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There's nothing hypothetical about perpetual motion, Dean thinks. It's right here, it's all around him. It doesn't slow down for monsters or witches or demons, even though some might argue the whole place is populated by them. It clicks and beeps and blinks and flashes and whirs endlessly, just as it has since before he was a twinkle in his daddy's eye, through hell and after, and will long after he's gone (for good). When two boys, a drunk, and an angel talked the world down from a ledge, not a single showgirl missed a step, and of thousands of drunken businessmen, not a one tripped down an escalator or paused, hand hovering over the SPIN button of a slot machine, to consider the precarious pinhead balance between existence and oblivion.

It's Vegas. It doesn't stop.

It's sort of comforting, really, this tradition that won't end (so long as he and Sam are topside, anyway) because of all the things that do end, Vegas never will. Even if the world had gone down the hole with Lucifer, Dean thinks all the spawn of heaven and hell might have paused in their battle to play a bit of craps on the weekend, rest up in the Bellagio, and have a nice rare slice of prime rib at Lawry's. He knows it's made of asphalt and concrete and filled with humans as equally made of meat as anywhere else, but there's something indestructible about Vegas.

He's currently finishing off his sixth round of liquid indestructible and shrugging off the failure of a very half-hearted attempt at picking up a perky cigarette girl who'd smiled like it was her job (it was) and then sighed like he was the hundredth that night to take a crack at her (he was). He's steady on his feet, though, 'cause while being a Winchester means a regrettable inability to hold on to the ones he loves, it also comes with an ironclad ability to hold his liquor.

“Hey, Sammy,” he says, coming up behind where his giant of a brother is sitting at the bar, probably drinking the world's only carrot juice and vodka, and claps Sam on the shoulder. “Get me another one, will you?”

This is a mistake for several reasons.

1) It's not Sam;
2) He should have known it's not Sam because Sam’s in the desert (because he’d rather have some weird boy scout camping trip alone with the devil than get shitfaced and gamble and go to strip joints with his brother like a normal person even though they do this every year and it's more a tradition than Christmas dinner will ever be, the traitor);
3) Sam may be riding the crazy train with Lucifer as conductor but he’d never wear douchey flip-flops;
4) Sam usually combs his hair and shaves in the morning, whereas this guy kinda looks like Jesus, if Jesus spent a lot of time at the gym;
5) Sam wouldn’t be stuffing his face with gross bar peanuts (in fact, Sam once gave him a speech about bar peanuts and piss that has put Dean off bar peanuts for life);
6) and most importantly, he can’t remember the last time Sam smiled like this, this big dumb goofy grin. And it’s been even longer since that kind of smile was aimed in Dean’s direction.

And okay, to be fair, the guy's vaguely Sam-shaped and Sam-haired, and yeah, maybe Dean is drunk (shut up, it’s Vegas and he’s meant to be having fun), but now that he’s looking this guy in the eyes, he doesn’t know how he could’ve mistaken him for his brother.

“Okay! Not Sammy.” Dean realizes he’s been staring and takes a step back, jerking his hand away even though, judging by that smile, it didn't really seem unwelcome. The stranger’s big, dumb Not-Sam smile only widens.

“Not Sammy, no.”

“Right. Sorry, dude.”

“No harm done.”

But instead of turning back around and letting Dean get on with his life, Not-Sam orders Dean a beer. Then a second one. And a third. And his Sam-shaped hand, when he puts it out for Dean to shake, is softer than Sam's but just as strong and Dean really means to give an alias but doesn't.

Not-Sam is actually called Jared, and he says he’s an actor (“Not a very famous one, obviously! Or a particularly talented one,” he jokes in a self-deprecating tone that is more endearing than it should be), and he may be Sam-shaped and Sam-haired, but he’s nothing at all like Dean’s brother. In fact, despite any passing resemblance (and it's not like Dean compares every guy he meets to Sam, not at all), you couldn’t find two more different people if you tried.

This is what Dean desperately tells himself when he finds himself in Jared’s hotel room an hour later, with his mouth full of the guy’s tongue and those two big totally unlike Sam's hands on his ass.

He can taste the peanuts even past the whiskey and it might gross him out if he wasn't so plastered and if the guy didn't have miles-long octopus arms and legs and a fucking tongue that all work together to mess up Dean's perception so that vertical is the new horizontal and the need for oxygen is really more like a guideline than a rule. The guy's body is hard under Dean's hands, the way Sam's is when Dean patches him up, pushes at his shoulder to wake him, or pulls him from a burning building, real, imagined, or metaphorical.

