zara_zee: (Sam Dean Guns)
[personal profile] zara_zee
Chapter One




Dean starts his evening at The Roadhouse. The owner, Ellen Harvelle is the closest thing he has to a mom and he can usually count on her to smack some sense into him.

Not tonight though. Tonight he’s getting fucked up, no matter how many people tell him he needs to keep it together.

Dean downs his third shot of Tequila and raps his glass against the bar top.

“Keep ‘em coming, Bar wench,” he calls to Jo, Ellen’s daughter and the sassy little sister Dean never knew he wanted until the Harvelles became a regular fixture in his life.

It’s Ellen who comes across with a bottle of Don Julio. She refills his glass and then folds her arms on top of the bar and leans toward him.

“You want me to leave the bottle?” she asks.

Dean thinks about it, but shakes his head. He’ll at least do her the courtesy of not getting wasted here. Drunk-Dean leads to fighting, and fighting leads to loss of business for the bar. And hefty repair bills too.

Ellen looks relieved and Dean feels a little guilty about that, because he knows it’s him she’s worried about, not the bar, and getting totalled is still very much on his agenda.

“Have a drink with me,” he says.

Ellen pours herself a shot and they clink their glasses together and take a drink. Dean savors the strong, smooth flavor of burnt sugar and lime and then swallows.

“Damn that’s good,” he says.

“Yeah,” Ellen says with a far-away expression and fond tone. “This was my Bill’s favorite,” she sniffs and slams back the rest of her shot. “Never could lure your daddy away from Jose Cuervo, although Jim Beam was really his drink.”

The ache in Dean’s chest breaks open just a little more. “What can I say?” he fishes a pack of Dunhill Gold out of his jacket pocket. “He was a man of simple tastes.”

Ellen gives him the evil eye. “I thought you quit.”

Dean shrugs. “Fell off the wagon.”

Ellen straightens up and folds her arms across her chest. “That shit’ll kill you.”

Dean lights up. “It’ll have to wait in fuckin’ line,” he says darkly.

Ellen’s lip curls and she inclines her head, conceding the point, maybe. She passes him a black plastic ashtray from beneath the counter and watches him silently for a moment. “We’re heading for another all-out mob war aren’t we?”

Dean meets her eyes. “I don’t think it’ll come to that. Things might be rough for a while, but I don’t think we’re looking at a repeat of ‘83.”

“God I hope not,” Ellen says.

She looks shaken. But then Ellen remembers the last war a lot better than he does.

Dean was only four when The Devil’s Own tried to wipe out the Winchester Family.

On November 2nd 1983, they launched a series of co-ordinated attacks and managed to take out a lot of the Family’s high ranking soldiers. The Winchesters fought back, of course, even brought in some of the Cacciatore Family’s other factions from out of state to help, but it wasn’t until John got the Santangelo Family to side with them, that they were able to force a truce.

Dean’s grand-parents and his mom were killed in the first wave of attacks. And so was Ellen’s husband Bill.

“It’s gonna be okay,” Dean tells her, reaching out and covering her hand with his.

“I know,” Ellen says, but she doesn’t look convinced.

“We’ve still got the weight of The Cacciatore Family behind us,” Dean reminds her, “And the Santangelos are still on our side. I met with Michael after Dad’s funeral,” he swallows past the lump in his throat. “They’re happy with the current distribution of territory and business and they’re just as concerned as we are about the recent rise in Demon activity.”

Ellen smiles at Dean’s use of the derogatory nickname for The Devil’s Own foot soldiers.

“I ain’t sayin’ there won’t be skirmishes,” Dean says, “and I ain’t saying we won’t be lookin’ for a little payback,” he’s well aware that a lot of his crew is in the bar, listening in, “I dealt with Azazel, but Nick Morningstar knows we’re gonna need a little more in compensation. Ball’s in his court now, and I’m guessing he’ll do the right thing rather than risk another all-out war.”

It might not be the most rousing speech in the history of rousing speeches, but Dean doesn’t believe in blowing smoke up people’s asses. The hubbub around him sounds satisfied and upbeat, so Dean figures he’s done enough fearsome leader-ing for the night.

