Big Bang '10 - One Hundred Percent Reason to Remember [ii. 5% Pleasure]
Masterlist
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Murphy's is the best-known dive in this part of the city. It lingers on the outskirts and harbors all sorts of men on the wrong side of the law most nights. It's not the safest place to work, but the wage is fair and the hours are flexible. And it isn't hard, besides.
Dean just wishes he didn't have to lock up. It's close to midnight and the bikers are slowly filtering out with their girls, taking with them the loud, raucous laughter. Thirty minutes to closing and the clock behind the bar ticks so slowly that Dean isn't sure it's moving at all.
The haze of cigarette smoke that still lingers in the air and the tall guy at the end of the bar are nearly all that's left. It's strangely silent with most of the patrons gone; Dean hums to fill the silence, some out-of-tune version of a Metallica riff as he takes the used glasses off the bar and gathers them to clean.
He wipes the watermarks off the gleaming wood finish, tosses the used napkins into the trash can near his feet (and seriously, would it kill them to clean up after themselves? He's a bartender, not a maid), and is about to go out into the lobby with a fresh rag when the stranger calls for another.
He's been here since Dean started his shift this afternoon, nursing drink after drink and not speaking outside of calling for more. Dean's been too busy dealing with the other customers to cut him off properly, but it's late and if this guy needs help getting wherever he's going (looks like, from the way he's swaying in his seat), he's obligated to help.
Pay for a taxi, at least, if there's no one that'll come get him.
And Dean would really, really like to get home sometime before two in the morning.
"Closing time, buddy," he says, sweeps the glass out of the guy's fingers before he can slur out a protest and places it with the others. "Someone I can call for you?"
There are a lot of things he expects; he's been doing this for a while. He's taken care of all manner of drunks; sloppy ones that vomited on him, sad ones that would sob and beg for just one more even as they were being helped into a taxi, pigheaded ones that were convinced they weren't drunk, fell over on their way to the door, and had to have their car keys stolen before they did any serious damage.
But this guy doesn't respond. He just looks up at Dean from under his fringy bangs with sad eyes that aren't begging, not exactly. His empty fingers curl in on themselves and he just... stares, doesn't move.
"Dude?" Dean asks, waves a hand in front of the guy's face, and gets nothing. He steps around the bar and clasps the guy's shoulder, tugs the stool around.
His eyes still register movement, so the guy's not completely gone yet. He just watches for a few minutes and then says, in a tiny, hoarse voice. "I don't wanna go home."
He's surprisingly eloquent for a guy that's been drinking for hours. Maybe he's not as drunk as Dean originally thought, but that still doesn't fix their problem.
"You don't have to, but you can't stay here. Need me to call a cab or something? On the house."
"No," the guy whines, petulant, and Dean resists the urge to roll his eyes. "I don't wanna. Can't."
"Look--" Dean's reserves of patience aren't exactly endless. It'd be better if he weren't so damn tired, but it's been a long day and there's a shower at home with his name on it. He wants to scrub the bar-smell off his skin so he won't wake up in the morning half-hung-over from breathing the fumes all night.
He doesn't want to deal with whiny drunks, which are worse than sloppy drunks and pigheaded ones combined.
"Nnrph," the guy interrupts, and Dean suddenly has an armful of what feels like a clutching, squirmy octopus. He staggers under the sudden weight, has to focus on not falling over with all of the drunk stranger suddenly bearing down on him. The guy's huge hands are all over him, rucking up under his shirt and clutching at the back of his neck for balance.
"Pretty," he breathes into Dean's neck. "Want."
"Uh, no." Dean bats his hands away and disentangles himself. "Not that kind of bar." He pushes the stranger back onto his stool and starts toward the phone, tries to slow his breathing down to something manageable. Yeah, the guy's drunk and won't notice, but it's the principle of the thing. "Just sit tight. I'll take care of you."
There's something pulsing in his gut, something that's been locked away and buried for too long. Suddenly, he wants, and he definitely wasn't interested fifteen minutes ago. Nor does he make wanting the customers a habit; he doesn't even touch the hot chicks that come wandering in unclaimed. It takes a special sort of willpower to deny them when they look at him that way, but he does.
Doesn't hurt that most of the time he's subjected to bikers' crude humor, either. But now, with his sad eyes and nothing more than a push in the right direction, this guy has completely undone all his hard work at being noble.
He hears him sigh from somewhere behind, and he has a hand on the receiver where it hangs on the wall. He doesn't want to call someone, doesn't want to get a look the guy's pretty little wife or a college buddy or deal with an anonymous taxi driver that wants to get home just a little bit worse than Dean does himself.
But he's stronger than this and entirely sober, so he listens to the dial tone and starts to dial the dispatch number.
He doesn't get all the way through it before there's a strangled, bitten-off moan from the stranger. Dean turns, clutching the phone so hard his knuckles turn white; he's still propped against the counter, but now his head is thrown back. One arm clutches the edge of the bar so he doesn't fall and the other has disappeared underneath. From his vantage point, he can't see what's going on, but he can pretty much guess.
It shouldn't get to him like it does. He's completely sold on the idea right then and there, the suggestion the guy's plainly laying out in front of him; it'd take a saint to resist the column of his neck as it's arched back, the sloppy look of ecstasy on his face that has the corners of his mouth curving up.
The guy's kind of beautiful strung out like that, and Dean hasn't fucked a guy in longer than he'd care to admit.
"Please," he whimpers, and Dean hangs the phone back on the hook before he drops it.
Mechanically, he goes to lock the doors and turn off the neon 'open' sign.
This is the story of Sam's life: he's addicted to bad decisions.
It's not like he consciously picks the wrong choice, but the bottom line is that he does. Every. Single. Time.
It started with this big fight with his dad; Sam might have been an army brat, but he wasn't going to be an army teen, let alone an army adult. So he simply packed his bags and left to go to college instead of the military school his dad had picked out for him.
First mistake.
Stanford was great, hands down, but still-Sam wasn't happy, and changed his major three times during the first couple of years, before he figured out that it simply wasn't right and dropped out altogether.
Then he met her, and as soon as they shook their hands he had felt the connection; it hadn't been long before they moved in together and started living like a married couple, shifting soon into an intimate routine.