"I think I just slobbered all over your neck," Jared says with a bit of an accent (Texas, he'd said over a couple of shots), then licks at the spot, laughing down at Dean, just a couple of inches, but fuck that makes him so hard it's probably a sin in itself. "You smell good, though. Like leather and gunpowder. Do they make colognes that make you smell like a badass? 'Cause you totally do."

Jared's still laughing against his throat and pushing him against the wall and there's this one little second where he's got such a massive grip on Dean's ass that Dean feels his feet lift off the floor and he doesn't really know what vertigo feels like but goddamn he just might be experiencing it.

"Yeah well you smell like grapefruit and Malibu rum, so what's that say about you, buddy?"

"That I like fruity shampoo and girly drinks and that you can shut the fuck up 'cause I can feel how much you like it."

"Oh that's--"

"Holy shit, you are a badass. Is this a switchblade?"

Dean snatches it away quickly. The guy doesn't know how to hold it and although the fingers are about the right size, it doesn't look right in his hands. "Can never be too careful."

"You say that to the guy who invited a knife-wielding badass up to his hotel room."

"You look like you can take care of yourself."

Jared smiles. If Sammy ever smiled at him like that, Dean would have gone to hell even without the demon deal. "I wasn't really looking to take care of myself here."

It's a Tuesday in Vegas so even the kind-of-nice rooms are pretty cheap. Dean hasn't actually got himself one yet because, hey, opportunities. But this room's a little more than nice and the bed that Dean can see over the guy's shoulder is huge and plush-looking and the view through the ceiling-high window is black and neon-gorgeous, but what Dean really sees is the reflection of the two of them, Jared's broad back and familiar narrow hips and Dean pressed between that Sam-like wall and, well, an actual wall. There's a rollercoaster outside the window, just out of sight, but the room is breath-quiet, like he can hear the smile being smiled at him, some mixed up sense memory of a thousand other shittier hotel rooms.

Dean smirks like a shrug, drops the knife, licks his lips and palms Jared's cock through denim, a great big handful that makes him ache enough that he can't stop the surprised little noise he makes that sounds a lot like Jared's, only Jared's turns into another laugh and a tongue sliding alongside his, slick and hot and smiling and rum-and-peanutty. "Yeah," Dean says when his mouth is under his own control again, "I could take care of you."

Jared just smiles, pushes against Dean again. His kisses are fumbling and messy and really enthusiastic, and maybe it’s all that Malibu rum, but for as much as he might be waiting to be taken care of, he seems happy enough to keep Dean pinned against the wall while he gropes Dean's ass and grinds his dick into Dean’s hand and fucks Dean’s mouth with his tongue. And that’s nice and all but Dean has a lot experience with drunken hook-ups and if this guy comes in his pants before Dean even gets a look at his cock, this big handful that's begging to be appreciated properly, he’s gonna be pissed.

So Dean turns his face away from the kiss, pulls his hand free from where it’s caught between their bodies and uses it to press open-palmed against Jared chest. It’s firm and so warm, expanding with each heavy breath, and his shirt is damp with sweat and the heartbeat beneath is racing and... fuck, where was he going with this? But then Jared groans against Dean’s jaw, pressing his dick into Dean’s hip and Dean remembers.

“Hold up, man. You’re wearing too many clothes.”

Jared's laugh is a low, flirtatious sound he's never heard Sammy make. “Sorry.” He doesn’t sound very apologetic, neither does his smile feel apologetic on Dean's lower lip. “Your mouth, it’s very distracting, did you know that?”

He does. He's been told. Jared's mouth is pretty distracting too, so when he tries to kiss Dean again Dean dodges him and lets his knees buckle, sliding down the wall and falling to his knees to get out of reach of Jared’s mouth.

“My mouth is good for a lot of things,” Dean says, purposefully licking his lips as he tugs Jared’s belt open, a Texas-shaped buckle holding up slightly baggy jeans that are raggedy at the hem in that laid back, feet-dragging way. Above him, Jared chokes on a laugh, bracing his arms on the wall and actually spreading his legs a little.

“Jesus. I like how you think.”

Dean glances at their reflection in the window as he shoves the guy’s jeans and boxers down to his ankles and for half a second Dean finds himself wishing he’d thought to take off that shirt before getting to his knees, but then Jared's cock is bobbing free, daring Dean, and the skin at the back of Jared's thighs and ass is smooth, just a little fuzzy, and his cock is just as ridiculously big as it had felt in Dean's palm. If Dean was less drunk, he might find it intimidating. A little more drunk, and he might be begging in ways he'd never live down.

