Dean loves stripping.
He works full-time at a place downtown called Slice of Heaven and he loves it there. If prompted, he’ll say something about the atmosphere, his coworkers, the clientele. Which is all true, but the fact that most nights he can get at least four or five dances in and the club only charges him twenty percent is pretty sweet. He’s a popular attraction, too, calls himself Chastity just because it makes him grin when he introduces himself. It usually makes his customers smile, too.
It’s Friday, one of the busier nights at the club. People come by after work, earlier than any other day of the week, ready to drink and blow off steam by seven or eight. By ten o’clock the place is packed and Dean’s busy with a bachelorette party, the bride-to-be a woman with dark hair who won’t stop smiling. Her laughter gets louder when he rolls his hips and brings them close to her face, and it’s not long before he finds himself laughing with her. Her enthusiasm spurs him on, and he lets his hips move him forward until the bride-to-be’s face is level with his crotch.
“Oh no, I shouldn’t have another one,” one of the bridesmaids to Dean’s left says, waving a waiter off with the purple dildo in her hand.
“Yes you should, Donna,” another of the women says, snatching the rubber dick and trying to swat her with it. “Yes you should.”
“No, I’m trying to watch my calories,” Donna says. Dean turns around just in time to see her lunge in an attempt to reclaim the dildo. He grins before turning back around and raising an eyebrow at the bride-to-be, tilting his head toward Donna in a silent question. Her grin is all the permission he needs.
“You really don’t need to,” he says, standing and sauntering towards Donna until he’s standing right in front of her. She lets her gaze drift slowly up from Dean’s crotch to his face. When their eyes meet, he smiles, big and genuines. “Why watch your calories when I’m right here?”
Dean takes the women’s whistling as his cue, but he takes his time. He sinks down until he’s face to face with Donna and then flips around, one hand trailing behind him over her chest. He can feel her breath, just barely, over his shoulder. For a moment he stays there, working his shoulders in small circles to the beat of the music, letting them brush against her thighs. This is the part of his job he loves the most, when he can let his instincts take control, let his hands ghost over her legs until he can hear her gasp. Slowly, he slides back up. She’s blushing and her chest heaves little. He winks at the bride and she raises her glass to him, laughing.
In his periphery, Dean catches sight of a group beckoning Meg over toward a guy in their group, some dude with dark hair and a well-cut suit. He’s a big fan of these transactions; Meg likes to cycle through the seven deadly sins when she gives her name, forcing repeat customers to suffer through the embarrassment of asking for someone who all of her coworkers, her willing partners in crime, will promptly claim does not exist. Over the sound of the music, Dean can just hear her introducing herself as Wrath. Dean can’t quite see the guy’s facial expression in this lighting, but he can tell he shifts in his seat. Dean tries not to grin, he really does.
Dean briefly shifts his attention back to his customers to collect his tips and bid his farewells, but he can still see Meg working her magic over the maid of honor’s shoulder.
Except, well, it isn’t working, and when Meg turns toward Dean to bend over in front of the guy’s face, her scowl makes him think she really is Wrath. Dean does his best to look sympathetic as she gets her dance over with and excuses herself.
Dean isn’t sure who he feels more sorry for as he makes his way toward the group, meeting Meg halfway. He doesn’t even get a chance to tease her about how it went before she stomps past him, jerking a thumb over her shoulder.
“Ugh, your turn,” she says, clearly annoyed.
Dean grins. “Challenge accepted.”
Dean saunters over to the group and gestures casually to their awkward friend. “Maybe I can help,” he says confidently. A few of them chuckle, but it’s only a matter of seconds before one of the guys (A smoking hot one, Dean notes. Damn.) hands him some cash and says, “Well, have at it.”
Dean makes his way to the impending recipient of his charms, taking in his features as he gets close enough to finally see the guy’s face. In different light, from a different angle, he might be almost attractive. Here, though, the dim light of the club accentuates the lines on his forehead, the dark circles under his eyes. Dean may be in his element, but this guy, so clearly outside of his own, looks nothing short of pitiful.
As if to prove Dean’s point for him, the guy tenses up as soon as Dean approaches him.
"Calm down, man,” Dean says, smiling, aiming for lighthearted. “I don't bite. Unless you're into that.”
“I am not,” the guy says, with a tone so serious that Dean is briefly embarrassed for him.
