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Dean digs into his pocket and pulls out some crumpled bills. He picks through them and offers a few to the goon at the door, as well as a smile because hey, it never hurts to be nice to the people who can kick your ass six ways to Sunday.

The goon takes his money and his coat, handing him a token.

“No fighting,” is all he says before he opens the door and Dean makes his way down the cracked, ancient stone steps.

According to local legend, the underground club had been a speakeasy bar during the ‘20s. Dean trails his hand along the cold wall as he goes down, thinking about history, secrets, and how things really don’t change all that much, even as the world changes around you.

He pushes open the door at the bottom of the steps and stops for a moment, letting the warmth, music and low hum of voices wash over him. There’s a band in one corner - they’re not great, but not the worst Dean’s ever heard, and they’re not playing loud enough to drown out the talk filtering around him. He closes the door and makes his way to the bar, edging around the small dance floor where a few couples are swaying almost indifferently to the song.

Dean makes it to the bar, humming the tune under his breath, settling at an empty stool in the corner, signalling to the barman.

“What can I get ya, gorgeous?” The barman folds his arms on the bar, showing off his bare arm muscles. He’s wearing a tight, white t-shirt and - as far as Dean can see - even tighter pants.

Maybe he thinks, offering the guy a charming half-smile.

“Just a beer, for now. Whatever’s on tap is good.”

The guy nods and pushes back from the bar, pulling up a glass and filling it to the brim.

“Here. First one on the house.”

Dean raises an eyebrow at that even as he takes the glass.

“Bar policy?”

“Barman policy. For cuties like you.” The guy winks at him before he gets called to the other end of the bar and Dean feels something in his gut - something low and slightly sick - uncurl and fade slightly. He’s among friends. He’s safe.

Dean picks up his beer and sips carefully at the overflowing glass. He turns on his stool to people-watch and to wait - maybe - for the barman to come back and -

“Bartender. I would like a whiskey please. A very large one.”

Dean turns his head at the sound of the guy’s voice - he sounds tired - weary even - but he’s got a low, gravelly tone that
makes Dean sit up and pay attention and think yes.

The guy turns then, into Dean’s scrutiny and Dean just about falls off his stool, into the bluest eyes he’s ever seen and god, he’s -

“Here you go.” Blue Eyes nods as the bartender puts the glass down, the amber liquid sloshing slightly.

“On the house,” he says with a wink as Blue Eyes goes to reach for his wallet.

“Oh … thank you. That’s very generous.”

“Just … helping out a friend.” This time the bartender grins at Dean before turning away to serve another customer.

Blue Eyes is staring at him still so Dean straightens up and gives his best smile, suddenly conscious of his shirt that’s
worn down at the cuffs and his one and only tie that’s fraying around the edges. Blue Eyes is dressed similarly, but his shirt looks like it’s been tailored to fit him and even Dean can tell that the guy’s tie is likely silk.

Dean shifts slightly under the scrutiny and okay, so he’s not the best put-together guy in the joint but he’s not a troll either,
so he pushes his shoulders back and raises an eyebrow, challenging.

Blue Eyes looks away then, picking up his glass and taking a large sip and Dean reluctantly turns back to his own drink,
wondering what the hell -

The band comes back from a break and the singer starts in on I love you for sentimental reasons - Dean can’t escape the song every time it’s on the radio. The band’s singer is no Nat King Cole, but he’s a halfway decent tenor. He slides his eyes sideways to Blue Eyes again, who’s turned on his stool towards Dean, his gaze steady, a small frown between his eyebrows.

“I - uhm. That is, would you - would you care to dance?”

“Uh. Sure,” he says, too surprised to say anything else.

“You got a name, or should I just keep callin’ you Blue Eyes?” He grins at the guy then, feeling sure enough of his ground to flirt a little bit.

Blue Eyes pushes a hand through his dark hair, making it stand up every which way, and Dean lets himself look at the guy’s mouth and Jesus, Mary and Joseph the things he wants to do now …

“I would prefer not to give you my name,” Blue Eyes says in the same precise, gravelly voice. Dean shrugs, easy with it.

“Blue Eyes it is, then,” he says as he leans close enough to whisper right in the guy’s ear.

“You can call me Dean.”

He feels the slight shudder on Blue Eye’s skin, though he tries to mask it by pulling away slightly and smoothing down his tie. Dean just smirks and makes mental note of the guy’s tells. He’s nervous, but he’s the one who asked Dean to dance and by the way he keeps shooting looks at Dean from under his eyelashes, well... Dean’s gone home with guys for less.