He’s seen Sammy naked before, impossible not to when you spend your lives sharing tiny motel rooms. But he’s never seen him like this, with his dick swollen and heavy and massive right in Dean’s face.

No, no, wait. Back up, back the fuck up. Not Sammy. Dean tilts his face to look up because it’s goddamn important that he remembers this. Jared. Jared’s dick is in Dean’s face, Jared’s cock twitches when their eyes meet, bumping against Dean’s lower lip and smearing precome on his chin.

“Y’know, when you said you’re an actor, I didn’t think you meant pornos.”

It’s a joke, obviously, and Jared laughs, his face flushed. But what he says is, “Well, yeah. But I haven’t done that in a while.”

“Wait. Seriously?”

“Yeah. I mean, I-” Whatever he was about to say gets choked off with a moan when Dean sucks the tip of his cock into his mouth, hands on Jared's ass, not pulling yet, just palming. “Oh, fuck. Uh, you know, where I come from, you say this sort of thing to a guy and you get your teeth handed to you but, Christ... your mouth... was fucking made for this.”

It occurs to Dean then that he’s sucking a porn star’s dick and getting a pretty good review. Awesome. Later, when his mouth isn’t so full, he’ll have to remember to ask him his screen name and he wonders if the guy made gay or straight stuff and what Sammy might say if he caught Dean watching his doppelganger fuck a blonde over a teacher's desk but right now the only questions he has he asks with his tongue, curling and flattening over the head of Jared's dick, with his lips, wet with spit and precome and sliding down one side then the other, over his own fingers where he works Jared's cock where his mouth can't quite reach, even for all that he'd like to, and the ache starting in his jaw. Jared's answer is a moan and an 'oh' and a few soft sighs of “God, that's good” and his hands trying for purchase in Dean's short hair, those eyes on Dean's mouth, maybe a little too intense suddenly.

Dean pulls back. A string of saliva connects them for a moment, then snaps and Dean's chin is a little wetter. He could wipe it but Jared is fixed on it. His lips are probably all red from being stretched and he keeps working Jared with his hands.

"Fuck," Jared says from so high above Dean.

"Yeah, about that, is this all you had in mind? 'Cause I've got all night, and I could have sucked anybody's dick." That's a lie. Maybe he could have, but there's something about Jared that's just right, in the most fucked up and wrong way possible.

Jared licks his lips, tonguing at the corners, maybe subconsciously mimicking his thumb at the corner of Dean's mouth. "No, no, I mean, yeah, whatever you want."

Dean smiles up, a little smug, a lot satisfaction, then shrugs out of his coat and pulls his tee over his head, spreads his knees a little more, settling in before he takes Jared's thumb into his mouth, sucking so hard that Jared whines, even though it's just his fucking thumb. He pulls off with a wet sound just long enough to slide his mouth down Jared's cock again, so sudden and deep that Jared punches the wall somewhere above him and Dean thinks he hears a crack. He gives him three long, slow sucks, like maybe he's going to let this go all night, like maybe this really is all he's got in mind, until all at once his mouth is flying over Jared's dick, hand twisting and sliding along the base and his other behind a thigh, guiding when Jared gets a little erratic, pinching when Jared's hands on Dean's head get a little too demanding. Jared's making this long string of sounds, like one continuous vowel that doesn't exist and with all these half words underneath, and snapping his hips with the mostly-even measure of a one-time professional.

"Fuck, man, uh, Dean," is all the warning Dean gets but it's enough. He backs off just in time but keeps his hand moving and Jared lets him lean back but holds him close. It's okay. Dean wasn't planning on going anywhere, not with Jared's come splashing so haphazardly across his face and chest and Jared's thigh trembling beneath Dean's palm and Dean doesn't stop fisting Jared's cock until he's satisfied that Jared's got nothing left to give.

After a few seconds Jared's hand goes slack, soft in Dean's hair, and he looks absolutely dazed, like, just-woke-up-wearing-a-sombrero-and-hugging-a-goat sort of lost, eyes fixed on some distant point beyond the wall that's only a few feet in front of him until at last he slides that gaze down and Dean smiles up. He's got his own cock in one hand and with the other he wipes Jared's come from his face, then smears it down the length of his dick, hand-over-hand. Jared just watches, open-mouthed.

"Now what are you gonna do for me, huh?"

