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Posted originally on the Archive of Our Own at http://archiveofourown.org/works/32743876.

Rating: Mature
Archive Warning: Underage
Category: M/M
Fandom: Supernatural
Relationship: dean smith/jack kline
Characters: Dean Smith (Supernatural), Jack Kline, Sam Wesson
Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Modern: No Powers, Alternate Universe - Office,
Age Difference, Power Imbalance, Grooming, Daddy Kink
Language: English
Series: Part 8 of winkline bingo 2021
Stats: Published: 2021-07-22 Words: 1,121 Chapters: 1/1
 corporate
by hellhoundsprey

Summary

It's not like Smith wants to keep the kid at the office after hours. Jack is just so eager.

2021 winkline bingo square 17: daddy

He’s not serious about it, at first. Just another game to pass the time. But Jack has yet to
figure out that he is being toyed with.

If it wasn’t driving Smith this crazy, all it’d be is pitiful.

Jack got his coffee wrong again and yet, Smith tells him, “Thank you,” with a smile, just so
Jack smiles back in that particular way.

“I was thinking we could extend his internship.”

Mr. Wesson’s eyes go wide.

“By another month, maybe? If you can talk to his teachers.”

Mr. Wesson has to put down the cup that, in his hands, seems espresso-sized. Mr. Wesson
clears his throat. His voice breaks regardless.

“Another—another month?”

Smith raises a careful eyebrow. “Is that a no?”

“No, no. Just…!” Phew. “I didn’t—expect that. I had no idea you’d…!” Wesson gestures
towards Smith and rakes his hair out of his face, next. He draws a big breath. Smith waits. He
can work with this.

“Your Jack is one curious kid, Mr. Wesson.” Wesson blushes. Smith smiles. “I see a lot of
potential in him. He could go places, someday.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Smith’s smile mellows. “He needs the right environment to flourish. He’s a quick learner.”

“He is,” agrees Jack’s dad, hopelessly flustered. Elbows on his knees, hands clasped.
Wedding ring. Cheap khakis.

“School is not always the best option. Not for everyone.”

“Yeah.”

“You went to college yourself, sir, or…?”

“Uhm, no, but…” With a sheepish smile, Wesson raises his left hand, wriggles his fingers.
His ring glints in the afternoon light currently flooding Smith’s tenth-story office. “My
husband did.”

“So you agree?”

“Hm.”

“I’m not telling you to cash in the college funds. I’m just saying—a bit more time in the real
world, with real people, learning real things—” in his pocket, Smith rubs Jack’s Y-fronts
between his thumb and middle finger “—it would do him good, Mr. Wesson.”

Wesson hesitates. But Smith wouldn’t be where he is, drive the car that he drives, if he
couldn’t close on a deal like this. Middle-class parents. Struggles to stay afloat in high
school.

Hook, line, sinker.

“I’m… Mr. Smith, I’m with you on this, one hundred percent. Jack has been so…!” Wesson
sighs, turns his eyes to the ceiling. His knock-off smartwatch activates as he rotates his wrist.
His pulse is going moderately fast, apparently. “He’s loving it here. He’s smiling every day.
It’s almost like we’re sending him on vacation instead to work,” and he chuckles for his own
joke, and Smith smiles politely, generously. Chin on his knuckles. Leg crossed over the other.
Leather chairs. “But we’ll have to talk to his teachers, first, of course.”

“Of course.” Smith uncrosses his legs. “I could put together a recommendation letter, if that
might be of any help?”

“That would be greatly appreciated, yes,” and Smith is aware of those eyes giving him
another once-over now that he stands up, gives Wesson a full view of his suit—the nice
shoes, the good watch. Wesson’s kid already appreciated the ensemble today.

Smith gestures towards the door and Wesson rises, ducks his head in obedience. Smith’s
mouth purses. He keeps his smile professional. “I’ll send it over today. Still got your contact
info from his application.”

“Thank you. Seriously.” They shake hands.

“My pleasure,” assures Smith.

Dean is used to being stared at. To being wanted, envied, despised, or all of it at once.

Jack doesn’t despise him.

“Mr. Smith,” he’d say, heartbreakingly confident but his cheeks pink, his dress pants cheap
but good enough for church. Wonky tie. Blue eyes. “Mr. Smith,” I have a question. Mr.
Smith, can you explain this to me?

Dean would. Dean does. Everything Jack asks is, if Dean’s schedule allows it, returned with a
reply.

Jack’s handwriting is as choppy as his thoughts. He’s not the kind of bright that will get you
far in business school, not the kind of bright Smith is; no. If the kid is lucky, he will sense a
good opportunity and jump on it, will lose or win it all. Only way up for this one. He walks
around with one untied shoe for half a day before Dean caves and points it out. Jack exclaims
oh! and goes to his knee immediately to fix the mistake. Eager. Jack Wesson is: eager.

To please. Be good. Do a good job.

That’s what his teachers and parents told him, probably: don’t mess this up. This is a great
opportunity, Jack, pay attention; it is very generous of this company to let you intern with
them. They are very busy people, don’t bug them! Don’t do this! Don’t do that!

Hilarious, how easy they made it for Smith. How easy to be—a good person, in Jack’s eyes.
A generous person. He’s been kept small for so long. So easy to build an inch-high pedestal
and put him on top, watch him shine. Jack’s been learning fast about all this, too. Smith
adores that about him. How quickly Jack’s been catching onto Dean’s tactics. How less and
less humble he’d ask…no, request.

“Did you take the Audi today?”

Dean laughs.

“Can we go for a drive, later?”

“Maybe.” Dean flirts his thumb across Jack’s knuckles. Drags his other thumb along his own
bottom lip; honey to a fly. “But don’t think you’ll get the keys.”

Years in the closet brought Smith all kinds of knowledge. Which clubs to avoid, which ones
to go to. Discreet hotels and deserted parking lots, a handful of decent glory hole locations.
Good doctors. Good excuses.

After that first time, Jack held him so close Dean was afraid he might not be let go again.
Took some talking, some empty promises and a lot of backrubs to make Jack believe: hey, it’s
okay. Not the end of the world. Yes, of course I like you; don’t be silly. Dean’s oversized bed,
at home, so seldomly inhabited by more than one. Jack’s young, gangly body curled up
against Smith’s. Kisses. Jack took some time to get good at kissing—investments were made
on Dean’s part. He doesn’t regret a single one.

“Can we do that thing again? With your mouth?”

Dean chuckles, eyes shut, hip to hip with the kid. “Which one, baby?”

“You know,” and Jack sounds like he’s pouting, and upon checking, yes, he is. Dean hasn’t
gone steady with anything that isn’t battery-operated in so many years now. Almost forgot.
“Don’t make me say it, Daddy…”

Smith’s personal trainer jokes how Smith’s got such a glow going on lately, some poor
bastard finally managed to knock you up? and Dean’s mouth curls, and his heart kicks, and
he tells them, quietly, “Something like that.”
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