He drains the last of his Tequila and gets to his feet. “But we all know that shit happens, so how about we turn the music up and party like there’s no tomorrow anyway? Drinks on me, Ellen,” he adds, and that does bring forth a raucous round of applause. Dean writes the amount of the bar tab he’s willing to cover onto a beer matt and then makes his way toward the pool tables.

He beats Victor and Gordon and loses to Ash and then teams up with Pamela to play a game of doubles against Tamara and Isaac. Pam is her usual sassy self, fondling the cue suggestively and wiggling her ass whenever she leans over to take a shot. Pam’s a good friend and an occasional fuck buddy. Her husband Jesse is doing ten years in in El Dorado for aggravated assault (knowingly causing bodily harm). Dean was on remand there for a while, on a RICO charge they couldn’t make stick, and he got firsthand evidence that Jesse is definitely engaging in extra-marital fucking around. The guy sure has got a talented mouth on him.

Pam thinks it’s awesome that Dean has fucked both of them and she wants them to have a threesome when Jesse gets out, which definitely won’t be happening. Gay for the stay is one thing, but to be a fag on the outside? In their world that’s not acceptable.

Pam sticks her butt out and gives it a little shake, making it obvious to Dean that she’s available if he wants to blow off a little steam in the sack. He lets his eyes roam over her ass and long shapely legs, sees the hint of the Jesse Forever tattoo peeking out from the top of her jeans. Pam’s always a good time, but she’s not what Dean’s looking for tonight. He catches her eye and shakes his head, subtly. She gets the message and switches to flirting with Henricksen instead. Dean bites back a laugh. Pam’s going to eat Vic alive.

His Campbell cousins turn up just as Dean’s thinking it’s time to make his escape. It’s an excuse to move away from Victor and Gordon, who he’s pretty sure have been tasked by Bobby with keeping an eye on him.

Dean snags a bottle of Glenfiddich on his way past the bar and settles in a booth with Mark and Christian. They all drink a solemn toast to John Winchester and then Christian starts pushing for a bigger role in the family business. The Campbells were a Crew in their own right back in the day and Christian still harbors a lot of resentment that Mary’s marriage to John Winchester had seen the two Family businesses join together, with the Campbells subordinate to the Winchesters.

“Dude,” Dean says, looking up and meeting his cousin’s eyes. “It’s Saturday night, man. I ain’t talkin’ business now,” he raises his glass. “Have another drink. I’ll leave the bottle.”

Dean heads toward the restrooms and then ducks out the back door.

He doesn’t take Ol’ Blue, choosing instead, to hotwire Jo’s car, because he’s sure that Bobby will have someone watching the old truck.

Dean doesn’t actually make Benny’s tail until he’s twenty minutes down the I-70. He gives himself a moment to appreciate the Cajun’s professionalism and then he gets his cell phone out and calls him.

“Hello, brother,” Benny answers in his slow, easy drawl.

“I’m going to Buddy’s,” Dean tells him.

He hears Benny’s sharp inhale of breath and after a brief moment of silence, Benny says lowly, “You want…we could?”

“No,” Dean says.

He and Benny hooked up once. It was shortly after Sammy left to go to college and Dean wasn’t in the best place. Sam had been so full of righteous fury when he left. It didn’t seem to occur to him that Dean might’ve had dreams of his own. That maybe he had wanted a different life too. Dean didn’t have a choice though. Dad needed him. And besides, he was already too immersed in the Life, wasn’t sure he had it in him to do normal. It hadn’t stopped him being gutted when his little brother walked out on his family though. So Dad sent him and a couple of the guys to Florida to take care of a little supply problem, because any chance to bash in heads usually makes Dean happy.

When the job was done, Dean decided to drown his sorrows in a shit load of whiskey and then he went to Purgatory.

Yeah, the club in Miami.

A year earlier, he’d admitted to himself that he was attracted to other guys, but no way in Hell was he going to come out. You couldn’t head up a Family, couldn’t be any kind of a shot-caller if you were queer. So Dean was keeping that part of his life strictly on the down-low. Clandestine fumbles in the dark, never the same guy twice. And definitely no one that he knew.

Which is why he freaked the fuck out when he came face-to-face with Benny in Purgatory.