A smile, an almost laugh, and Jared sighs, chest puffing huge (just the way Sammy does) and leans forward, hand on the wall above Dean, his body and the fruity sex smell of it arching over Dean's, all loose and easy and he should look stupid with his pants still around his ankles but he really, really fucking doesn't.

"Anything, like I said," Jared says, watching Dean's hand, slow and lazy on his own dick, so full Jared can already imagine the feel of it. He's gorgeous, this guy, maybe more than he knows. Jared has seen and been with a lot of good looking men, either by choice or as part of his paycheck, but never anyone with such easy, unforced beauty. He must still be a bit drunk because that's some pretty cheesy shit right there. "But whatever it is it's gotta wait a little while. You wrecked me, man." He pushes off the wall and throws off his flip-flops (sort of hilarious that he's been wearing them this whole time), kicks off his pants and pulls his shirt over his head, flinging it toward a chair, all with Dean watching him, gaze just as fond as when he'd been called Sammy.

"Do you benchpress fucking minivans or what, dude?"

Jared just laughs, runs a hand over his pecs like he's shy but he isn't, then offers Dean a hand to help him up and Dean smirks. A beat later Jared knows it's because the hand he's given is slick with come.

"You asshole!" Jared says a little too loud, attempting to smear the stickiness over Dean's cheek even though it's redundant at this point, but Dean still fights back, grabbing Jared's arms. He's strong, really strong, so Jared uses his bulk to push them over to the bed and they're wrestling as soon as they fall onto it, each trying to pin the other, pushing off the rest of Dean's clothes and boots, laughing and grunting and skin going pink in the shape of fingers, pushing, prying, pulling. The way Dean's so hard against him, beneath him, Jared wonders if Dean's efforts aren't more out of pride than anything else, so Jared gives, stops fighting but doesn't let himself be rolled over and his lips on Dean's neck might as well be a white flag for as quickly as Dean gives in too.

"Jesus, you sweat a lot."

Jared smiles against Dean's jaw, shaking his head, then, "What do you want, Mr. Badass?" He can taste his own come on Dean's skin where he's smeared it around, mixed salty with the taste of Dean beneath. He licks one place clean then looks for another.

Dean's voice is low and rough. "I dunno, Malibu Ken, whaddya got?"

"You wanna fuck me?"

Dean swallows, his throat moving noisy against Jared's lips. "You wanna get fucked?"

Jared leans up a little. Dean's cocky smirk isn't quite so cocky, even though it's trying really hard to be. So Jared smiles down at him, pulling his body up along Dean's a little higher, a little heavier. Dean hisses and yeah, that smirk falls away completely, just an opened-mouthed shape that says 'please' in all the ways it doesn't actually speak the word.

"No," Jared says, "No, I wanna fuck you. You wanna?"

Dean swallows again and the easy shrug is actually pretty believable. "Yeah, alright."

"Good," Jared says, reaching between them to find Dean's cock, hard and wet, "I've never fucked a badass."

"Yeah, well I've had a few Ken dolls so what are you gonna do to distinguish yourself?"

Jared smirks, breathy. "Never challenge a Texan.“

“I wouldn’t be a badass if I didn't live a little dangerously now and then, would I?"

Jared’s still stroking Dean’s dick and thinking, watching Dean so still beneath him, all but his hands that fist in the bedcovers and his eyes that keep trying to meet Jared’s and looking away, like there’s something there he doesn’t want to see. But he doesn’t close them either, just lowers long lashes, looking down, as if appraising Jared’s body, Jared’s technique, like he might complain but it’d be a pretty obvious lie the way he finally lets his head fall back and groan, even if it turns into an agitated, “You want to take a picture or something, buddy?”

“I like looking at you. Something wrong with that?”

“I’d rather you liked sucking my dick or something. I’m not exactly gonna get off from passionate looks alone, you know.”

“You’re bossy.”

“Badass,” Dean reminds him. “What do you expect?”

“You talk too much, too.”

“Yeah, well why don’t you shut me up, Dallas?”

“It’s San Antonio, you dick. Now roll over.”

He doesn’t wait for Dean to comply, just wrestles hips and shoulders and pushes away hands that resist only a little, and then Dean goes easy, slack once he’s on his belly, Jared kneeling just behind him, knees on the outside of thighs, trapping him there. Jared runs his hands all over him, across his back (freckles, fucking freckles) and down his sides and over the swell of his ass where he squeezes, kneads, spreads and Dean says “fuck” so softly into the pillows that Jared almost doesn’t hear.

“Badass likes a little assplay, huh?”