“Whatever you say, cowboy.” Dean chuckles, leaning over to plant his hands on the back of the chair, maintaining eye contact as he brackets the guy’s hips with his thighs. He has a defiant tilt to his chin that makes Dean smile.
Dean starts slow. He keeps himself elevated, doesn’t let himself touch any part of this guy as he moves. He rolls his hips, giving an exaggerated curve to his back that he knows you’d have to be insane not appreciate. With each downstroke he lets himself push closer to the guy’s chest, until they’re almost nose to nose and pressed up against each other.
“This won’t work on me,” the guy says suddenly.
Dean laughs gently in his face and keeps moving. “You don’t think so?” Dean asks, hooking one thumb into the waist of his thong.
“No,” the guy says, but his eyes flicker from Dean’s face to his hips just long enough that Dean isn’t particularly worried about his odds.
“I think you’re gonna lose that bet,” Dean drawls.
“I wasn’t aware this was a competition,” the guy says. He has his expression back under control, but the way he swallows is a dead giveaway.
“Then you haven’t been paying attention,” Dean says, pulling at the snaps on his hips and letting the thong drop to the floor. He waits a second for the guy to realize what’s happened, for him to look down and process what he’s seeing, before he turns around and sits in his lap. Dean can feel the guy breathing fast and open-mouthed against his back.
“Careful,” Dean says, winking playfully as he turns to glance at the guy’s lips, “wouldn’t want anyone to take that as an open invitation.”
Dean smirks when his mouth snaps shut and his fingers dig into the armrests. He grinds against the guy’s lap and watches his knuckles turn white.
“Isn’t that against the rules?” the guy chokes out. Dean feels a hard line against the back of his thigh and smiles, circling his hips a few more times. He leans back and rests his head against the guy’s shoulder, lets the slight thrust of the hips beneath his own keep him moving. Dean turns so that his nose brushes against the guy’s cheek and exhales warmly.
“I make the rules,” Dean breathes, and the satisfaction he feels when the guy shudder beneath him is nothing compared to what he feels when his hands reach up to grip Dean’s hips. He inhales sharply, shocked by his body’s sudden betrayal, and in that moment, Dean knows he's won.
“And you break them, apparently,” Dean says, smirking as he stands up, hips sliding from the guy’s grip.
The guy is flushed and breathing hard, and Dean’s grand finale earns him enthusiastic cheers and whistles from the rest of the group. He feels an overwhelming sense of satisfaction right up until the moment the guy snaps his head towards his friends and just wilts, sinking lower into his seat like the cushions will open up and swallow him up if he wills it. Dean’s satisfaction immediately turns to confused guilt. He thought he had seen all the possible reactions to his handiwork, but this one’s new.
Walk away, a voice in Dean’s head tells him, but the guy looks so mortified and, well, fuck. He schools his expression into something more sympathetic as he pulls his thong back on and extends a hand.
“Hey man, let me get you a drink. On the house,” Dean says. He’s not sure what he did wrong, but the guy is clearly unhappy. The game is fun, but he doesn’t ever want to actually embarrass anyone, not beyond a little lighthearted teasing.
The guy sits and stares at Dean’s proffered hand for a few seconds before responding.
“I can purchase my own beverage,” he says, waving Dean’s hand away, and Dean doesn’t quite manage to stifle his laugh this time.
“Dude, you’re missing the point,” Dean says, and laughs again at the deep-set scowl on the guy’s face. “Look, just come with me to the bar.” The guy hesitates for a second, but after a few encouraging shouts from his friends, he reluctantly pushes himself up off the couch and trails behind Dean to the counter. When they’re both seated, Dean with his legs spread comfortably wide and the guy perched uncomfortably on the edge of his seat, Dean asks, “What’re you drinking?”
“Cranberry juice,” the guys says, and god help him, Dean can’t keep a straight face.
“Okay, Sergeant Angel. One cranberry juice, coming right up.”
“I’m not a sergeant,” the guy says before Dean can signal the bartender. “And that’s not my name.”
For a few incredulous seconds, Dean wonders if the guy is screwing with him.
“You should watch a movie sometime,” Dean says as he flags down the bartender and orders a juice for his customer and a water for himself. The guy still looks tense, so much so that Dean has to fight the urge to grab his shoulder and shake it out of him.