Second mistake.
Sam wasn't a big fan of habits and routine, something he used to hate back when he was living with his dad, so his skin itched every time he felt forced to do something. Sharing his life with Jessica and altering his ways to accommodate hers was an imposition, no matter how many times Sam tried to convince himself that it was just a form of compromise.
Jessica was an amazing girl, probably the most amazing he'd ever have the luck of meeting or dating, and what was between them was love, pure, utter, unadulterated love, the kind of love pop songs are about, and yet it wasn't enough.
Sam didn't need much time to realize it, but he stubbornly refused to acknowledge it; first of all because he didn't want to hurt Jessica, who didn't do anything to deserve it, and secondly because he was insanely pigheaded and couldn't tolerate the fact that he had done the wrong thing again.
So he had just clenched his jaw and moved on, hoping that the dreadful feeling in the pit of his stomach was going to disappear on his own at some point.
Third, fatal mistake.
It didn't, and Jessica was too smart not to notice that something was up.
She was also a kind, understanding person, so at first she didn't say a word, giving Sam plenty of space to be the one to approach the subject; when she finally got that Sam wasn't going to talk about it ever, if he could help it, she started to get antsy, and snappy, and in the end she simply exploded.
Sam had gone out, again, and didn't answer her calls, again, so when he finally got home and she discovered he had forgotten today was their anniversary, she couldn't take it anymore. They'd screamed at each other, and accusations had flown in their small living room.
What it had come to, in the end, was that Jessica knew that Sam wasn't in love with her.
"But I do love you," he had objected, and she had simply shaken her head, pointing out that "there are no buts in love, not when there is any love to work with". Sam had only been able to lower his head at those words.
All in all, Jessica had been sweet and kind (she is majoring in psychology, after all) and told him that she wouldn't be able to keep standing by him when she knew that Sam saw someone else every time he looked at her.
"I know you haven't cheated on me, I know you never would," she had explained, "but I also know that I can't make you happy, and that kills me inside some more every day, because I see the bouncy, happy guy I fell for fading away little by little."
She had sat next to him and had taken his hands in hers.
"I don't want to do this anymore, Sam," she had concluded. "I won't keep lying to you and especially to myself. It's going to be hard, but it's over, and we have to deal with it."
Sam knew that he should have protested. He knew that when she disappeared upstairs to pack and came back down after a couple of hours with her suitcase ready and told him that the movers were going to come by the day after to get the rest, he should have stopped her, convinced her to stay, to try again.
He could see in her eyes that she hoped he would.
But Jessica had been strong enough to lay out in the open everything he had been trying so hard to hide, and he owed it to her courage to stop pretending. Besides, she was too amazing for him to keep hurting her, and she deserved a chance to find someone who loved her wholeheartedly and worshipped the ground she walked on.
She deserved a second chance at happiness, and if Sam wasn't the guy who could make her happen, at least he could let her be happy somewhere else. Which was why he went to the first off-campus bar he could find and started drinking at six in the evening.
He had lost the right to worry about her, but that didn't mean that he was going to stop caring.
Every time the alcohol stopped burning down his throat, behind his eyelids he could see his empty, silent house, and a wave of panic washed over him, so he just kept on drinking until he couldn't even remember his own address.
Only thing his mind could focus on by then was a couple of eyes, the greenest eyes he had ever seen, so pretty that he couldn't help but wanting to get closer in order to be able to count each and every stripe of gold in the pupils.
Sam wasn't sure who the eyes belonged to, and he wasn't sure he actually cared.
He just knew that they were there for him to admire and he also knew, somehow, that those eyes were going to be the first (maybe the only) right thing in his life.
Ever.
Dean just stands back and watches for a minute, takes in the way the guy’s slouched. The bar must be digging painfully into his back, and all of that tall frame shoved into the tiny space he’s afforded himself can’t be comfortable. But it’s not like the guy is sober enough to mind and Dean rarely allows himself this.
A thin sheen of sweat has broken out along the stranger’s skin as he fumbles at himself. He can’t quite get there, can’t get enough friction and is uncoordinated as hell trying to do it. It should be pathetic but it isn’t, isn’t quite enough to stop the steady need pushing through him. He groans, leans forward with his eyes closed, and a small line of concentration appears between his eyebrows.
And Dean can’t stand it anymore. He steps forward, closes his fingers around the guy’s wrist and pulls his hand away.
"I'm horny," Sam whines, weakly pulling in order to free his hand and keep trying to get some sort of relief.
He doesn't succeed in breaking the bartender's hold, though, so after a handful of seconds he gives up, groans and encircles the bartender's leg with his own, pulling him closer and grinding against his thigh.
"Fuck yeah," he murmurs, laying his head back again as his movements get frantic, but it's still not enough.
He doesn't have control of his body, can't manage the right amount of pressure or a steady rhythm, and his eyes fill with tears of frustration as he tries to straighten his back a little.
"Help," he pants straight into the bartender's ear.
Dean plants a hand against the bar and tries not to let the stranger’s sharp movements unseat him. He leans in, nips at the guy’s earlobe as best he can with the way he’s moving and whispers, “You’re drunk,” as if he can reconcile this.
But it’s not like he wants to. The guy’s thick cock grinding against his thigh, even through layers of denim, feels better than anything has in a long time and, if anything, he’s helping him out. He can pretend it’s not a selfish thing, even if it’s not true.
"Yeah, I am drunk. So?"
Sam would laugh at the stupid, obvious statement, if his brain wasn't focused so sharply on the need to come, now.
Dean feels around with the hand that isn’t holding him up, finds the hem of the guy’s shirt and pushes it up enough to get at his belt. “Shh,” he hisses, trying to get a hold through the other’s frantic bucking. And because he can’t not talk, because he has to at least make it seem like it’s a normal thing, he flicks his tongue, licking the shell of the guy’s ear, and whispers, “I gotcha. You got a name?”
Dean isn’t even sure this guy is sober enough to remember it, but that’s so not the point right now. He has to have a name to refer to him by, like that small thing will rectify the fact that what he’s doing is so very wrong. When he finally gets the guy’s belt undone, pushes his hand inside the waistband of his jeans and finally gets it wrapped around his cock, he can’t bring himself to care.