“Eat me, longhorn.”

Jared laughs.

He’s only in Vegas because he’s trying for a part, some kind of buddy cop show that his shitty agent says is definitely nothing like CSI but he figures is probably exactly like CSI except bound to be less successful, and the audition is only in Vegas so some asshole director can expense the trip. He’s probably too young for the role, too big, too inexperienced, too experienced, which are all things he’s heard, if not right off then a few days later when the casting director gets word of just what sort of background he’s really got. There’s only one way to go from porn and that’s essentially just more porn, which he’s happy to have in his real life but not so much as a career.

So he’s not sure why he’s here, and the audition’s in the morning and maybe he’ll be hungover and fucked out but Dean says “goddamn” when Jared presses a saliva-wet finger against his asshole and that’s worth losing a shitty job over any day.

“Get on your knees,” Jared says behind him and it’s hard to just do as he told by anyone that isn’t John Winchester (and fuck but that’s the last thing he needs to think about right now, as if what he’s already got on his mind isn’t bad enough), but those big hands are hot on his ass and the finger teasing him is like a promise of things to come. He wants this more than he wants to keep up appearances, so he pushes up easily on his hands and knees and spreads his legs a little and hangs his head and thinks, what happens in goddamn Vegas.

Jared’s all hands. Fucking hands everywhere, sliding up and down Dean’s sides and over his ass and down his thighs and pulling, pulling Dean's ass into his body like they’re already fucking or like he might mould him into some other shape, and then Jared pushes him away just enough, spreads him open and Dean feels hot breath and the sound he makes is something like "ngh."

"Was that a word?" Jared asks, laughing and Dean can feel it, and then Jared spits and Dean can feel that too, wet and warm, turning quickly cold, sliding down to drip off his balls until Jared's fat thumb is pressed against him, just pressing at first, slick pressure that Dean pushes against and drops to his elbows so he can have a free hand. Jared's thumb is moving in wet circles, just shy of pushing in, and he spits again to keep it wet. Dean curses, hand on his dick, a little desperate, and buries his face in pillows to keep from begging.

"You alright up there?" Jared asks but Dean can hear the smile and he's going to tell him to choke on it but then there's another warmer, hotter, wetter, breathier, more slippery pressure and Dean can only say fuck and yeah and oh god fuck yeah. Jared's tongue is less shy and wiggles into Dean with purpose, alternating with that fat thumb, working its way in and out and in again as his other hand spreads Dean and Dean utterly forgets he's even got his dick in his hand because there's nothing in the universe except that tongue inside him. Hell and armageddon and perky cigarette girls and the devil and all of it can hang itself with razor wire.

"You look good like this," Jared says to his ass, then bites one buttock, then below, all the while working that thumb inside him. "How many guys get to see you like this, huh?"

Dean doesn't answer, can't answer because it all just comes out in huffs and broken sounds as Jared tongues over his perineum and up, up, until he's kissing his back and scraping teeth on his way back down and then that thumb is gone and Dean whimpers but Jared spreads him wide and Dean can feel him, whole face, tongue first. Dean doesn't know how the guy can even fucking breathe and really doesn't care.

He's remembered his dick in his hand and if he's got no mind for rhythm it doesn't matter, it's sort of better, all false starts and almost-in-time to a chorus of his own pathetic panting, wetting the pillow with hot breath and slobber. Fucking giant Texans and their goddamn resemblances to family members he ought not to want to fuck.

And fuck how close he is 'cause, after all this, no way is he not getting what he really wants.

One second Jared's got a face full of ass and he's pretty sure he can go for a while longer ('cause it's not even his ass getting eaten and he thinks he might come again just from the sounds Dean's making) but the next second he's got a face full of cranky... well badass hardly fits anymore, not from a guy who mews like a kitten when you've got your tongue inside him, but Jared's not telling him that.

Dean's rolled back over, more on his side with Jared in his way and he's casually wiping his mouth when he clears his throat says, "So, condom?"

"Somewhere else you're in a hurry to be?" Jared asks, pointedly wiping his own mouth and even more pointedly eyeing Dean's cock, flush and thick against his belly. Dean doesn't answer, so Jared gets up and rummages through his bag across the room, takes a big swallow from the sweaty G&T he'd brought up with him earlier, then offers the rest to Dean who downs it, rolled onto his back and propped up on pillows, watching Jared with his dick in his hand. Something's a little different. Dean won't take his eyes off him, not like before, so Jared takes the glass back and sets it aside, leans down for a kiss and gets a hand behind his neck, pulling him down.

