to rasp and Arthur bit his lip. Fuck. “Touch yourself.”

“What?” Arthur sucked in a lungful of air and stared straight ahead again. “I can’t.” Eames was eyeing Arthur with a detached curiosity that wouldn’t remain indifferent for long.

“Touch yourself,” Sam repeated, harsher and deeper. Arthur dropped the keys on the desk and brought his fingers up to his neck, lightly tracing his skin before digging in to the muscle at the join of his shoulder, aware of his audience. “Not like that,” Sam said with a chuckle, and Arthur froze, wondering how Sam knew. “Touch yourself, Arthur.”

Oh, God. Arthur trailed his hand southward, trying to be subtle, and kept his breathing slow and easy. He didn’t want to give himself away. He flicked open the top button and heard Sam sigh. “Yeah. Yeah, are you there yet? Do you have your pants undone? Do you have your dick out or do you just have a hand down your underwear?”

“Christ.” Arthur flattened his palm against his stomach and pushed it below his waistband, reaching down to grasp himself tightly. “The...the latter. Asshole.” He inched the zipper downward, trying not to make a sound.

“Modest,” Sam said. “You wouldn’t be so modest if I was there.” His voice was a growling purr that sent a thrill racing down Arthur’s spine.

“That so?” Arthur said, completely failing to sound disinterested. His fingers squeezed around the base of his dick to keep himself in check.

“Couldn’t be modest with your pants around your ankles and my dick in your ass.” Jesus, but Sam didn’t fight fair. Arthur moved his hand slowly over himself, using only his wrist. He shouldn’t be so close already, not with Eames sitting just across the room, not with Sam God knew how many miles away, but Arthur was caring about that less and less. If he closed his eyes he could imagine that Sam there with him, the only ones in the room. That it was Sam’s hand on him instead of his own.

“I’d make you come all over that desk,” Sam said, voice dropping even lower. “Ruin all those neat piles you’ve been making, trying to pretend I’m not talking you off right now. And you’d let me, wouldn’t you? Wouldn’t give a damn about your papers if I was holding you down on top of them.”

“Yes...” The word was more of a hiss than anything else. God, the things Sam’s voice did to Arthur shouldn’t even be legal. Just his voice.

“Hold you just by your hips while I was pounding into you, wouldn’t even need to touch you to make you come. Are you thinking about that? Thinking about how I’d feel? How I’d make you feel?”

Arthur let his mouth drop open, needing air, trying to be careful. His fingers were deliberate, tight as they stroked. There was only one way that this was going to end. Christ, Eames was going to know; Arthur was lucky if Eames didn't know already.

“Then I’d pull you back up by your tie,” Sam rasped, “Hold you against me while I fucked you, hold you tight. I’d leave marks all the way down your throat, high enough that you wouldn’t be able to hide them. Mark you everywhere. Let you know, let everyone know. God.

Sam was close, impossibly close; Arthur remembered what he sounded like. Sam’s grip would be getting rougher, his thrusts faster, and Arthur couldn’t think beyond Sam. He could already hear the steady, wet sound of Sam’s fist speeding up. Arousal stabbed deep into Arthur’s gut and he felt pleasure starting to knot together, tightening his body.

He bit down hard, savaging his lip as he choked back a moan, and then he felt himself soak his underwear, the fabric going wet and sticky around his hand, and— Fuck, he thought, tipping forward, Oh fucking Christ.

His head bowed over the desk as he finished. He was breathing too hard, completely obvious, but he couldn’t find it in himself to care. Eames’s eyes could burn a hole straight through him.

“Oh fuck yeah,” Sam breathed. “Oh fuck. You came, didn’t you? You fucking came. God, that’s so damn—oh fuck, Arthur—” Sam panted into Arthur’s ear, whining and growling as he came, and Arthur drank it all in, jealous of the noise, grateful for it. “Shit,” Sam whispered as he came down from his high. “Oh, shit, I needed that.”

Arthur stifled the irrational urge to start laughing and stared down at the desk. His arousal was draining out of him and cold, hard reality began to set in, brought front and center by the sound of Eames standing up. “Fuck,” Arthur said quietly. Sam was hundreds of miles away, the asshole; he wouldn’t have to explain. As far as Eames was concerned, Sam was just some disembodied voice on the other side of a telephone. Arthur was stuck here.

A fist pounded on the door and Arthur jerked upright before he realized that the sound was coming from the phone. “Sam, what the hell are you doing in there?” came Dean’s voice. Arthur cut his eyes over to Eames, who had frozen, staring at him with both eyebrows raised.

“I’m having sex with my boyfriend!” Sam shouted and Arthur pulled the phone away from his ear to stare at it, just barely catching Dean’s shocked “What?

Eames echoed Dean with a great deal more unholy glee. "Arthur, I didn’t know you had it in you. On the job, no less. How terribly unprofessional." Arthur could feel his cheeks start to burn, watching Eames stare at the spreading dark stain on his pants. "If you were that hard up, all you ever have to do is ask, love," said Eames, licking his lips.

Arthur was going to have to shoot him, there was no other way to recover from this. "Eames," he began—

Wednesday's Child is Full of Woe