The bartender's words soothe him, and penetrate through his haze and confusion, making him feel safe and protected, which is so out of place that Sam can't even start to process the sensation and just rolls with it.
One of the perks of being completely wasted.
Then the guy asks him something, an important question, and Sam is thrown off for a second, furrowing his burrow, trying to recollect enough brain cells to answer, because, damn, wouldn't it be even hotter if together with the bartender's lips, tongue and fingers he could also get the bartender's hoarse voice to call him by his name?
Name, name.
"Sam," he masters in the end. "Sam. I am. Sam." He can't concentrate, so he's not sure the name is the right one, hell, he's not even sure he managed to say it out loud.
He just wants, needs-
Sam cries out in pleasure as the bartender's hand finally, finally reaches its destination and starts jerking him off.
“Sam,” Dean purrs. Sam’s breath smells like alcohol, and he wants to kiss him but he won’t. That would make it something else, something it’s not, and he couldn’t stand it. He strokes Sam fast, flicks his thumb up underneath and crown and does as best as he can with the limited space.
His own need is incessant, prickles underneath his skin, but he can wait. God, he can wait if he just gets to have this; Sam’s cock fits perfectly in his hand like it was made for this, silky smooth and leaking. From the way he jerks, from the way his dick twitches in Dean’s hand, he can tell it isn’t going to take long.
But he wants it to. He wants Sam to be this strung-out forever, be this dependent on him and needing him this much - but the goal here is not his own pleasure. He needs to get Sam off as quickly as possible.
He redoubles his efforts until his arm aches with it.
Sam has lost any rest of dignity and is now moaning like a two dollar whore under the bartender's expert ministrations.
Wait, Sam thinks. Maybe he is a whore.
After all, how could this guy not be one? He's disgustingly pretty, and the way he moves his wrist... professional, no doubt about it.
Once Sam has reached this conclusion, suddenly any guilt or awkwardness disappears and he lets himself go. Who better than someone who does it for a living can help him forget?
Right now, in the bartender's arms, he realizes sex has never been quite like this for him.
Sex has always been a matter of duty, something he thought he was supposed to do, listening to the few friends he and Jessica had, and he never thought he could enjoy it this way.
He has a flash of the bartender breaching his body with his long fingers and then pushing inside of him, his muscles taut with the effort of waiting for Sam's body to get used to the intrusion before he starts pounding.
The image alone is almost enough to make him come then and there, but he still needs something else, something else.
He can taste the orgasm on the top of his tongue, it's so close he can see it, but still so far that he can't reach it. "Please," he begs. "Please. I'm-I can't-" he bites his lower lip, hard, and then soothes the sting, licking it again and again, his fingers twitching as they grab the bartender's biceps desperately.
Dean gives up. He can feel the tension radiating through Sam’s body, the raw live wire of the alcohol-fueled need that’s taken over. The way he rubs against him, clutches to get closer…
When he kisses Sam, he can’t stand the stale taste of what he’s been drinking all day. He almost pulls back, but something stops him - the desperate way Sam just opens for him, presses tighter and sighs with his entire body. He moves down, mouthing over his neck, his jaw, sucks Sam’s bottom lip into his mouth and runs his tongue over it again and again.
Sam’s words have disintegrated into jumbled sounds, syllables that tumble out of his mouth and into Dean’s. Uncoordinated, sloppy, he moves forward to claim Dean’s mouth for his own; he’s used to being in control.
“C’mon,” he growls between thrusts of his tongue, “C’mon Sammy.”
It's not the kiss, even though it must be the hottest kiss in Sam's life, and it's not the euphoria of being able to give some of the control up to the bartender.
No, it's Dean's voice, hoarse and raw, using a pet name no one has used since when he was five that throws him over the edge.
He squeezes his eyes shut and hides his face against Dean's shoulder, sobbing in relief as his orgasm is ripped out of him, and it hurts, because it's too much, too soon, but Sam wouldn't have it any other way.
The pain is excruciating as it subsides, and it's laced with pleasure so tightly that Sam can't tell when one ends and the other begins. He lifts his heavy lidded eyes and as he stares at the bartender's plush lips, glistening with their mixed saliva, his cock twitches valiantly.
That's when he realizes that he has somehow sobered up and can now think with so much more clarity.
First thought to cross his mind is that the bartender knows Sam's name, but Sam doesn't have a clue about who the guy is.
"So," he starts, "what's your name? And spare me the 'which one would you like?' crap."
Dean blinks. He doesn’t know how someone can still be so drunk after an orgasm like the one Sam just had, but he did drink a lot earlier. Watching him come apart almost sent him over the edge; might of, if there’d been more than the pressure of denim on his own dick. As it is, he’s still painfully hard and he doesn’t really care.
“Dean,” he breathes, drops his own head back because it’s painful to maintain the angle it takes to kiss Sam. “I’m Dean.” He can’t expect Sam to reciprocate, but damn his arm hurts.
Dean probably doesn't expect Sam to do anything to relieve his current situation, and judging by the arch of his eyebrow he doesn't realize that Sam is back in control and knows what he has to do.
In theory.
"I've never done this. To someone else," Sam states, his gaze shifting to the side, as he swiftly unbuttons and unzips Dean's pants.
The bartender gapes at him, and maybe Sam isn't supposed to touch, but what the hell. The guy's so hard he could pound nails with his dick, and Sam's nothing but a gentleman. He starts to jerk Dean off using every dirty trick in his book he knows get him off when he wants something quick and messy, hoping they will work on Dean too.
"Don't you wanna come, Dean?" he whispers, his mouth brushing the point where Dean's pulse pounds. "Show me how you like it. Want to make it good. For you." Sam knows he's babbling, but he doesn't know what else to do, and he instinctively knows that this man letting go must be the most gorgeous sight on earth.
His movements speed up, as he plays with Dean's balls, scraping the tender skin slightly with his nails, and bites his bobbing Adam’s apple.
There's maybe half a second where Dean isn't so sure he should take advantage of a drunk guy like this, but Sam's huge paw is around him and fuck, he couldn't stop now if he wanted to. He tries to grasp on to some edge of reason, but it slips away and he doesn't really care, not right now. He pushes his hips forward into Sam's grip, sloppy and uncoordinated and he hasn't even been drinking.