Benny wasn’t exactly thrilled to come face-to-face with the boss’s son either, but when it became apparent that they were both simply looking for a night of no-strings-attached sweaty man sex, they moved things to a pay-by-the-hour motel. Benny was older and more experienced and the sex was good. It was also something Dean knew could never happen again. Benny worked for the Family. He was Dean’s subordinate. And one day, Dean would be the Head of the Family. A relationship with Benny—even if they were only regular fuck buddies—would compromise Dean. He couldn’t—wouldn’t allow it.

“No,” Dean says again, trying to soften his tone, to take the sting out of the rejection. “You should head on home. Enjoy the rest of your night.”

“I can’t do that, Brother,” Benny sighs. “Bobby would have my hide. Your brother would too.”

Dean snorts and Benny’s silence is somehow reproachful. “You and Sam,” he says finally, “that ain’t the one way street you seem to think it is. Sam worries for you too, brother.”

“He shouldn’t have to,” Dean mutters.

“That ain’t the way family works.”

Dean knows Benny’s right, but ever since the night their house was firebombed, ever since Dad put baby Sammy into his young arms and told him to take his brother outside as fast as he could and to look after him while Dad fought the flames and tried to save Mom, Dean has felt responsible for his brother.

And Dad let him be responsible for him. Encouraged it even.

John Winchester was gutted by his wife’s death. Dean didn’t know it until years later, but a Demon had broken into their house and tried to kidnap Sam. Mary had interrupted him when she went to check on the baby before going to bed, and he’d stabbed her. Her screams had brought John running and the Demon had thrown the Molotov cocktail and booked it, while John cradled a dying Mary in his arms.

The Demon had worn a balaclava, but it became John’s life mission to hunt down and kill the man responsible for his wife’s death. The truce that the Santangelos brokered made it difficult to take overt action though, and truth be told, John was pretty paranoid for a few years following Mary’s death. He was so certain that The Devil’s Own would come after his children again, that he was constantly on the move. Dean and Sam grew up in a parade of safe houses all over the state, never in the one place for more than a few months as John tried to stay ahead of the Demons he was sure were tracking them. He also drilled his boys in the use of guns, knives and bows and trained them in several forms of martial arts, determined that they would have the skills to fight off attackers from a young age.

It was a strange way to grow up and while Dean could remember a time when life was more normal and knew how easily normal could be taken away, Sam had no recollection of that time and was resentful that he didn’t get to live the apple pie life that his school friends did.

They were close though. Best friends. The one constant each of them had in an unstable, insecure, constantly-changing life. One school principal had even called them ‘neurotically co-dependent’, a comment that resulted in Dean breaking the man’s nose. In Dean’s defence, he misheard Principal Sadler and thought he’d said ‘erotically co-dependent’, thought he was being accused of molesting his little brother. Dad was equal parts amused by and proud of Dean’s reaction to the imagined slight, so Dean didn’t even get his ass handed to him for getting expelled from yet another school.

Of course, that closeness went to shit when Sammy dumped them to go to Stanford. Dean still thought Dad was wrong to tell Sam that if he went he should stay gone. Having a lawyer in the Family—who was actually family—was a good idea and he didn’t share his Dad’s fear that Sam would turn on them.

Dean scowls and brings his hand down hard against the steering wheel. He’d loved and admired his Dad unreservedly, but the old man sure was a paranoid sonofabitch. Things had just been starting to get back to normal between Dean and Sam and then, with his dying breath, Dad had fucked it all to Hell.

“Dean,” he’d panted, as his chest cavity filled with blood, “you have to save Sam. The drugs. I think he’s got…a problem. And…may be more than…addiction. May be… forced…to…rat. Dean,” his Dad had grasped at him urgently. “May have to kill him.”

And then he’d died, leaving Dean staring at him, unsure if he’d really understood what his Dad had been trying to tell him. If Dad thought that Dean had it in him to kill the brother he’d practically raised himself, then he didn’t know Dean very well. And if he thought that Sammy would turn rat, then he didn’t know Sam very well either.

Dean knows he’s going to have to talk to Sam about this. And he will. But he can’t face it yet.

“I know, man,” he tells Benny. “But Bobby and my brother gotta realize that I’m in charge now. I get that they’re worried, but there are times when I need a little privacy.”