“By the way,” Dean says as he turns to face him, “I’m Chastity.” He smiles sweetly, in part at his secret joke and in part in an attempt to appear as nonthreatening as possible. The guy squints thoughtfully at him for a moment, as though deciding whether or not to call Dean on his bluff.
“Castiel,” he finally says. Dean is pretty sure he’s countering Dean’s stage name with his own. He’s not about to push the issue, though, especially not when Castiel quickly retreats, sullenly sipping his cranberry juice and pointedly avoiding eye contact.
When the silence becomes too oppressive to bear, Dean tries again, saying, “Look, I’m really sorry.”
Castiel looks up from his drink with a start. “For what?”
“For getting a little carried away back there,” Dean says. “I wanted you to have a good time. Really. I, uh, I didn’t mean to embarrass you in front of your friends. So, I’m sorry about that.” When Castiel glances at him skeptically, one eyebrow raised, Dean gestures helplessly. “What? I mean it.”
Castiel exhales slowly, and some of the tension drains from his shoulders as he mumbles, “They’re not my friends, they’re my employees. I shouldn’t have--we’re in public and I barely know them, and I definitely don’t know you, and--” He stops to huff a sigh into his drink.
Dean smiles and nudges Castiel gently. “Are you kidding me? That makes it even easier. They have a problem, you fire ‘em. Though none of them seem to have a problem, the way they were cheering you on.”
“I just.” Castiel sighs again. “I don’t want to be the subject of office gossip.” Dean stares at him as he pauses to sip his drink. “I don’t have romantic relationships, and I certainly don’t indulge in public sex acts,” he concludes.
Dean resists the urge to roll his eyes. “It’s not a big deal, Cas. First of all, that wasn’t a sex act. And second, you enjoyed it because I’m great at it. It’s not something to be ashamed of. Anybody gives you crap about it, you send ‘em to me and I’ll prove you never stood a chance.” He winks at Castiel again, and, thank god, the poor guy finally cracks the barest smile.
“All right,” Dean says, grinning as he claps Castiel on the shoulder. “I gotta get back to work, but hey, you’re welcome here any time.” He stands, knocking back the rest of his drink. “Just think about it,” he says, and then he’s waving as he makes his way back into the crowd, shaking his ass as he goes.
Castiel really, really wishes he weren’t already thinking about it.
His first experience at a strip club had been...unpleasant. It had been his eighteenth birthday, and his friends had insisted they take him out to help him “loosen up a bit.” He did his best to discourage them, but one of them had bought him a lapdance, regardless. The woman they beckoned over had been rough with him, slapping at him and pulling on his hair as his friends laughed and cheered her on. It wasn’t an experience he wished to repeat. His hesitance to even patronize a similar establishment had, he thought, been a reasonable reaction.
And then the stripper his employees had called over had introduced herself as Wrath, and, well. How was he supposed to react? Even though she had been perfectly pleasant and civil, the lingering aversion had been too much for him to overcome, even after all these years.
So it threw him off, the way Chastity had been able to elicit such a reaction from him so quickly. It was unexpected. Pleasant, but unexpected.
Just like the way he can’t seem to get Chastity out of his head is unexpected.
It takes a week before Castiel works up the courage to take Chastity up on his offer. In the days leading up to it, he gets through Showgirls, Strip Tease, and a season and a half of Secret Diary of a Call Girl in an attempt to learn more about Chastity’s life, to try and figure out what it is that makes him so compelling. It’s enough research that by the time he shows up at Slice of Heaven on the next Friday night, he knows exactly how he’s going to start the conversation.
“Is Chastity here?” Castiel asks the bouncer, who points toward the center of the room, where Chastity is slowly circling a pole. Castiel can’t really move in that moment, not while he’s watching Chastity hook a leg around the damn thing and spin, holding himself up with nothing but the strength of his thighs.
Castiel can field phone calls and give orders and explain the finer points of his particular brand of mechanical engineering all at once, but he spends five seconds watching Chastity pole dance and his brain short circuits. Apparently, he can't even watch Chastity dance and walk at the same time. The bouncer is laughing somewhere behind him, but it barely registers.
Eventually, Castiel finds it in himself to resume his mission, something that propels him forward. He’s walking toward Chastity, who’s still upside-down, nothing but the friction between his thighs and the pole holding him up. Castiel reaches the edge of the stage and pauses, staring up at Chastity in slack-jawed awe. After a couple of spins, he seems to notice him and comes to a slow stop, winding up hanging upside-down, left leg bent behind the pole and resting on his right knee, suspending him in midair. He crosses his arms over his chest, looks Castiel right in the eye, and smirks.