His orgasm sweeps up on him quickly, makes every muscle tighten and seize; he comes all over both of them, adding to the mess that Sam’s already created between them. It’s lightening-bright, sharp, and when he can breathe again he only just stops himself from slumping forward.
But the angle’s right, and Sam’s right there, and suddenly all Dean can think about (beside the fact that he just came harder than he has in a long time) is what it felt like to kiss Sam, and how awesome it’d be to do it again.
So he does. He leans in, breath coming hard against Sam's skin, and his kiss lands at the corner of Sam's mouth.
Once Dean steps back, Sam stares at him with his eyes at half-mast, looking dazed and hazy.
Then he remembers something, blinking, and licks his lips, searching for Dean's taste on them.
"Didn't you have some sort of no kissing rule? Like, kissing is the only thing I can keep for myself, and all that shit?" he asks, his voice shaking, while he still tries to come down from the high of one of the best orgasms he has ever had.
His fingers swirl through Dean's come on his naked belly distractedly, trying to make sense of everything that's happening to him and willing his cock to get down, dammit.
"Uh," Dean raises an eyebrow, tries to focus on getting his feet back under him. He can't remember where he left his bar towel, even if it would be really useful right now. Instead of trying to find it, he just stands there, blinking at Sam. It's an awkward few minutes, because he has no idea what's going on and still can't get his brain cells to align right. He clears his throat and looks down.
When it becomes clear that their moment has passed and Dean is just waiting for him to man up and leave, Sam pulls his shirt down and chuckles nervously.
"Okay, uh. Thanks, I guess."
He scratches the back of his head, uncomfortably, then he attempts to look at Dean from under his long bangs. "So... how much do I owe you?" he inquires.
He hopes it won't be too much, because he doesn't know how much cash he has in his wallet, and he somehow doubts that Dean will let Sam pay his services with a credit card.
"Owe...?" And then Dean gets it, and it's not about the tab Sam's been adding up since he got there. "Wait. You... you think I'm...?" He doesn't know whether to be insulted or not. He tries to think back on everything's that's happened, on what he may have done to make Sam think that, but apparently it isn't a new development; almost everything Sam's said tonight has implied that he...
Dean glares. "I am not a hooker."
He spots the towel farther down the bar and stalks off, tucks himself back in and fixes his pants before he starts to clean himself up. Sam is silent. He stands this for a few more minutes before he turns, quickly. "What would make you think I was a hooker?!"
Sam feels his cheeks burn, and really doesn't know what to say. You're too good at sex not to be or you have the most perfect cocksucking lips I've ever seen don't seem to be the right answer to give, so Sam simply thinks them but doesn't share them with Dean.
In the end he settles for something closer to the truth. "That was the best sex of my life."
Then he just hangs his head in shame and fidgets, unable to look at Dean, too busy trying to fit his whole foot in his mouth to realize he's said it out loud.
At Sam's words, the reel of film screeches to a halt.
Uriel turns to Castiel, triumphant, gloating grin firmly intact. "I told you," he says, showing teeth like a shark's, "Lust. That's all they have - filthy lust. Sinning." His voice is full of contempt, and he looks like he's about to continue, but Castiel shoots him a deadly dark glance and the words die in his throat.
Castiel knew that Uriel has stayed silent during the frantic moment of pleasure the brothers shared only because he was waiting for the first sign of lust, to prove him wrong.
Well, he won't be able to.
“Just watch,” Castiel says, sternly, and turns back to the Winchesters as the film starts to roll again.
For the first time, Dean honestly doesn't know what to say. And yeah, he works at a dive, so he's used to comments about his lips and how pretty he is, it's not like bunches of other people haven't made the same mistake; they just usually don't say it right after they've jerked him off.
And it's kind of flattering, because he's never been told like this before - and Sam's so embarrassed about it... but then again, Sam's still not entirely sober and the same rules just don't apply. Dean doesn't want him to feel bad, anyway. He frowns. "Dude," he says, because what else can he say? He moves back toward Sam, sits in the stool next to him, and offers him the towel.
Sam takes it, muttering a low thank you as he desperately tries not to focus on the fact that the spunk he's drying off is Dean's or his cock will be ready for round two before he has the time to leave the bar.
Once he's more or less clean, Sam stands up on wobbly legs, staring at the towel in his hands for a moment and then leaving it on the counter. Not sure what to do with his hands, he pushes them down into his pockets as far as they go, his gaze shifting restlessly everywhere but on Dean.
He has to apologize, he knows he has, but he can't. He only said what he felt, and there can't be anything wrong with that.
Dean leans back against the bar, rolling his shoulders against the press of it on his back, and tries to look lax even if his arms are shaking. Still weak from Sam's hands on him. It's absolutely crazy, but as he looks up and see Sam's uncertainty, something clicks.
"Hey," he says, gently, waits until Sam raises his eyes. "We, uh. I think we got something going here. I mean, besides the fact that you thought I was a hooker and all.” He scratches at the back of his neck. “If you wanna… I’m off Tuesdays and Thursdays.” Dean ends with a sort of half-dismissive wave of his hand, and returns it to his lap automatically. Why the hell is he nervous?
Sam blinks, and for an instant he's afraid that he's imagining all of this, the spark in Dean's eyes, the hope shining through his crooked smile.
"Uh, but-I am..." he bites his lower lip, stopping himself before he does something stupid, like run away from Dean, because he can have doubts about a lot of things, but he's absolutely positive he's not imagining is the electricity crackling between them.
That's something you can't fake.
So he just beams at Dean, a smile so wide his dimples cut deep holes in his cheeks, and offers his hand to Dean. "Hi, my name is Sam and I'm a failed student. Can I invite you to breakfast? I think I owe you."
Dean grins wide, deliriously happy for no reason he can name. Except that Sam's smile is absolutely beautiful when he means it, and that he really, really wants to take him up on that offer. He grips Sam's hand and squeezes. "Dean, bartender. And I think I'd like that."
Murphy's fades to black in the background, taking Sam, Dean, and their smiling faces with it.
Castiel and Uriel appear in the middle of the bar, suddenly empty. Castiel crosses his arms on his chest and smirks at Uriel.
"...you were saying?"