"You gonna ride me, cowboy, or am I... fuck, I don't know shit about rodeos."

"Neither do I. I grew up in the suburbs." Jared laughs and crawls back over Dean, getting kissed between sentences. "You could just ask me to fuck you already."

"Yeah," Dean says, biting Jared's lip, "if you think you're man enough."

"You just don't let up, do you?"

Dean ignores him, reaches over to the lube Jared had sat on the bedside table.

"Here, make use of those giant banana fingers."

Jared does.

He'd expected Dean to roll back over but instead Dean slings one leg over Jared's head and Jared has to duck, laughing and pouring lube over his fingers and then he's bracketed by Dean's thighs and Dean's scooting down, a little closer to Jared's lap and still with that hand on his cock, just barely sliding up and down. He's uncut and Jared's not used to that, finds it fascinating, the play of skin, the wide, pale expanse of Dean's inner thighs, Dean's free hand splayed over his own stomach. Ring and watch and bracelet, each a story that Jared doesn't ask.

His hands are slick on Dean's cock, wanting to feel it, how different it might be from his own, and Dean lets him, but not passively. He sits up, gripping Jared's arms and wanting to kiss, filthy, deep, moaning kisses, in slow motion from the booze, moving closer to Jared when he pushes his hips forward, fingers almost painful on Jared's biceps and then gone, nowhere Jared can feel until they're suddenly slippery on his dick, working him slow and long, like Dean's got some kind of pleasure-vengeance. He's been hard again for a long time now and it's a shock, this sudden friction.

"C'mon," Dean says, against his mouth. Just that. "C'mon."

Jared seems bigger, somehow, between Dean's thighs. Maybe it's just a product of how slutty he feels, spread wide for the guy, but when he says 'c'mon' and tries not to sound like he's begging, the strength behind those big hands on his chest, pushing him back and down, isn't his imagination. The smell of Sam's shampoo and Sam's deodorant and Sam that suddenly overwhelms him might be.

He's said the magic words apparently, because Jared's fingers move inside him, a couple right from the start, long and thick and easy to take, more than just stretching, wriggling and pressing and he can't stop his ass lifting off the bed. He could come just from this, he knows that from experience, but he wants more and so much more and now.

"Fucking c'mon."

"Easy," Jared says, slowing his movements, squeezing Dean's cock, "You'll thank me for taking my time," but he adds another finger anyway, pushes in farther and holds.

Shut your stupid smug face, Dean says, though it comes out as a soft whine and a whispered, "C'mon." It seems to be the only word he can actually manage.

Jared fucks him like that, fingers and laughter and kissing Dean's torso from nipples to navel, and one very memorable lick to the head of his cock, until Dean's ready to give, let the guy have him however he wants, even if it doesn't mean Dean gets what he'd hoped for, until, finally, at last, regretfully, blissfully, Jared's slides slick fingers out of him.

Sound of plastic, of a bottle snapping open then closed, earthquake motion of a giant body on the bed, moving up between his thighs, and then arms beneath his knees. Dean has his eyes closed through all of it, so blissed out he can't be bothered to make sure the building's still standing around them. It could fall for all he cares.

"Hey, badass," Jared says and Dean figures he wants him to watch, but when he opens his eyes Jared is there close, grinning that giant, softly manic grin, "Still with me?"

Dean mumbles something kind of stupidly in the affirmative and Jared just tilts his head and looks at him funny, then sort of smiles and the stretch of Dean's legs burns a little when Jared leans in and kisses him before Dean can ask what that was about. When Jared backs off again it's with a hand between them and he's looking down his body and then Jared's cock slides inside him, easy, long and slow, beyond where his mouth or fingers could reach, and whatever modicum of restraint Dean's managed up to this point, it bursts out of him, a sudden, grateful, too-loud sound as he arches into the hard heat of Jared.

Jared's not rushed at first and when he leans in, Dean's cock and his hand pumping it are slippery against Jared's stomach, as much from sweat as lube and precome. The imagined scent of Sammy fades beneath the mingled smell of gin and breath and bodies, rum and coconut, and fruity shampoo when Jared's hair brushes his face when they're close enough to kiss.

He's not rushed at first but that doesn't last. Dean knew it couldn't with the way Jared grunts above him, says fuck a lot and then laughs at himself, or at Dean, for not even managing anything that coherent. Jared is huge inside him, curled over Dean, pressing him down, only painful in a way that feels like it should, like it's supposed to be this way, like it's always been this way.