Castiel is not one to forget things. He can recall conversations in perfect detail without notes, memorize formulae with ease, recall every present he’s ever gotten for Christmas since he was five. He never gets blackout drunk, has no missing moments in his life except for those that were carefully planned and scheduled to end at a time predesignated and programmed into his alarm clock. But the next thirty seconds of his life are perfectly, stunningly blank.
When he snaps out of it, his face is burning and Chastity is back to spinning and laughing. Castiel curses at himself silently as he goes to find a seat. A plan. He had a plan. He just needs a minute to gather his thoughts and he’ll be back on track.
Unfortunately, Chastity apparently had plans of his own, because not two minutes later, Castiel is startled when a familiar voice says, “Fancy seeing you here.”
Chastity is standing in front of him in chaps and a cowboy hat he picked up somewhere between the stage and Castiel. When Castiel’s eyes finally reach his face, he clicks his tongue and smirks as he tips his hat.
“I--I, uh--” Castiel begins uselessly.
“Enjoyed my little dance, I know,” he interrupts, sparing Castiel the trouble of trying to form coherent thoughts for the time being. He takes a seat next to Castiel on the couch, leaning back against the opposite armrest with his legs spread a little wider than strictly necessary. “Came here to rub it in.” Chastity winks like he’s sharing a secret. Castiel stares at him for a moment before turning his eyes to the bar.
“Would you like something to drink, Chastity?” Castiel asks, choosing to ignore his gloating. After a few seconds of silence, Castiel turns back around to find him convulsing with breathless laughter. Castiel scowls. “What?” he demands.
“Did you,” Chastity asks, gasping. “Oh my god, did you think that was my real name?”
“Why would I--” Castiel huffs indignantly. “I generally don’t assume people are lying to me about their names,” he says, lamely.
“Dude, c’mon,” not-Chastity says. “You can’t tell me you’ve never heard of people using stripper names. It’s par for the course in this business. Plus, it’s not like you gave me your real name, either.” Castiel goes still at that, trying to work out whether he should attempt to play it all off as a joke. It’s too late, though. “Oh my god. You did give me your real name.”
“Well, yes,” Castiel says, glaring off to the side, toward the bar. He spends a few seconds looking down, picking at his cuticles before speaking again. “I’m sorry.”
“Shit, don’t apologize. Here. Do-over.” He clears his throat and extends a hand. “Hi, my name is Dean. Pleased to meet you.”
Castiel only hesitates for a moment before deciding to trust Dean’s apparent earnestness.
“Castiel Novak. The pleasure is mine,” he says, taking Dean’s hand. It’s a simple gesture, but it occurs to Castiel with surprising clarity that it’s the first platonic touch they’ve exchanged. Still, as Dean takes his hand back, Castiel’s mind lingers on the sensation of Dean’s fingers brushing against his own, on how strong Dean’s grip had been.
“I--Christ,” Castiel says, more to himself than to Dean, and resists the urge to hide his face in his hands.
“No, Dean, remember?” Dean says, still smirking. “What brings you back so soon?”
“I just,” Castiel starts, suddenly even more embarrassed. Seeing Dean here, so confident in his element, already has him doubting his plan. “I just wanted to check on you.”
Dean raises an eyebrow at that. “Check on me? Gee, thanks, mom.”
“No, Castiel, remember?” Castiel says, with a sly smile, and when Dean throws his head back and laughs, warmth spreads from Castiel’s face and into his chest, giving him the courage to continue. Before he can, though, Dean sidles up close to him, right into his personal space, shamelessly checking him out.
“So, Cas,” Dean says, “what can I wrangle up for you today?”
“Actually, I was, um,” Castiel begins, somewhat sheepishly. “I was hoping to talk to you. Get to know you better?” It comes out as a question, more pleading than he intended.
“Well, in that case,” Dean says, leaning even closer into Castiel, breath warm against his cheek, “I guess I’ll just...have to…”
And then Dean is standing up, straightening his hat. “...find another customer,” he finishes. “I ain’t here to chit-chat, partner.” Dean winks again as he turns to walk away, and that’s when Castiel notices Dean is wearing assless chaps. It catches him so off-guard that Dean is almost out of earshot by the time he gathers his senses.