Uriel clenches his jaw, growling curses at his superior.
Next
Previous
Murphy's is the best-known dive in this part of the city. It lingers on the outskirts and harbors all sorts of men on the wrong side of the law most nights. It's not the safest place to work, but the wage is fair and the hours are flexible. And it isn't hard, besides.
Dean just wishes he didn't have to lock up. It's close to midnight and the bikers are slowly filtering out with their girls, taking with them the loud, raucous laughter. Thirty minutes to closing and the clock behind the bar ticks so slowly that Dean isn't sure it's moving at all.
The haze of cigarette smoke that still lingers in the air and the tall guy at the end of the bar are nearly all that's left. It's strangely silent with most of the patrons gone; Dean hums to fill the silence, some out-of-tune version of a Metallica riff as he takes the used glasses off the bar and gathers them to clean.
He wipes the watermarks off the gleaming wood finish, tosses the used napkins into the trash can near his feet (and seriously, would it kill them to clean up after themselves? He's a bartender, not a maid), and is about to go out into the lobby with a fresh rag when the stranger calls for another.
He's been here since Dean started his shift this afternoon, nursing drink after drink and not speaking outside of calling for more. Dean's been too busy dealing with the other customers to cut him off properly, but it's late and if this guy needs help getting wherever he's going (looks like, from the way he's swaying in his seat), he's obligated to help.
Pay for a taxi, at least, if there's no one that'll come get him.
And Dean would really, really like to get home sometime before two in the morning.
"Closing time, buddy," he says, sweeps the glass out of the guy's fingers before he can slur out a protest and places it with the others. "Someone I can call for you?"
There are a lot of things he expects; he's been doing this for a while. He's taken care of all manner of drunks; sloppy ones that vomited on him, sad ones that would sob and beg for just one more even as they were being helped into a taxi, pigheaded ones that were convinced they weren't drunk, fell over on their way to the door, and had to have their car keys stolen before they did any serious damage.
But this guy doesn't respond. He just looks up at Dean from under his fringy bangs with sad eyes that aren't begging, not exactly. His empty fingers curl in on themselves and he just... stares, doesn't move.
"Dude?" Dean asks, waves a hand in front of the guy's face, and gets nothing. He steps around the bar and clasps the guy's shoulder, tugs the stool around.
His eyes still register movement, so the guy's not completely gone yet. He just watches for a few minutes and then says, in a tiny, hoarse voice. "I don't wanna go home."
He's surprisingly eloquent for a guy that's been drinking for hours. Maybe he's not as drunk as Dean originally thought, but that still doesn't fix their problem.
"You don't have to, but you can't stay here. Need me to call a cab or something? On the house."
"No," the guy whines, petulant, and Dean resists the urge to roll his eyes. "I don't wanna. Can't."
"Look--" Dean's reserves of patience aren't exactly endless. It'd be better if he weren't so damn tired, but it's been a long day and there's a shower at home with his name on it. He wants to scrub the bar-smell off his skin so he won't wake up in the morning half-hung-over from breathing the fumes all night.
He doesn't want to deal with whiny drunks, which are worse than sloppy drunks and pigheaded ones combined.
"Nnrph," the guy interrupts, and Dean suddenly has an armful of what feels like a clutching, squirmy octopus. He staggers under the sudden weight, has to focus on not falling over with all of the drunk stranger suddenly bearing down on him. The guy's huge hands are all over him, rucking up under his shirt and clutching at the back of his neck for balance.
"Pretty," he breathes into Dean's neck. "Want."
"Uh, no." Dean bats his hands away and disentangles himself. "Not that kind of bar." He pushes the stranger back onto his stool and starts toward the phone, tries to slow his breathing down to something manageable. Yeah, the guy's drunk and won't notice, but it's the principle of the thing. "Just sit tight. I'll take care of you."
There's something pulsing in his gut, something that's been locked away and buried for too long. Suddenly, he wants, and he definitely wasn't interested fifteen minutes ago. Nor does he make wanting the customers a habit; he doesn't even touch the hot chicks that come wandering in unclaimed. It takes a special sort of willpower to deny them when they look at him that way, but he does.
Doesn't hurt that most of the time he's subjected to bikers' crude humor, either. But now, with his sad eyes and nothing more than a push in the right direction, this guy has completely undone all his hard work at being noble.
He hears him sigh from somewhere behind, and he has a hand on the receiver where it hangs on the wall. He doesn't want to call someone, doesn't want to get a look the guy's pretty little wife or a college buddy or deal with an anonymous taxi driver that wants to get home just a little bit worse than Dean does himself.
But he's stronger than this and entirely sober, so he listens to the dial tone and starts to dial the dispatch number.
He doesn't get all the way through it before there's a strangled, bitten-off moan from the stranger. Dean turns, clutching the phone so hard his knuckles turn white; he's still propped against the counter, but now his head is thrown back. One arm clutches the edge of the bar so he doesn't fall and the other has disappeared underneath. From his vantage point, he can't see what's going on, but he can pretty much guess.
It shouldn't get to him like it does. He's completely sold on the idea right then and there, the suggestion the guy's plainly laying out in front of him; it'd take a saint to resist the column of his neck as it's arched back, the sloppy look of ecstasy on his face that has the corners of his mouth curving up.
The guy's kind of beautiful strung out like that, and Dean hasn't fucked a guy in longer than he'd care to admit.
"Please," he whimpers, and Dean hangs the phone back on the hook before he drops it.
Mechanically, he goes to lock the doors and turn off the neon 'open' sign.
This is the story of Sam's life: he's addicted to bad decisions.
It's not like he consciously picks the wrong choice, but the bottom line is that he does. Every. Single. Time.
It started with this big fight with his dad; Sam might have been an army brat, but he wasn't going to be an army teen, let alone an army adult. So he simply packed his bags and left to go to college instead of the military school his dad had picked out for him.
First mistake.
Stanford was great, hands down, but still-Sam wasn't happy, and changed his major three times during the first couple of years, before he figured out that it simply wasn't right and dropped out altogether.
Then he met her, and as soon as they shook their hands he had felt the connection; it hadn't been long before they moved in together and started living like a married couple, shifting soon into an intimate routine.
Second mistake.