“Yeah,” Benny agrees. “I think maybe that’s why Bobby tagged me to tail you if you tried to sneak away.”

Dean snorts again. He sometimes forgets that there’s not a lot gets past his Dad’s number two. Dean wishes he didn’t remember the drunken conversation during which he, more-or-less, confessed to Bobby that he wasn’t entirely straight, but he’s genuinely surprised by the suggestion that he knows about Benny’s proclivities too.

“Okay,” he says. “How about you park somewhere and watch the door. I’ll text you an address when I move things off the premises.”

Benny’s rumble of agreement is an unhappy one.

--

Buddy’s is a dive bar, the kind of place where the floor is sticky, the lights are dim and the restroom smells like a porta-john on a hot day. In other words it’s seedy as fuck and Dean didn’t even realize it was a gay bar the first time he walked through its doors; he was just looking for a cold beer after a frustrating afternoon spent helping his dad divvy out the rackets and businesses of the recently-shot-dead-for-being-a-rat Kansas City crew boss. Dean finally worked out he was in a gay bar when he got openly hit on in the restroom, which, so not happening, not with the stink and the sticky floors, and besides his dad was drinking a beer at the bar. His dad hadn’t noticed the place was anything other than a dive bar, thank God, and Dean had moved them out of there pretty quickly, fed his old man a line about wanting to get back to Lawrence because he had a hot date with Lisa lined up.

As luck would have it, his dad decided that the Kansas City crew were going to have to be closely watched—the kick-ups from the River Quay Entertainment District were an important earner for the Winchesters—and he appointed Dean to be the overseer, which meant that Dean was over in Kansas City a fair bit for a few months, and he became something of a regular down at Buddy’s.

He’s sitting up at the bar now, making his way through his fourth pint of whatever’s on tap. He’s not falling down drunk yet, but added to the Tequila and whiskey he’d downed at The Roadhouse, the beer has him nicely buzzed. When someone takes the bar stool beside him, he barely notices, beyond registering that they’re not a threat.

“Vodka, neat,” the man says, in a gravelly voice that goes straight to Dean’s groin.

Dean turns to look at the man. He’s good looking in profile; a strong jawline, dimpled chin and messy dark hair. He’s wearing a beige trench coat on top of a suit and Dean is trying to think of a pick-up line that isn’t too obvious when the man frowns at the bartender. “No,” he says, “not that Russian crap. Give me the Wyborowa. And make it a double. No, a triple. Actually, just leave me the bottle.”

Dean raises an eyebrow. “Wow,” he says. “Tough day, huh?”

The man glances at him and does a double take, eyes widening before giving him a thorough once over. Dean can’t help preening a little at the obvious interest in the man’s eyes.

“Like you wouldn’t believe,” the man mutters, slamming back his triple shot.

(The bartender refuses to leave the bottle, but he does hover, and he tops up the man’s glass the moment he holds it out.)

Dean waves the bartender over. “Gimme a shot of that too,” he says, “and put it all,” he indicates both his drink and the man in the trench coat’s, “on my tab.”

“Thank you,” the man raises his glass in Dean’s direction.

.“If this vodka ain’t Russian,” Dean says, when his shot has been poured, “then what is it?”

“Polish,” the man says. “We invented vodka, the Russians just stole it.”

“You’re Polish?”

The man shrugs. “Polish-American. Among other things.”

Dean takes a sip. “Not bad. So. Tax Accountant or lawyer?”

Because if he’s thinking about fucking the guy (and he is) then he needs to get a bit more of a bead on him; at the very least make sure he isn’t law enforcement.

The man snorts. “Unemployed. This,” he gestures at his clothes, “is because I had a job interview today. At the local Gas-N-Sip.”

“Don’t tell me—they took one look at you in that suit and decided you were over qualified?”

The man shakes his head. “No, they took one look at my Bachelor’s degree in Applied Science/ Aeronautical Science, my undergraduate pilot training certificate, my officer training certificate and my ten years of service as a fighter pilot, and decided I was over qualified.”

“Ouch,” Dean says.

“Na zdrowie,” the man says, raising his third triple shot and downing it.

Dean scoots his bar stool a little closer to the man and offers his hand. “Dean,” he says. “Good to meet you.”