The headboard is fabric and cushioned and thank fuck for forward-thinking (or just fucking perverted-thinking) designers because Jared's rocking them hard enough now that the crown of Dean's head is pressing up against it and if it weren't for it being attached to the wall and not the bed, it would be banging the people in the next room awake. He'd protest but he doesn't have to, because Jared, unsatisfied with the speed he's managing, leans back, sits up tall on his knees, pulling Dean with him, pulling Dean's hips into him and Dean feels the sheet slide under his back, feels his ass flush and slippery against Jared's pelvis, thumbs hard over his hipbones.

"C'mon," Jared says, frowning with concentration, more serious than Dean's seen him yet, and moves, hips sudden and urgent and Dean's shouted "oh God, fuck" might earn them a call from the front desk if the walls are very thin. He can't even find the rhythm to match but it doesn't matter, because he's coming seconds later, thick and hot over his hand and down his chest, Jared's got him angled so steep. He doesn't know what he's saying or if there are words at all, and he sees the sort of lights behind his eyes that are there when especially pissy demons hit him with two-by-fours.

He's still milking the last of his orgasm when Jared shouts above him, not Dean's name or anything else, just a sound of relief and release and a throaty "goddamn", the sort of sentiment that Dean can really get behind.

Jared collapses on top of him, only just letting Dean untangle his legs, then falls bonelessly to the side, loose-limbed and taking up most of the bed. After a while he laughs at the ceiling, goofy giant once again, but Dean's half asleep by then, barely hears the sound of wet latex and feels Jared lean away for a moment. Then it's dark more than just behind his eyes and he'd be asleep except that Jared whispers, "Hey badass..."

"Yeah?" Dean manages, voice low and rough.

"You said Sammy was your brother?"

"Mmhmm.... Why?"


If he wasn't already asleep, Dean might have pushed the issue.

He might push it in the morning, too, except that he forgets, and because, when he wakes, it's to a wet, hot, motion on his cock. Down his body, in the just-dawn light, Jared's noisily sucking the goddamn life out of him.

"Fucking Texans," he mutters at the ceiling but not unappreciatively, and feels Jared smile, laugh around him. So he squirms around until he can return the favor.

"I've always wanted to wake up that way," he says later, down to where Jared's half asleep again, head resting on Dean's thigh, hair tickling him when Jared laughs softly.

"Yeah, me too."

Jared wakes again to the sound of Dean coming out of the shower. He rolls over, still naked, and gets the sort of smile you get from strangers you fucked all night. It's got to be almost midday, almost checkout, and Dean's just redressed in the same clothes, because it's not like he ever had a bag with him or anything.

He pulls on his pants once he's out of bed, trying not to let it be awkward but it's daylight and they're sober and it kind of has to be. Dean doesn't shake his hand or anything stupid like that, and there's no kissing, just a "had a good time" and "thanks for the shower" and "if you're ever in Texas." Dean says he is sometimes, but they don't exchange numbers.

The room's too quiet once Dean is gone, and suddenly he remembers the audition. He's not exactly nervous but he hates being late. His dad always told him it was a sign of disrespect.

In the shower he washes off the night before, the morning after. He doesn't think Dean's very easy to forget, though.

He slips into the suit he brought for the audition, something basic a detective might wear. Dress for the job you want. His dad told him that, too. Even if, in this case, he probably doesn't really want it.

He packs and rides the elevator down with his things and checks out, then heads through the casino to the front entrance and the taxis. He'll be headed home after the audition. No point staying.

The lineup for taxis is short but just beyond it a sleek, black car pulls up to the curb, and standing at the curb is a badass in a leather jacket.

"Where would you like to go, sir?" the attendant asks him.

Jared considers the question. "Be right back," he says, because fuck it, why not? Just because Dean hadn't offered his number that doesn't mean he wouldn't give it if asked.

So he heads over, bags still slung over his shoulder, against his better judgement and the Code of Drunken Hookups, but before he gets there someone taller than they should be for the size of the car unfolds out of the driver's side like the first of a dozen circus clowns. Then the passenger side opens and another guy steps out. For a moment Jared thinks it's Dean, but no, he's still there, waiting at the curb.

And staring at Jared.

"Uh," Jared says.

"Uh, hey man," Dean says, stepping a little closer, away from the curb to ask quietly, "did I forget something?"

"No! No, uh, I just thought--"

"No way! Not on your life, pal," Dean shouts but not at him, at the valet who's asking the tall guy for his keys. "We're leaving pronto, Jeeves, so why don't you back off."