Sam wasn't a big fan of habits and routine, something he used to hate back when he was living with his dad, so his skin itched every time he felt forced to do something. Sharing his life with Jessica and altering his ways to accommodate hers was an imposition, no matter how many times Sam tried to convince himself that it was just a form of compromise.
Jessica was an amazing girl, probably the most amazing he'd ever have the luck of meeting or dating, and what was between them was love, pure, utter, unadulterated love, the kind of love pop songs are about, and yet it wasn't enough.
Sam didn't need much time to realize it, but he stubbornly refused to acknowledge it; first of all because he didn't want to hurt Jessica, who didn't do anything to deserve it, and secondly because he was insanely pigheaded and couldn't tolerate the fact that he had done the wrong thing again.
So he had just clenched his jaw and moved on, hoping that the dreadful feeling in the pit of his stomach was going to disappear on his own at some point.
Third, fatal mistake.
It didn't, and Jessica was too smart not to notice that something was up.
She was also a kind, understanding person, so at first she didn't say a word, giving Sam plenty of space to be the one to approach the subject; when she finally got that Sam wasn't going to talk about it ever, if he could help it, she started to get antsy, and snappy, and in the end she simply exploded.
Sam had gone out, again, and didn't answer her calls, again, so when he finally got home and she discovered he had forgotten today was their anniversary, she couldn't take it anymore. They'd screamed at each other, and accusations had flown in their small living room.
What it had come to, in the end, was that Jessica knew that Sam wasn't in love with her.
"But I do love you," he had objected, and she had simply shaken her head, pointing out that "there are no buts in love, not when there is any love to work with". Sam had only been able to lower his head at those words.
All in all, Jessica had been sweet and kind (she is majoring in psychology, after all) and told him that she wouldn't be able to keep standing by him when she knew that Sam saw someone else every time he looked at her.
"I know you haven't cheated on me, I know you never would," she had explained, "but I also know that I can't make you happy, and that kills me inside some more every day, because I see the bouncy, happy guy I fell for fading away little by little."
She had sat next to him and had taken his hands in hers.
"I don't want to do this anymore, Sam," she had concluded. "I won't keep lying to you and especially to myself. It's going to be hard, but it's over, and we have to deal with it."
Sam knew that he should have protested. He knew that when she disappeared upstairs to pack and came back down after a couple of hours with her suitcase ready and told him that the movers were going to come by the day after to get the rest, he should have stopped her, convinced her to stay, to try again.
He could see in her eyes that she hoped he would.
But Jessica had been strong enough to lay out in the open everything he had been trying so hard to hide, and he owed it to her courage to stop pretending. Besides, she was too amazing for him to keep hurting her, and she deserved a chance to find someone who loved her wholeheartedly and worshipped the ground she walked on.
She deserved a second chance at happiness, and if Sam wasn't the guy who could make her happen, at least he could let her be happy somewhere else. Which was why he went to the first off-campus bar he could find and started drinking at six in the evening.
He had lost the right to worry about her, but that didn't mean that he was going to stop caring.
Every time the alcohol stopped burning down his throat, behind his eyelids he could see his empty, silent house, and a wave of panic washed over him, so he just kept on drinking until he couldn't even remember his own address.
Only thing his mind could focus on by then was a couple of eyes, the greenest eyes he had ever seen, so pretty that he couldn't help but wanting to get closer in order to be able to count each and every stripe of gold in the pupils.
Sam wasn't sure who the eyes belonged to, and he wasn't sure he actually cared.
He just knew that they were there for him to admire and he also knew, somehow, that those eyes were going to be the first (maybe the only) right thing in his life.
Ever.
Dean just stands back and watches for a minute, takes in the way the guy’s slouched. The bar must be digging painfully into his back, and all of that tall frame shoved into the tiny space he’s afforded himself can’t be comfortable. But it’s not like the guy is sober enough to mind and Dean rarely allows himself this.
A thin sheen of sweat has broken out along the stranger’s skin as he fumbles at himself. He can’t quite get there, can’t get enough friction and is uncoordinated as hell trying to do it. It should be pathetic but it isn’t, isn’t quite enough to stop the steady need pushing through him. He groans, leans forward with his eyes closed, and a small line of concentration appears between his eyebrows.
And Dean can’t stand it anymore. He steps forward, closes his fingers around the guy’s wrist and pulls his hand away.
"I'm horny," Sam whines, weakly pulling in order to free his hand and keep trying to get some sort of relief.
He doesn't succeed in breaking the bartender's hold, though, so after a handful of seconds he gives up, groans and encircles the bartender's leg with his own, pulling him closer and grinding against his thigh.
"Fuck yeah," he murmurs, laying his head back again as his movements get frantic, but it's still not enough.
He doesn't have control of his body, can't manage the right amount of pressure or a steady rhythm, and his eyes fill with tears of frustration as he tries to straighten his back a little.
"Help," he pants straight into the bartender's ear.
Dean plants a hand against the bar and tries not to let the stranger’s sharp movements unseat him. He leans in, nips at the guy’s earlobe as best he can with the way he’s moving and whispers, “You’re drunk,” as if he can reconcile this.
But it’s not like he wants to. The guy’s thick cock grinding against his thigh, even through layers of denim, feels better than anything has in a long time and, if anything, he’s helping him out. He can pretend it’s not a selfish thing, even if it’s not true.
"Yeah, I am drunk. So?"
Sam would laugh at the stupid, obvious statement, if his brain wasn't focused so sharply on the need to come, now.
Dean feels around with the hand that isn’t holding him up, finds the hem of the guy’s shirt and pushes it up enough to get at his belt. “Shh,” he hisses, trying to get a hold through the other’s frantic bucking. And because he can’t not talk, because he has to at least make it seem like it’s a normal thing, he flicks his tongue, licking the shell of the guy’s ear, and whispers, “I gotcha. You got a name?”
Dean isn’t even sure this guy is sober enough to remember it, but that’s so not the point right now. He has to have a name to refer to him by, like that small thing will rectify the fact that what he’s doing is so very wrong. When he finally gets the guy’s belt undone, pushes his hand inside the waistband of his jeans and finally gets it wrapped around his cock, he can’t bring himself to care.