“Wait!” Castiel calls, just a little more loudly than he intended. Dean turns halfway around, looking at Castiel skeptically. “I didn’t mean...I mean, I would compensate you for your time, of course.”
Dean rolls his eyes, but he makes his way back over to Castiel, standing in front of him with his hands on his hips. “So, what?” he asks. “You want me to give you my life story while my junk is in your face?”
“Well, that’s not--” Castiel begins, but Dean is shaking his head and chuckling slightly.
“Whatever,” Dean says. “Not the weirdest thing I’ve ever done. But remember that this is a business transaction, all right? Don’t make it weird.”
Castiel has no idea what might constitute “making it weird,” but he’s not about to admit that to Dean, so he just nods and hands over the cash.
As Dean starts his dance, Castiel tries to remain focused. “So,” he begins, thinking back to the research he’s been doing, “why do you...you know.”
“Why do I what?” Dean asks. Castiel notes that Dean’s ass is approximately three inches from his face. It is becoming increasingly difficult to remember what he was going to say.
“Why do you do this...this sort of work? I mean, there must be a reason…” He trails off hopefully, thinking Dean will start filling in the blanks any moment now.
Dean keeps dancing, unhelpfully. “What, you mean why do I work here?”
“Yes,” Castiel says. “This line of work seems very...difficult.”
Dean laughs a little, and when he responds, Castiel can practically hear the shrug in his voice. “I dunno,” he says. “I like it.”
“Surely that can’t be the only reason,” Castiel says, insistent. Dean pauses and turns around to face Castiel, looking at him suspiciously. Castiel thinks he’s finally about to get some real answers.
“Wait a minute,” Dean says, eyes narrowing. “Are you trying to get my fucking tragic backstory?”
“Well, I don’t--I mean, I wouldn’t put it that way, necessarily--” Castiel says. He grimaces under Dean’s incredulous stare, and just as he’s thinking he really screwed this up, Dean relaxes, throwing his head back as he laughs.
“Oh, man,” Dean says, when he finally manages to catch his breath. Castiel notices that there are tears in his eyes from laughing. “I gotta admit, this is a new one. Sorry to disappoint, but I don’t have some sob story to tell you. I’m doing this because I like it. Take your weird fantasy somewhere else, buddy.”
Castiel feels a blush creeping across his face, down his neck, until his whole body feels like it’s on fire. “I’m sorry,” he says, feebly, hoping he doesn’t look as crestfallen as he feels. “Really. I didn’t mean to...to offend. I just wanted to get to know you.” He’s practically pleading by the end, but he doesn’t care. For some reason, he can’t stand the thought that he’s already alienated Dean during his first attempt to befriend him.
Dean sighs. “All right, all right,” he says. “I believe you. But I’m here to work, okay? And I’m fine with it. Really.” When Castiel nods, he adds, helpfully, “Do you want me to finish the dance?”
“I would like that,” Castiel mumbles, defeated.
Well, that was weird, Dean thinks as he walks away, pulling out the bill Castiel had tucked into his belt. When he unfolds it, he pauses. $100. Huh.
Maybe not that weird.
As far as customers go, actually, Cas really isn’t bad. A little strange, yeah, but in a missing-social-cues kind of way, not a gonna-follow-him-home kinda way. Awkward he can handle. It’s sort of endearing, actually. And if Cas is going to keep asking him questions in that gravelly voice while forking out a bunch of cash, well. He isn’t going to complain.
“Here to continue trying to save me from this terrible life where I have to sell my body just to pay the bills?” Dean asks the next time Castiel shows up. The poor guy looks stunned, and Dean tries not to laugh.
“Look,” Dean says, because he knows an opportunity for easy money when he sees one, “if you’re gonna make a habit of this, why not get a VIP room? Better seating, a little champagne. You know, just you and me.” And because he’s feeling nice, he adds, “I’m not promising I’ll give you the answers you want, but you could ask questions for a whole hour, no interruptions.”
To Dean’s surprise, the suggestion just makes Castiel look even more miserable. “No, thank you,” he says. “I don’t want to make you even more uncomfortable than I already have.”
Dean rolls his eyes. “Dude, are you for real? If you could see yourself right now, you’d know you’re the one who needs to loosen up. Really, it’s fine. I wouldn’t offer if I wasn’t interested.”
Castiel perks up, even though he hesitates for a few moments before he finally says, “Well, all right. If you’re really fine with it.”