The man stares for a moment and then grips his hand. He has a good, firm hand shake. “Castiel.”

“So, Cas,” Dean offers his most charming smile. “Did you just come in here to drown your sorrows or were you lookin’ for a little action of the don’t ask, don’t tell variety?”
Castiel raises an eyebrow at the shortening of his name, but doesn’t comment. “I was just planning on drinking. I’m not averse to the idea of ‘action’,” Dean can actually hear the air quotes in his tone. “But…if you were,” Cas pauses, “offering, I’m not sure we’d be compatible.”

“I’m versatile,” Dean says.

“As am I. But right now I have no desire to bottom. Sorry.”

Dean’s pulse quickens and he wipes his suddenly sweaty hand on his thigh. “Works for me,” he says, aiming for nonchalant.

Cas stares at him again. It’s actually a little disconcerting. “My apologies, Dean. It was presumptuous of me to assume that I could intuit your sexual preferences based on my perception of your masculinity.”

Dean shifts uncomfortably. “Yeah, well. You know what they say about ‘assume’. Although any sentence that has ‘you’ and ‘me’ and ‘ass’ in it can’t be all bad, right?”

Cas inclines his head and his brow furrows in a way that says ‘mildly perplexed.’

The guy can’t be stupid, not with all those degrees and what not. Maybe he’s just very literal. Dean licks at his lips and Cas tracks the movement of his tongue with intent. Literal. Okay. Dean can work with that.

“You wanna get outta here?” Dean says. “Move this someplace private?”

“I would like that,” Cas says.

Dean signs off on his bar tab and then slides off his bar stool, stumbling just a little.

Cas’s eyes narrow. “How much have you had to drink?”

“Relax, I ain’t too drunk to consent. How about the Value Inn round the corner? They don’t do pay by the hour, but it’s only $80.00 a night.”

Cas is staring again. Dean frowns and Cas clears his throat. “My apartment is just down the road. This isn’t a good area of town to live in and the apartment block is…not nice. But I can vouch for the cleanliness of the bed linen.”

“Sold,” Dean says. He gets his phone out. “Can you give me the address? I gotta let my friend know where I’m going. You know, in case you turn out to be a homicidal maniac.”

Cas’s lips curl into a smile. “Of course,” he gives Dean the address and Dean texts it to Benny.

“And what about if you turn out to be a homicidal maniac?” Cas asks, his eyes twinkling.

Dean laughs. He probably fits that definition. He’s certainly killed his fair share of men, although he likes to think he wasn’t a maniac about it. And the world ain’t gonna miss not even one of the douchebags he’s offed. Hell, a few of ‘em were such assholes even their families were grateful.

He leans in close to Cas. “Well then, maybe you better tie me to your bed. For your own safety.”

The flare of heat in Cas’s eyes promises a fun night of debauchery.

--

Cas’s place is no worse than a lot of the so-called ‘safe houses’ that Dean and Sam grew up in. The apartment block is run down, but there are no graffiti tags on the walls; no litter; no upturned shopping carts. The residents keep things clean and tidy and Dean feels immediately at home. Not that Cas’s apartment is particularly homey. It too, reminds Dean of a lot of the places he grew up in. Impersonal; functional. At least until he and Sammy put their mark on it; Sam’s drawings on the fridge, their photographs pinned to the walls; their books and magazines lying around.

Cas doesn’t have anything lying around. He has one small book shelf and that’s it, as far as personal touches go. There are no paintings or photographs, no nick-nacks or keepsakes.

But then, after ten years of military service, Dean figures Cas hasn’t had a lot of time for home-making. And as far as photos and keepsakes go, maybe there just isn’t a lot from the last decade that Cas wants to remember.

“This way,” Cas says and leads him into the bedroom.

The bedroom is as Spartan as the rest of the apartment, but Cas does have an awesome king sized bed, complete with a cast iron frame, perfect for tying someone down.

“Nice,” Dean says. “You prefer ropes or cuffs?”

Cas growls and when Dean turns back to face him, he’s scowling. “Letting a stranger tie you up is reckless, Dean.”

Dean’s eyebrows shoot up in surprise. He’s never had a casual hook up complain about his willingness to get kinky before.

“Never said I was a saint,” he replies. “And you’re hardly an angel, letting a stranger into your home.”