The bartender's words soothe him, and penetrate through his haze and confusion, making him feel safe and protected, which is so out of place that Sam can't even start to process the sensation and just rolls with it.
One of the perks of being completely wasted.
Then the guy asks him something, an important question, and Sam is thrown off for a second, furrowing his burrow, trying to recollect enough brain cells to answer, because, damn, wouldn't it be even hotter if together with the bartender's lips, tongue and fingers he could also get the bartender's hoarse voice to call him by his name?
Name, name.
"Sam," he masters in the end. "Sam. I am. Sam." He can't concentrate, so he's not sure the name is the right one, hell, he's not even sure he managed to say it out loud.
He just wants, needs-
Sam cries out in pleasure as the bartender's hand finally, finally reaches its destination and starts jerking him off.
“Sam,” Dean purrs. Sam’s breath smells like alcohol, and he wants to kiss him but he won’t. That would make it something else, something it’s not, and he couldn’t stand it. He strokes Sam fast, flicks his thumb up underneath and crown and does as best as he can with the limited space.
His own need is incessant, prickles underneath his skin, but he can wait. God, he can wait if he just gets to have this; Sam’s cock fits perfectly in his hand like it was made for this, silky smooth and leaking. From the way he jerks, from the way his dick twitches in Dean’s hand, he can tell it isn’t going to take long.
But he wants it to. He wants Sam to be this strung-out forever, be this dependent on him and needing him this much - but the goal here is not his own pleasure. He needs to get Sam off as quickly as possible.
He redoubles his efforts until his arm aches with it.
Sam has lost any rest of dignity and is now moaning like a two dollar whore under the bartender's expert ministrations.
Wait, Sam thinks. Maybe he is a whore.
After all, how could this guy not be one? He's disgustingly pretty, and the way he moves his wrist... professional, no doubt about it.
Once Sam has reached this conclusion, suddenly any guilt or awkwardness disappears and he lets himself go. Who better than someone who does it for a living can help him forget?
Right now, in the bartender's arms, he realizes sex has never been quite like this for him.
Sex has always been a matter of duty, something he thought he was supposed to do, listening to the few friends he and Jessica had, and he never thought he could enjoy it this way.
He has a flash of the bartender breaching his body with his long fingers and then pushing inside of him, his muscles taut with the effort of waiting for Sam's body to get used to the intrusion before he starts pounding.
The image alone is almost enough to make him come then and there, but he still needs something else, something else.
He can taste the orgasm on the top of his tongue, it's so close he can see it, but still so far that he can't reach it. "Please," he begs. "Please. I'm-I can't-" he bites his lower lip, hard, and then soothes the sting, licking it again and again, his fingers twitching as they grab the bartender's biceps desperately.
Dean gives up. He can feel the tension radiating through Sam’s body, the raw live wire of the alcohol-fueled need that’s taken over. The way he rubs against him, clutches to get closer…
When he kisses Sam, he can’t stand the stale taste of what he’s been drinking all day. He almost pulls back, but something stops him - the desperate way Sam just opens for him, presses tighter and sighs with his entire body. He moves down, mouthing over his neck, his jaw, sucks Sam’s bottom lip into his mouth and runs his tongue over it again and again.
Sam’s words have disintegrated into jumbled sounds, syllables that tumble out of his mouth and into Dean’s. Uncoordinated, sloppy, he moves forward to claim Dean’s mouth for his own; he’s used to being in control.
“C’mon,” he growls between thrusts of his tongue, “C’mon Sammy.”
It's not the kiss, even though it must be the hottest kiss in Sam's life, and it's not the euphoria of being able to give some of the control up to the bartender.
No, it's Dean's voice, hoarse and raw, using a pet name no one has used since when he was five that throws him over the edge.
He squeezes his eyes shut and hides his face against Dean's shoulder, sobbing in relief as his orgasm is ripped out of him, and it hurts, because it's too much, too soon, but Sam wouldn't have it any other way.
The pain is excruciating as it subsides, and it's laced with pleasure so tightly that Sam can't tell when one ends and the other begins. He lifts his heavy lidded eyes and as he stares at the bartender's plush lips, glistening with their mixed saliva, his cock twitches valiantly.
That's when he realizes that he has somehow sobered up and can now think with so much more clarity.
First thought to cross his mind is that the bartender knows Sam's name, but Sam doesn't have a clue about who the guy is.
"So," he starts, "what's your name? And spare me the 'which one would you like?' crap."
Dean blinks. He doesn’t know how someone can still be so drunk after an orgasm like the one Sam just had, but he did drink a lot earlier. Watching him come apart almost sent him over the edge; might of, if there’d been more than the pressure of denim on his own dick. As it is, he’s still painfully hard and he doesn’t really care.
“Dean,” he breathes, drops his own head back because it’s painful to maintain the angle it takes to kiss Sam. “I’m Dean.” He can’t expect Sam to reciprocate, but damn his arm hurts.
Dean probably doesn't expect Sam to do anything to relieve his current situation, and judging by the arch of his eyebrow he doesn't realize that Sam is back in control and knows what he has to do.
In theory.
"I've never done this. To someone else," Sam states, his gaze shifting to the side, as he swiftly unbuttons and unzips Dean's pants.
The bartender gapes at him, and maybe Sam isn't supposed to touch, but what the hell. The guy's so hard he could pound nails with his dick, and Sam's nothing but a gentleman. He starts to jerk Dean off using every dirty trick in his book he knows get him off when he wants something quick and messy, hoping they will work on Dean too.
"Don't you wanna come, Dean?" he whispers, his mouth brushing the point where Dean's pulse pounds. "Show me how you like it. Want to make it good. For you." Sam knows he's babbling, but he doesn't know what else to do, and he instinctively knows that this man letting go must be the most gorgeous sight on earth.
His movements speed up, as he plays with Dean's balls, scraping the tender skin slightly with his nails, and bites his bobbing Adam’s apple.
There's maybe half a second where Dean isn't so sure he should take advantage of a drunk guy like this, but Sam's huge paw is around him and fuck, he couldn't stop now if he wanted to. He tries to grasp on to some edge of reason, but it slips away and he doesn't really care, not right now. He pushes his hips forward into Sam's grip, sloppy and uncoordinated and he hasn't even been drinking.