Dean grins. Oh, yeah. He’s $300-an-hour fine with it.
“Sweet. Can I get you a drink before we get started?” Dean asks, waving over a waiter.
“Another cranberry juice, thank you,” Castiel says. When Dean raises an eyebrow at him, he visibly bristles. “What?”
Dean shrugs. “Just not the usual sort of drink people order.”
Castiel shifts on his feet, eyes fixed on the floor. “I can’t have alcohol because of my medication.” Dean waits for more of an explanation, unsure of how to proceed. “It’s just for headaches,” Cas clarifies after a moment.
“Oh,” Dean says, turning away from Castiel for a moment to place his order. When he turns back, Castiel still looks uncomfortable. “Does it get rid of the headaches, at least?”
Castiel looks up at him, then, narrowing his eyes and tilting his head to the side, like maybe he’s working out whether or not he should tell Dean the truth. After a moment, though, Castiel sighs, shoulders sagging. “No.”
“That’s rough, man,” Dean says. “Hardly seems fair.”
“Horribly unfair,” Castiel agrees, smiling slightly.
Hey, Dean thinks, small victories. The waiter returns and passes Castiel his juice, and he tags along behind Dean as he heads to one of the VIP rooms.
“So,” Castiel says as soon as he’s seated, “why do you work here?” He looks surprisingly at home in this ostentatious room, with its ceiling painted in mimicry of the Sistine Chapel, the art like stained glass windows, the plush couches in red with gold trim. Dean chuckles. He’s used to people not wasting any time, but not quite like this.
“I was being honest before,” Dean says. “I like it. Like the work, like the people.”
“That can’t really be all,” Castiel insists. He looks small as he sinks into the soft cushions.
“Yeah, man, it can. The pay is kickass, the owners are nice, the work is fun. And, in case you hadn’t noticed, I’m great at it.” He rocks his hips toward Castiel’s face and pauses for a moment when Castiel opens his mouth.
“You’re not really…‘selling yourself to pay the bills’, as you said?”
Dean rolls his eyes and plants himself in Castiel’s lap.
“Jesus, dude, no. If I wasn’t happy here, I would do something else. I am a man of many talents,” Dean says, circling his hips.
“And when you’re not...here. What do you do?” Castiel says, his breath coming quick and shallow.
“What, like hobbies?” Dean’s willing to do a lot in order to do a good job, but he’s not about to tell some stranger about all the ways he spends his free time. Way too much of a risk.
“Well, are you going to school?” Castiel asks, and Dean breathes a small sigh of relief at the benign question.
“Nah.” Dean punctuates his answer with a particularly hard thrust down. Castiel’s hands are planted firmly on the couch, fingers curled.
“Are you saving to go to school?” Castiel gasps.
“Also nah.” Another press onto Castiel’s erection.
“You’ve never even thought about it?”
“Dude, I’m almost thirty. Of course I’ve thought about it. But this is easy and fun, no studying required. Anyway, I tried college. It didn’t suit me.” Dean slides up so that the tip of Castiel’s nose brushes his chest before he turns around and touches the floor.
“Was it too expensive?” Cas’ voice is quiet but persistent.
“Oh my god,” Dean says as he shakes his ass with no hint of subtlety. “Look, I don’t know what sort of ideas you’ve got about people who don’t dress in fancy suits for a living, but not all of us are broke and desperate, all right? I tried college. It didn’t suit me. Seriously.”
“Fine,” Castiel grumbles. He downs the rest of his juice, clearly giving up for the evening.
Dean smiles when he stands. “Oh, would you look at the time.”
It hasn’t actually been a full hour, but Castiel nevertheless adjusts his pants and pulls out his wallet. He hands Dean $500 and doesn’t say another word before he walks out of the room.
Dean almost feels bad about it, but hell if he’s gonna turn down that kind of tip.
“Another round in the Chapel?” Dean asks the following week. Cas nods and gives the barest hint of a smile; Dean returns it as he leads him to what he’s already thinking of as their regular room.
“So, planning on continuing with your interrogation tonight?” Dean asks as Castiel takes his seat.
“I would prefer if you didn’t refer to it as such,” Cas says, bristling.
“C’mon, I was only teasing,” Dean says. “Whatever gets you off, man. I aim to please,” he laughs, popping open a bottle of champagne. He spills a little over his hands and smiles at the opportunity to make a show of cleaning it up, closing his eyes and letting his middle and fore fingers slide into his mouth. He slips his tongue between them and feels a jolt of surprise when warmth sparks low in his pelvis.