Cas’s expression darkens. “I can take care of myself.”

And Dean is so done with this conversation. He’s not here for dialogue, he’s here for action.

He steps forward and palms Cas’s already hard cock through the thin material of his suit pants. “But it’s so much more fun when somebody else takes care of it for you.”

Cas swallows and his pupils dilate.

Dean smiles. He opens Cas’s pants and pulls out his cock before dropping to his knees. Cas inhales, his breath rattling and unsteady. Dean takes a moment to admire the cock before him. Cas is a decent size, eight inches long by Dean’s estimate and about five inches in circumference. Damn. That’s going to hurt so good going in. Dean lightly squeezes the base of Cas’s cock and runs his tongue around the tip, before sucking the mushroom head into his mouth, tonguing and sucking until Cas is gasping. Dean looks up at him and then relaxes his throat and sucks him down to the root. Cas’s hands come down to grip his hair and Dean hums approvingly, which makes Cas groan loudly. He pulls back until only the tip rests in Dean’s mouth and then fucks back in deep and hard, his eyes on Dean’s the whole time. Dean gives him a thumbs up and Cas lets loose. By the time Cas tugs urgently on his hair, Dean’s throat is sore, his eyes are watering, he’s got drool running down his chin and his own cock is trying very hard to poke through the denim of his jeans. He pulls off and wipes at his face and then Cas is hauling him to his feet.

“Strip,” Cas rasps, like he was the one who just got his throat fucked.

Dean throws him a sloppy salute. “Sir, Yessir!”

Cas sucks in a harsh breath and Dean figures he just hit one of the guy’s bullet proof kinks.

He wastes no time getting naked and neither does Cas.

“On the bed,” Cas orders.

Dean scrambles to assume the position: on his knees, face down, ass up, resting on his forearms, legs spreads wide.

“Back in a minute,” Cas says and rushes from the room.

Dean frowns, but stays where his is.

“Look at you,” Cas says a moment later, his voice filled with wonder. “So good for me. Just holding that position and waiting to get fucked.”

Dean’s not going to lie; he really gets off on being told what to do in bed. Even before he figured out he liked dick too, he loved fucking around with bossy women; women who’d take charge in the sack. Women like Rhonda Hurley who made him try on her pink satin panties when he was nineteen. When she realized how much the soft satin rubbing against his balls turned him on, she dropped to her knees, licked and nuzzled at his cock through the material, and then put him on his belly, pulled the panties down and rimmed him. That was another first. Her tongue in his ass was quickly followed by a slender finger. Then another one. By the time she opened the box under her bed and pulled out the strap-on, he was panting, desperate, and fuck, he wanted it. Wanted something to shove itself deep inside of him and ignite that hot spark of pleasure.

It hurt, the way her dildo pried his ass open, too far, too fast. But Dean is messed up enough that he even liked that.

They moved to a new safe house a few days later and Dean hasn’t seen Rhonda since. After her, though, he started adding a couple of fingers up his ass to his jerk-off routine. And the next time he found himself craving the pleasure/pain of a deep, hard dicking he chose a partner who came with the equipment attached. He still mostly fucked women, but now he often chose women who had no qualms about throwing him down and riding him like he was nothing more than a means to an end.

Cas runs a hand over his ass. Dean hears a click and a gloop and then a cold oily finger is slipping into his ass.

“You’re really tight,” Cas says.

Dean rolls his eyes at the concern in the other man’s voice. “Yeah, it’s been a while.”

“I’ll go easy on you,” Cas promises.

Dean stiffens. “I don’t want you to.”

That’s not what he wants from guys. He’s not looking for a lover. For care and consideration. He’s looking to get fucked. To be used. He wants it hard and rough and he’ll leave straight after, because there’s no way he’d be able to look a guy in the eye the morning after. He picks guys who’ll get that. Guys who want no strings attached fucking and no romance. Cas is military. Military guys are usually perfect for this kind of thing.

Dean’s ass is suddenly empty and he panics for a moment, worried that he’s read Cas all wrong, but then two fingers bury themselves inside of him, readying him with a perfunctory lack of care that borders on brutal and the sharp burn makes Dean’s hips stutter forward.