His orgasm sweeps up on him quickly, makes every muscle tighten and seize; he comes all over both of them, adding to the mess that Sam’s already created between them. It’s lightening-bright, sharp, and when he can breathe again he only just stops himself from slumping forward.
But the angle’s right, and Sam’s right there, and suddenly all Dean can think about (beside the fact that he just came harder than he has in a long time) is what it felt like to kiss Sam, and how awesome it’d be to do it again.
So he does. He leans in, breath coming hard against Sam's skin, and his kiss lands at the corner of Sam's mouth.
Once Dean steps back, Sam stares at him with his eyes at half-mast, looking dazed and hazy.
Then he remembers something, blinking, and licks his lips, searching for Dean's taste on them.
"Didn't you have some sort of no kissing rule? Like, kissing is the only thing I can keep for myself, and all that shit?" he asks, his voice shaking, while he still tries to come down from the high of one of the best orgasms he has ever had.
His fingers swirl through Dean's come on his naked belly distractedly, trying to make sense of everything that's happening to him and willing his cock to get down, dammit.
"Uh," Dean raises an eyebrow, tries to focus on getting his feet back under him. He can't remember where he left his bar towel, even if it would be really useful right now. Instead of trying to find it, he just stands there, blinking at Sam. It's an awkward few minutes, because he has no idea what's going on and still can't get his brain cells to align right. He clears his throat and looks down.
When it becomes clear that their moment has passed and Dean is just waiting for him to man up and leave, Sam pulls his shirt down and chuckles nervously.
"Okay, uh. Thanks, I guess."
He scratches the back of his head, uncomfortably, then he attempts to look at Dean from under his long bangs. "So... how much do I owe you?" he inquires.
He hopes it won't be too much, because he doesn't know how much cash he has in his wallet, and he somehow doubts that Dean will let Sam pay his services with a credit card.
"Owe...?" And then Dean gets it, and it's not about the tab Sam's been adding up since he got there. "Wait. You... you think I'm...?" He doesn't know whether to be insulted or not. He tries to think back on everything's that's happened, on what he may have done to make Sam think that, but apparently it isn't a new development; almost everything Sam's said tonight has implied that he...
Dean glares. "I am not a hooker."
He spots the towel farther down the bar and stalks off, tucks himself back in and fixes his pants before he starts to clean himself up. Sam is silent. He stands this for a few more minutes before he turns, quickly. "What would make you think I was a hooker?!"
Sam feels his cheeks burn, and really doesn't know what to say. You're too good at sex not to be or you have the most perfect cocksucking lips I've ever seen don't seem to be the right answer to give, so Sam simply thinks them but doesn't share them with Dean.
In the end he settles for something closer to the truth. "That was the best sex of my life."
Then he just hangs his head in shame and fidgets, unable to look at Dean, too busy trying to fit his whole foot in his mouth to realize he's said it out loud.
At Sam's words, the reel of film screeches to a halt.
Uriel turns to Castiel, triumphant, gloating grin firmly intact. "I told you," he says, showing teeth like a shark's, "Lust. That's all they have - filthy lust. Sinning." His voice is full of contempt, and he looks like he's about to continue, but Castiel shoots him a deadly dark glance and the words die in his throat.
Castiel knew that Uriel has stayed silent during the frantic moment of pleasure the brothers shared only because he was waiting for the first sign of lust, to prove him wrong.
Well, he won't be able to.
“Just watch,” Castiel says, sternly, and turns back to the Winchesters as the film starts to roll again.
For the first time, Dean honestly doesn't know what to say. And yeah, he works at a dive, so he's used to comments about his lips and how pretty he is, it's not like bunches of other people haven't made the same mistake; they just usually don't say it right after they've jerked him off.
And it's kind of flattering, because he's never been told like this before - and Sam's so embarrassed about it... but then again, Sam's still not entirely sober and the same rules just don't apply. Dean doesn't want him to feel bad, anyway. He frowns. "Dude," he says, because what else can he say? He moves back toward Sam, sits in the stool next to him, and offers him the towel.
Sam takes it, muttering a low thank you as he desperately tries not to focus on the fact that the spunk he's drying off is Dean's or his cock will be ready for round two before he has the time to leave the bar.
Once he's more or less clean, Sam stands up on wobbly legs, staring at the towel in his hands for a moment and then leaving it on the counter. Not sure what to do with his hands, he pushes them down into his pockets as far as they go, his gaze shifting restlessly everywhere but on Dean.
He has to apologize, he knows he has, but he can't. He only said what he felt, and there can't be anything wrong with that.
Dean leans back against the bar, rolling his shoulders against the press of it on his back, and tries to look lax even if his arms are shaking. Still weak from Sam's hands on him. It's absolutely crazy, but as he looks up and see Sam's uncertainty, something clicks.
"Hey," he says, gently, waits until Sam raises his eyes. "We, uh. I think we got something going here. I mean, besides the fact that you thought I was a hooker and all.” He scratches at the back of his neck. “If you wanna… I’m off Tuesdays and Thursdays.” Dean ends with a sort of half-dismissive wave of his hand, and returns it to his lap automatically. Why the hell is he nervous?
Sam blinks, and for an instant he's afraid that he's imagining all of this, the spark in Dean's eyes, the hope shining through his crooked smile.
"Uh, but-I am..." he bites his lower lip, stopping himself before he does something stupid, like run away from Dean, because he can have doubts about a lot of things, but he's absolutely positive he's not imagining is the electricity crackling between them.
That's something you can't fake.
So he just beams at Dean, a smile so wide his dimples cut deep holes in his cheeks, and offers his hand to Dean. "Hi, my name is Sam and I'm a failed student. Can I invite you to breakfast? I think I owe you."
Dean grins wide, deliriously happy for no reason he can name. Except that Sam's smile is absolutely beautiful when he means it, and that he really, really wants to take him up on that offer. He grips Sam's hand and squeezes. "Dean, bartender. And I think I'd like that."
Murphy's fades to black in the background, taking Sam, Dean, and their smiling faces with it.
Castiel and Uriel appear in the middle of the bar, suddenly empty. Castiel crosses his arms on his chest and smirks at Uriel.
"...you were saying?"
Uriel clenches his jaw, growling curses at his superior.
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