"He's just doing his job, Dean. Lighten up," tall guy says, not-quite rolling his eyes at Dean when he joins them on the curb, then he's eyeing Jared and Jared just knows.

"You must be Sammy," Jared says.

"Sorry?" Sam asks, pulling himself up to his full height, which happens to be Jared's exactly.

"Uh," Dean interrupts, standing a little between them. "Just Sam if you know what's good for you."

Jared laughs it off because it's his default response and puts out a hand. Sam's is big and strong, as big as his own. "I'm Jared," he says. "I sorta owned your bro last night at a game of poker. Heard a lot about you."

"Yeah," Dean says when he relaxes a little. "Texas hold'em."

"Nice to meet you," Sam says, but he doesn't really seem so sure about it.

"Sir, the car."

"Yeah, alright, give us a minute!" Dean shouts at the valet.

"Hey, uh, Sam?" That's the other guy, the almost but not-quite Dean, because he's definitely not a badass, and weirdly, the suit he's wearing almost exactly matches Jared's. "I'm gonna get out of your hair but I wanted to say thanks."

Sam takes the hand he's offered, smiles at the guy and the guy smiles back with just enough of the right sort of tell-tale eye contact that Sam ducks his head and gives a different sort of smile.

Dean, when Jared glances at him, is watching all of this with nothing at all like a smile, and Jared knows he's been completely forgotten.

"Make a friend out in the desert, Sammy?"

There's that almost-roll of his eyes again and Sam introduces Jensen. Poor guy drove all the way from Dallas in a beat up old Jeep that didn't quite make it. Luckily, Sam had been there to give the guy a lift, especially since it had been so late.

Jared can tell there's a question behind Dean's posture, something he wants to but doesn't ask, to do with why they're only now showing up at the hotel if it he'd found the guy so late at night, and maybe everyone else realizes it's there, too, because Sam shifts foot to foot and the guy coughs.

"Anyway," Jensen says, "I gotta make it to this audition or I'm really screwed, so, thanks again."


Jensen looks his way, like maybe he hadn't actually realized Jared had been standing there before.

"Yeah." Jensen clears his throat. He seems a little embarrassed. "I'm an actor. Just soaps so far. Probably nothing you've seen. Hard to break out of them. Only one way you can go from soaps and that's usually just more soaps"

"What show are you auditioning for?"

"Some shitty cop show. Another CSI, I guess. I doubt I'll get it."

"Scene of the Crime?"

"Yeah, how--?"

Jared laughs. "Witty detective Baker or broody detective Swanson?"

Jensen grins just a little, steps closer. "Baker."

Jared grins even bigger. "Swanson." He puts out a hand and Jensen takes it, a firm shake. "Forty-five minutes. You wanna run lines in the cab?"

Jensen smiles like Jared just said something really funny and doesn't let go of his hand for a little longer than necessary. "Hell yeah I do."

Jared never does get Dean's number.

Dean watches the taxi pull away.

"What the hell just happened?" Sam asks him.

"No idea, bro. You ready?"


They climb into the car, much to the valet's appreciation, and Dean pulls them out onto Las Vegas Boulevard.

"Have a good time?" Sam asks after a while.

Dean shrugs. "Yeah, you?"

Sam shrugs bigger. Everything he does is bigger. "Camped out in the Impala, really."

"With Chester Tate?"

"Dude, even I don't get that reference."

"Yeah, well."

There's traffic even though it's Wednesday, so it's slow going. He drums his fingers along to the radio but doesn't turn it up.

"You know," Sam says after a while, "if you wanted to stay a couple more days, we could."

"I thought you were anti-Vegas Vacation."

"Not anti, Dean. I just wanted a break."

"From me?"

"From my head. From the world. And Vegas is like the world concentrated."

"Yeah, can't argue with that."

The strip stretches out ahead. Hotel after hotel. Possibilities.

"So what do you say?" Sam asks, really trying. "A little gambling? Bet I could own you at poker like that guy did last night."

Dean smiles. "Yeah, I bet you could, Sammy."

The light they're sitting at turns green. Traffic picks up, moves on. Soon, backward in his rearview, he can read "WELCOME TO FABULOUS LAS VEGAS NEVADA."

"Let's just get out of the city, find a nice scuzzy hotel, raise a little hell in an empty bar with warm beer."

Sam laughs. Not big and loud and goofy, just soft and Sam. He stretches in the seat next to Dean.

"Yeah, that sounds alright."