The dance floor is small, so they stay on the edge. Dean pulls Blue Eyes against him, so their bodies are flush. He’s slightly shorter than Dean and fits perfectly against him. It’s awkward at first, until Blue Eyes slings his arms around Dean’s waist and presses close.

Dean grins above his head and thinks yes before sliding his hands around Blue Eye’s shoulders, letting his fingers stroke over the muscles he can feel, shifting under the skin.

The song shifts to something else, something quiet and slow and Dean has to shift his weight as Blue Eyes suddenly moves even closer, his body heat nearly burning right through to Dean’s skin.

Dean takes a breath and closes his eyes, letting his fingers trace over the back of Blue Eye’s neck as his body starts to
respond in kind and the song begins to weave through his mind. He shifts slightly, feeling the underlying melody of the song - he thinks it’s Cole Porter, another one he’s heard over and over on the radio -seem to move with him and Dean feels timeless suddenly, on this cramped dancefloor in this so-secret club, as close to another man as he can get and still be fully dressed.

He inhales deeply and just resists the urge to bury his head in Blue Eyes’ neck and do the same thing again. He wants to know - he wants to know everything, but for now, he’ll take whatever he can get.

“Hey.” Dean pitches his voice low, right by Blue Eyes’ ear. “You want to get out of here? My apartment’s just a couple blocks over. We could … uh, talk, or something?”

Blue Eyes pulls away slightly and Dean thinks, shit, he’s blown it, but then he sees that little frown again, and starts to
relax just a little. Blue Eyes looks a little less put-together than when he first walked in - his shirt is getting crumpled and his tie is a little astray. Dean’s eyes are drawn to Blue Eyes’ adam’s apple and unconsciously licks his
lips, aware that he’s staring but too invested in what might happen next to care.

“Talk,” Blue Eyes says then. He’s not smiling at all but there’s something in his voice - something dark and amused. Dean shrugs, and smirks a little as the music shifts to another song, something faster, brighter.

Blue Eyes blinks then and frowns again, before nodding - seemingly to himself.

“Yes. All right,” he says, his voice low and grave, but Dean looks him in the eye and those blue eyes are alive, practically
dancing on their own.

Blue Eyes turns and starts heading for the exit, leaving Dean to catch up to him, which he does easily, unable to take his eyes off this weird, mysterious and okay yes gorgeous stranger.

Dean catches Blue Eyes at the base of the stairs and puts a somewhat proprietary hand on his back when he sees a couple of guys openly eyeing him as they come down the stairs.

“Not tonight fellas,” Dean says, pushing slightly till Blue Eyes starts moving forward again.

Dean hears them laughing as they go in to the club, ready for a night of fun and … well, whatever comes after the fun.

He turns his head and watches Blue Eyes going up the stairs for a moment, appreciating the view of his ass in a pair of
obviously well-tailored pants. Dean’s heart beats a little faster and he licks his lips before bounding up the stairs to catch the guy just before he gets to the coatcheck/bouncer/goon on the door.

“Going without me, gorgeous?” He murmurs the words right against the back of Blue Eyes’ neck, Dean grins when he feels the guy shudder against him, his neck hot and salty against Dean’s mouth.

“No, of course not,” Blue Eyes says, in the same low, rough voice, but now it’s off a little bit, like Dean’s shaking something loose in him, and Dean likes that.

“Let’s get out of here.” Dean puts his hand against the small of Blue Eyes’ back, and find he likes the way it sort of fits
there. He lets himself have that moment - another timeless, endless, over-too-soon moment before Blue Eyes is passing out of the door and into the alleyway.

Dean drops his hand, his mouth turning up in a rueful twist as Blue Eyes turns to look at him. It’s dark in the alley, but
Dean’s eyes are adjusting fast enough and Blue Eyes is standing pretty close.

The door closes behind them, and suddenly it’s nothing but dark and quiet and weighted.

Dean clears his throat and reaches out, touching Blue Eyes’ arm. “C’mon, gorgeous. It’s this way.”

Dean leaves his hand on Blue Eyes’ arm until they’re out of the dark alley, and then he only drops it back reluctantly. Blue
Eyes is looking up at him again with that little frown and Dean stops, raising an eyebrow in question.

“Cas,” Blue Eyes says suddenly.

“Uh, what?”


“You can call me, uh, Cas.”