Cas growls. “Stay still,” and then a hand is pressing against the back of his head, holding him in place.

Dean feels the tension start to leach out of him.

The prep is just barely enough and when Dean feels the sheathed head of Cas’s cock press against his asshole, he breathes out and makes himself relax.

Cas sinks in fast and doesn’t even give him time to adjust before he’s pulling out and hammering in again. The burn is just the right side of the pleasure/pain divide, and the remaining tension drains from Dean like someone took the plug out the tub. Dean is a ragdoll, being held down and used so good, no worries, no responsibilities, he just has to lie here and take the pounding, and every slam of Cas’s hips, every forceful stroke, helps him breathe a little easier.

Dean comes, wet and messy, with a groan on his lips and Cas’s hand on his cock. Cas continues to stroke him until Dean mewls, over-sensitive and sore and then he lets go and moves his hands to Dean’s hips, fucking him so hard that Dean actually slides up the bed.

Dean kind of wants to be done now. He’s sore and he’s sated, but he owes Cas an orgasm, so he squeezes his sphincter and Cas comes hard. He pulls out straight away and heads out of the room, presumably to go clean up in the bathroom. Dean sits back on his haunches and…huh…when did Cas put that fluffy white towel underneath him? Dean picks it up and folds it so as to avoid the wet patch. He wipes the come from his dick and the lube from his ass and then throws the towel on the floor and starts collecting his clothes.

“Where do you think you’re going?” Cas’s voice is rough and raspy.

Dean channels his inner crime boss. “Sorry, sweetheart, I don’t stick around to cuddle after I’m done fucking.”

Cas’s eyes widen. In the dim light they look somehow bluer. “We’re not done,” he says. “That was just round one.

Dean’s dick, traitorous fucker that it is, twitches happily at the thought of more action. His ass, though, puts in a word of protest, and Dean’s upstairs brain is feeling way too fried to have to referee an argument between the parts of his body that are enthusiastically on board with the more fucking plan and the parts that aren’t. Or something. Now that the adrenaline rush from the really, really ridiculously good sex is over, Dean’s evening of steady drinking is starting to catch up with him.

And that’s the only reason why he allows Cas to manhandle him into bed and then spoon him, with a possessive arm thrown over his waist.

The only reason.

Shut up.

Dean’s starting to drift off to sleep when he feels fingers stroking against his rim. He feels wet and puffy and sore down there and his hips cant forward, trying to move away from the questing fingers. Cas hauls him back and holds him still with a hand splayed out across his belly.

“Did I hurt you?” Cas asks softly.

“No,” Dean says. Because he didn’t. Not in ways he doesn’t like to be hurt anyway.

“Is this okay?” Cas presses a little harder, the tip of two fingers sinking just inside of Dean’s ass.

“Depends,” Dean says. “Is that the best you’ve got?”

Which is how he finds himself folded like a pretzel, getting his prostate ruthlessly pounded with every deep thrust of Cas’s dick.

It’s funny how often macho posturing leads to get thoroughly fucked up the ass.

By the time Cas pulls out, Dean’s a sweaty mess with drying spunk on his belly and in his pubes. He’s feeling boneless and drugged, and he couldn’t have gotten out of bed if Cas had demanded he leave.

Luckily, Cas has plans for a third round in the morning, so Dean tells him to feel free to wake him up with a good morning fuck and floats off to sleep feeling better rested than he has in a long time.

--

Dean wakes up to the smell of bacon, toast and coffee. His head is fuzzy, his mouth tastes like something died in it and when he rolls over and disturbs the sheets the stink of sex makes his ass clench involuntarily. Dean winces. And then grins. And then has to fight off a panic attack when he realizes that he’s still in his hook-up’s apartment. Also, he left both his gun and his knife in the car, because he learned early on that packing heat tended to freak out potential bed mates.

He clutches at his chest and breathes through the heart-pounding and the shaking like that court-appointed psychiatrist taught him to. She knew some good tricks, that chick, but he threw out the bottle of Ativan she prescribed for him and he didn’t go back once the court mandated sessions were done. He ain’t Tony frigging Soprano; so what if he’s a functional alcoholic who fights and fucks his way through stress?