Castiel still looks put off, but when his first out of the blue question is “What about your parents?”, Dean figures he must not be that put off. He sighs and pours himself a glass.
“What about them?”
“Are they.” Castiel pauses and looks down. “Alive? Nearby?”
“What, as opposed to dead and far away? Nah, my mom lives like ten minutes from here.” Dean takes a sip and sets the glass down before setting into his routine.
“And your dad?”
“That’s where he lives? Haven’t seen him since I was, like, four.” Grind.
“That must have been hard.”
“Nah,” Dean says, opting to spare Castiel the obvious bad joke he set himself up for.
“Your father leaves when you’re four and all you have to say about it is ‘nah’?”
Castiel glares. Dean doesn’t want to feel compelled to share information just because this guy is basically paying Dean’s bills all on his own, but damn. That look is actually pretty hot. Dean sighs internally, rolling his eyes.
“Jesus, fine. First of all, he didn’t leave. My mom kicked him out after she caught him cheating. You wanna find out about him, you’ll have to ask her. That’s not an invitation, by the way,” Dean says, leveling a glare of his own.
Castiel raises his hands defensively. “And?”
“You said ‘first of all.’ Implying there’s something else.” Castiel actually looks smug, or something like it. Yeah, he definitely looks smug, Dean thinks. That’s a good look on him, too. Doesn’t mean Dean has to like it, though.
“Ugh. Second, I barely remember the guy, and it’s not like his absence ruined our lives or anything.” Dean rolls his hips again. It’s weird to talk about his dad like this while he’s working, but for this great a reward, he’s not complaining. “Anyway, I couldn’t ask for a better mom. His loss, really.”
Castiel squints at him, surprisingly focused on the conversation, all things considered. Dean picks up his pace, but Castiel is tenacious. “Are you doing this for her?”
It catches Dean a bit off guard. “Uh,” he says, wondering if Castiel is seriously asking what Dean thinks he’s asking. Man, that guy has really watched too many stripper flicks. “What?”
“This...line of work,” Castiel says slowly, cautious, as though realizing the absurdity of his question. “Are you doing it to support her?”
Dean rolls his eyes. “No way. If anyone can take care of herself, it’s my mom.”
Castiel huffs an exasperated sigh. “What, then?”
Dean raises an eyebrow. This may be easy money, but that doesn’t mean he’s not gonna have some fun making sure Castiel works for every piece of information he wants.
“You’re just doing this for yourself?” Castiel asks finally, hesitant, as though the reality of the situation is just now dawning on him. Which, to be fair, it probably is.
“Yes,” Dean says, pressing himself against Castiel, running his hands up his sides in encouragement. He breathes the words against his lips, just inches from his face. “Like I’ve been telling you all along.”
“You really gonna pay me this much to ask me the same questions over and over?” Dean asks, but there’s no heat in it. “I told you, I’m here because I like it.” He wraps his arms behind Castiel’s head and grinds in slow circles in his lap. Yeah, he’s definitely starting to like Cas’ lap.
“But you’re not saving for college.” It’s a statement, not a question. Small steps, Dean supposes.
“Does there have to be more of a reason?” Dean gently ruts up into Castiel’s stomach.
Castiel gasps, digging his fingers further into the couch, but he soldiers on. “I don’t know, paying off crippling debt?”
Dean actually laughs out loud at that. “Nope. If I was, I would be working a hell of a lot harder for your money.”
Castiel squints at him suspiciously. “Any siblings?” he asks. Dean starts to wonder if Castiel is going to run through the entire gamut before he finally gives up.
“Just my brother.”
“Older or younger?”
“Younger. Why?” Dean sighs. When Castiel pauses ominously, he’s pretty sure he knows what’s coming next.
“Are you doing this for him?”
Yep, there it is.
It’s so cliché that Dean can’t help it. He starts laughing as he rolls off of Castiel, and even when he finds himself gasping for breath, he can’t seem to stop.
He’s still laughing as Castiel huffs indignantly, sets the money on the table, and stomps toward the door, walking awkwardly in an attempt to hide his erection.
“That doesn’t go down by midnight,” Dean calls behind him, “You get yourself to a hospital. I don’t need that on my conscience.”