“I thought you didn’t give out your name,” Dean says as th ey start walking again. Blue Eyes - Cas - casts a look at him and sighs.

“I don’t, normally. But... there’s something about you, Dean …”

Yeah. Dean pushes a hand through his hair and sighs. He shifts his shoulders, and tries to shake off his mood. He’s picked up a gorgeous guy at a club, he’s for sure going to get laid tonight and it’s been a long, long time …

So he smirks when he feels Cas watching him out of the corner of his eye. “You’re not the first to tell me that, gorgeous. Won’t be the last, either.”

They end up outside Dean’s apartment building just as the first rain starts to fall. Dean fumbles in his pocket for his keys,
conscious of Cas shivering slightly beside him. He gets the front door open eventually, and guides Cas up to the second floor.

“Home sweet home,” he says, trying to keep the bitterness off his tongue. Okay so the place is small, but it’s … okay, it’s

Cas just stands there, still shivering a bit, taking in his surroundings. He turns to Dean and smiles. It’s a small one but
it warms up his eyes, and Dean finds himself just staring. He wonders whether it’s really, actually possible to drown in another person when Cas moves slightly, just a small step forward, but it’s enough to put him right inside Dean’s personal space.

His hair is damp from the rain, sticking to his forehead, and Dean reaches out, absently tracing a drop down the side of his face.

“Dean …” Cas’s voice is low, almost a whisper and all Dean has to do is tilt his head down slightly to press his lips against Cas’s mouth. Cas stills then, and Dean thinks maybe this is it, that Cas is going to bolt now, that maybe Dean’s just an experiment and he’s been here before …

Dean’s racing thoughts are cut short when Cas presses against him, the lean length of his body like a brand against him. It’s a little bit like they’re dancing again, except this time Cas is pushing Dean towards the small sofa, while still kissing him and hell, Dean’s not even sure how, he feels like he’s going to fall over his feet any second.

He feels the sofa behind his knees and collapses back almost on instinct, pulling Cas with him. They’re still kissing somehow, miraculously not biting anything vital and god Dean’s so hard now that he’s having trouble clearing his head.

Cas breaks the kiss, his chest is heaving and his mouth is slick and swollen and Dean groans, pushing a hand through Cas’s hair. He bucks his hips, the movement almost involuntary, but it draws Cas’s attention downwards. He flicks his gaze back up to Dean, his blue, blue eyes blazing hot now.

Dean licks his lips, finding that words seem to have deserted him. “Please,” he finds somewhere deep, his own voice gone dry and raspy. Cas wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and shuffles backwards, moving to drop gracefully to his knees.

Dean spreads his legs and tilts his head back against the sofa, looking up at the bare bulb casting yellow light over his
too-small room.

He’s distracted by Cas’s fingers, working deftly on his belt and his flies, undoing them and pushing them out of the way. Dean groans in relief as Cas pulls out his dick - hard and already wet at the tip. Cas rubs his thumb over the top, spreading pre-come around and Dean tilts his head back down, shoving a hand in Cas’s thick hair.

“Jesus, Cas …” Dean doesn’t recognise his own voice, he sounds rough and nearly shattered already and Cas has barely touched him. Cas looks up at him, his eyes wide, before he lowers his head and licks over the tip of Dean’s dick with his tongue. Dean curses again and tightens his fingers in Cas’s hair.

“You keep that up, Blue Eyes, it’s all going to be over before it starts.”

Cas doesn’t say anything to that, just slides his mouth down over Dean’s shaft. Dean bites his lip and swallows another groan, but keeps his eyes on Cas’s mouth, on the shape it makes around his dick, how everything feels slick and hot and fucking … it’s all Dean can do to sit still while Cas – with the blue eyes and the little frown and the perfect fucking mouth works him over till Dean comes so hard and sudden he has to shove his hand in his mouth to stop himself crying out.

His heart is racing, he feels limp and sort of weak. He’s never felt so good. Cas sits back on his heels, wipes his mouth again. Dean notices – distantly – that they’re both mostly still dressed and that’s – that’s really not right. Cas is still sitting back, watching him, his eyes hooded and wary and yeah, if Dean were that kind of asshole he’d kick the guy out right now, because what could he possibly need besides getting his rocks off?

Luckily for Cas, Dean is a whole different kind of asshole. He leans forward slightly and touches Cas’s shoulder. “That was. That was, uh, something else. And now, because sometimes I can be a gentleman, I’m going to lay you out on my bed and take you apart, put you back together real pretty …”

Dean bites his lip because shit, now he’s talking nonsense. He tugs at Cas and gets up from the sofa, only swaying slightly, his legs kind of weak.