Once he’s back on an even keel, Dean gathers up his clothes and stumbles into the shower. He takes his time, uses up all the hot water and then blasts himself with cold until he’s shivering and 90% awake. He squeezes some of Cas’s toothpaste into his mouth and takes a drink of water from the faucet, swirling and spitting until his mouth tastes minty fresh.

Of course he has to pass through Cas’s kitchen to get to the front door and the sight of Cas, bleary-eyed and tousle-haired, standing at the stove in nothing but black briefs and an apron stops him in his tracks.

Cas turns to him and grunts. “Coffee,” he says, pointing at a pot.

Dean could really go for a coffee, but he doesn’t do breakfast with hook ups. It’s a hard and fast rule, one that he doesn’t break.

“Thanks,” he says. “But I gotta go.”

Cas nods and turns back to the stove. “Suit yourself.”

Dean watches as Cas begins to plate up crispy bacon, poached eggs and grilled tomato.

His stomach rumbles.

Rules are so over rated. And really, what is the point of being a bad ass crime boss if you can’t break rules when you want to?

Dean strides across to the coffee pot and pours himself a cup before he can change his mind. When he turns around there are two plates of food on the kitchen table.

“Yours if you want it,” Cas says. “If you don’t I’ll cover it and put it in the fridge, have it for supper.”

Cas’s apron says ‘Kiss me, I might be a prince,’ and has a large picture of a green toad on it.

“So are you?” Dean says.

Cas looks perplexed and Dean tries not to find it adorable. He gestures at the apron as he slides into the seat opposite Cas.

Cas looks down. “Oh,” he says. He looks up and meets Dean’s eyes. “Yes. I am.”

There’s something almost challenging in the way he says it, a hint of darkness that Dean finds himself responding to. That and the twinge in his ass remind him of something and he frowns.

“Hey, didn’t you promise me a round three this morning?”

Cas swallows a mouthful of bacon and then busies himself cutting another piece. “Who says we didn’t have another round this morning?”

Dean gapes at him. “Really? You fucked me while I was asleep?”

Cas inclines his head. “You said I could.”

Dean’s mouth falls open a little more. “No way. I would definitely have woken up if you stuck your dick in my ass.”

Cas grins. “You’re right. I didn’t. I thought about it though. You did give me the green light and you’re very tempting. But when you’re not awake and posturing you look very young and innocent and,” Cas shrugs. “You fell asleep pretty quickly. I wasn’t sure how drunk you were.”

“Not as drunk as I’d planned to be. I’m barely even hungover. And I hate to disappoint you, Cas, but the boat carrying my innocence sailed a long time ago.”

Cas smiles sadly. “I can relate to that.”

They finish their breakfast in companionable silence and Dean realizes that he maybe kind of sort of likes Cas and wouldn’t mind seeing him again. And maybe it’s not such a bad idea? Maybe a regular hook up who has nothing whatsoever to do with Dean’s world, who’s strong and smart and who knows how to handle himself in a dangerous situation, maybe that’s exactly what Dean needs.

“So,” Dean picks his plate up and carries it to the sink. “This was good. Wanna swap numbers?”

Cas is silent for far too long.

“It’s no big deal if you don’t,” Dean says, making damn sure to keep the disappointment out of his voice.

“It’s not that I,” Cas sounds as frustrated as Dean feels. “I’m not looking to date right now.”

“Me either,” Dean says. “And this wouldn’t be that. But good sex is worth coming back for.”

“It was good,” Cas’s eyes darken and he gets up from the table and stalks Dean like he’s prey. When he reaches him he traps him against the sink, his arms a steel cage keeping Dean in place. “You feel up to that round three I promised you?”

It sounds like a challenge and Dean has never been one to back down from a challenge.


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Date: 2017-02-14 12:13 am (UTC)
From: [identity profile] majestic-duxk.livejournal.com
Ah... Dean and his macho posturing <3

ugh though.. Johns' last words... so painful ;_; Poor Sammy. And poor Dean!

gosh... mafia things always tie me up in knots. I love them, but they are bad people! aghhhh!!!

Date: 2017-02-14 03:54 am (UTC)
From: [identity profile] zara-zee.livejournal.com
Hehe, I know, right?

I love organised crime AUs -- they're fun to read and fun to write too! :D

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