“This way, Blue Eyes. If I can’t get you to see paradise tonight, then I’m doing something wrong.”

Cas laughs then, and Dean finds he likes the guy’s laugh as much as he’s liking the rest of him which is – well it’s a lot so far. Probably too much, but Dean’s a live in the moment kind of guy and he’ll worry about that later. Much later.

He guides Cas towards his bedroom, nothing in it but a too-small bed, a nightstand and a closet. Cas barely seems to notice, already turning to tug at Dean’s tie.

Dean laughs at that, and starts on the buttons of Cas’s shirt. It’s awkward and takes them way too long, but eventually there’s a tangled pile of clothes on the floor and Dean has Cas naked in his bed, flat on his back, his legs spread wide, two of Dean’s fingers slick with Vaseline deep inside him.

Cas’s stomach and chest are already spattered with come, his first orgasm hitting hard, almost as soon as Dean’s finger hits the spot he’s searching for. Dean groans when he sees Cas come – his face flushes and he bites his lip, his fingers curled around Dean’s arm … it’s the most beautiful fucking thing Dean’s ever seen in his life and all he wants is to see it again.

So he presses on, fucking Cas deeper with his fingers, one, two, then finally three until Cas is pulling at his own dick, getting hard all over again, his hips bucking shamelessly against nothing.

“Dean … Dean … please … please …”

Dean’s pretty sure that Cas doesn’t know what he’s saying by this stage, that he’s nearly over that desperate final edge again, and this time Dean’s determined to go with him. He slicks up his own dick, stroking lightly because jesus he’s hard before lining up with Cas’s hole and sliding in, slowly at first until Cas is rocking against him, his legs spread wide as they’ll go, his hands gripping at Dean’s hips.

Dean swears at the sight of it – Cas’s hair all over the place, his eyes screwed tight shut, his tongue darting out to lick his lips … Dean catches that pink tongue with his mouth as he starts to fuck into Cas in earnest, each thrust as deep and hard as he can make it, feeling Cas gasp and groan against his mouth, and swallowing every sound he can.

He feels it all too soon – the coil low in his gut and he breaks the kiss, gasping as Cas opens his eyes, his blazing gaze pinned on Dean’s face. Dean bites his lip hard and slams into Cas again, and again, feeling his orgasm punch through him like a roll of thunder. It feels like he’s coming forever, as he props himself up on one shaking arm, curling his hand around Cas’s dick and stroking it tight and fast until Cas arches up against him, chewing hard on his bottom lip, not taking his eyes off Dean’s face as he spills, finally, between them.

They lie tangled for a long moment, sweat-slicked and breathing heavy. Dean reluctantly moves first, rolling onto his back and staring at the ceiling.

Cas rolls onto his side and tucks himself against Dean, winding their legs together again and it feels like a long established habit for Dean to curl his arm around Cas’s shoulders. Dean feels heavy and thick with sleep, and he should force himself to wake up; clean up; help Cas get dressed and be on his way, but all Dean can do is slide into sleep and savour the weight of Cas beside him, for however long he has it.

Dean wakes up alone in the morning, his bed cold and his sheets stiff. He grimaces and pushes the covers back, blinking in the cold light of another lonely Sunday. He reaches out, out of habit, and turns the dial on the radio, listening to the news broadcast, before the familiar strains of In the Still of the Night come over the airwaves. It’s not the same Cole Porter song as the night before, but Dean just sits on the edge of his bed, not looking at anything in particular, until the song finishes and fades into something else.

He closes his eyes, but all he has left is an impression: dark blue eyes, a little frown, and a warm, welcoming mouth …

Sighing, Dean pushes himself off the bed and heads into the bathroom to clean up. Maybe he’ll call his brother today, go out there for dinner or something….

He doesn't see the note till he’s dressed and he’s picking his clothes up from the floor, ready to take to the Laundromat on the corner.

All it has is the capital letter C – and a phone number. Dean stares at the small piece of paper for the longest time, before folding it carefully in half, then in half again, and tucking it behind the few raggedy dollar bills in his wallet.

A smile twitches at the corner of his mouth, threatening to break through his melancholy altogether.

When Frank Sinatra starts singing on the radio, Dean laughs outright, shaking his head.

“Okay, Blue Eyes,” he says to himself. “You got me.”