Chapter Text
At twenty-three years old, Dean’s broken every limb he’s got at least three times over. They’ve almost always been set right, Sam or himself or sometimes even his dad carving out time for field aid at least, splints made out of scrap rebar and shredded clothing. But even now, looking in the mirror, Dean sees the spots where he was careless setting his fingers, feels where his legs still twinge from John making him run on sprained ankles and twisted knees.
He tries not to focus on that. He tries instead to force his eyes to lock onto his groin, covered in a silky red lace and framed by his slender hands. He supposes, in this getup, with the garter and the fishnets and the band tee shirt he’s cut too short, it’s working for him that he hasn’t quite caught up yet on muscle mass after more than a decade of underfeeding himself. He looks dainty, almost, and the thought burns in his face. His blush almost matches the red panties.
It’s been six months since Dean watched Sam leave, since he let their father slam the door on him. The harsh knot of emotion sitting somewhere above his Adams apple somehow only emphasizes Dean’s need for this, what he has planned tonight.
With that thought in mind, he throws a pair of jeans over his underthings, slings on his trademark leather jacket, and ventures out into the greater Chicago area. He’d researched for the bar he has in mind, and the motel he’d found was luckily only a short walk away.
Six months ago was also when Dean stopped ... whatever it had been with John, and it's been four months since John had last shown his face, taking off with a questionably-acquired big-ass truck and saying he was onto something big but he’d be back in a few months. That was June, and this chilly October night cuts through Dean’s jacket easily, slicing him with cold and bringing apprehension with the drop in temperature.
Dean might’ve almost preferred the ghostly kind of cold to this feeling of doubt and dread.
No , he thinks. If I can’t have them, at least I can try to have this.
He tries not to duck his head, thinking most people passing on the street won’t look close enough anyway to notice the smudged eyeliner, the gray powder he’d used around his eyelids to make a smoky effect, the slight gloss to his lips. He’d stolen the shitty products from a CVS, more nervous shoplifting than he’d been since he was eight. The panties and garter and such had been easier, somehow -- he’d bought things like that for girls, back in high school, and it was somehow easy to pretend to reprise that role.
Autumn air cuts through him once again as the streets he passes become more and more dimly lit, the cold of everything catching in his throat. The short walk Dean had hoped for feels like forty nights through the desert, but eventually, he glimpses the seemingly innocuous sign hanging beside the narrow opening to an alley. His jacket snags on the exposed brick of the alley’s wall, but he finds his way.
When he finally slips through the side door indicated by subtle markings, he’s met with security, and quickly shows his I.D., struggling to make eye contact with the bouncer in a way that’s never happened before. After getting through as “Tim Frince,” this mission too underground to go as anything even remotely recognizable, Dean stops at the coat check and hesitates.
How much am I gonna show?
But he’s read about this club. Looked it up on the internet and everything, in one of those net cafes that seem to be going out of style. He has a pretty good idea of what’s allowed here.
So when he makes his way onto the dance floor, he’s left his jeans behind along with his jacket. His fishnets and red lace panties and the fucking garter and his goddamn junk are all on full display. While he’s snuck in with a knife in each of his boots, and some of his jewelry could in a pinch become lethal, the lack of weapons on his body feels almost more significant than the lack of clothes.
He’s put himself on display before. He’s sold himself in gas station bathrooms and dirty parking lots, dressed himself in slutty little scraps and made a show of his pouty lips. He’s used his beauty for violence more times than he can count anymore, and yet, he has rarely made himself vulnerable. Really, he’s only ever been this open to being hurt like this by --
Stop. He’s across the fricken’ country. He left.
Dean cuts off his thoughts and continues his stride across the club towards the bar. After flashing his Sharpie’d hand at the person behind the counter and ordering a lighter beer than he’d usually pick, he lets the sounds of the establishment consume him.
Something with a deep pulse of bass floods Dean’s ears and vibrates his body. He feels like the music pouring out of the speakers is penetrating through his flimsy outfit and shaking his organs. It's not what he'd usually listen to, but then, nothing about this is his usual. He can’t help but clench his fists and jaw, even after the friendly bartender slides over his drink, a bottle that Dean unseals himself.
Above the pounding music is the noise of people yelling to each other over it, or even just moaning into each other. Dean’s somehow surprised at how much PDA really is going on in the joint, even though that’s exactly what the forums told him to expect. Though the half-naked people everywhere really are starting to make him feel more at ease, kinda, with his own state of undress.
He’s somehow also surprised by the hand that slides around his exposed waist, a barrier on his body trapping him to the bar that he barely registers before grabbing the arm it belongs to in a firm hold and spinning to face the owner of the offending limb.
He’s met by a large, alarmed pair of bright eyes belonging to a large, beautiful man. The man is taller than Dean ( not as tall as Sam, says a traitor part of him), has a full head of dark black curls, and the freaked-out expression doesn’t hide his strong, symmetrical features, or his stunning blue eyes.
Dean eases his grip immediately, remembering where he is and why he came in an instant, before trying to turn his real flustered-ness into something a bit more flirty. He tries for a soft smile and looks up from under his eyelashes. “Sorry,” he says, probably too soft to hear under the noise of the club, but the man’s face eases into a teasing grin anyways.
He leans in close, this time keeping his hands to himself, but somehow still looming. “All good, I like a pretty kitty with claws,” he says right into Dean’s ear. His voice is barely audible, but the words still send a shiver down Dean’s back, and not the good kind necessarily.
Dean puts a hand up between them, pressing firmly enough into the guy’s chest to reestablish some personal space before responding. “Not your kitty,” Dean says, voice holding less of that contrived softness now.
The man stays smiling, though, just calmly raising an eyebrow. “Okay. Wanna be my girl instead, then?”
This freezes Dean right where he is, still pressed against the bar, looking into the man’s set of sea-blue eyes and the rough stubble around his jaw. “What?” he coughs out, trying to cover it with a sip of his beer. He hopes the man doesn't register his shaking.
“C’mon,” the man says, all close up against Dean’s ear again, pressing into the hand Dean is still holding up to his chest. “Pretty thing like you, in these tights and hot little panties, I know what you want,” he continues, sliding two large, warm hands onto Dean’s exposed waist and squeezing almost hard enough to make Dean squeak. “You can be my girl, just for tonight.”
And instead of growling out a harsh fuck off like he’s intending to, Dean finds himself nodding, mouth slightly ajar, eyes wide and staring up at this incredible stranger. “Okay,” Dean says, and he knows it can’t possibly be loud enough to hear, but the man just smiles and indicates Dean should finish his drink.
Dean throws back the rest of the beer quickly, thinking that he’ll fuckin’ need it for this.
By the time the man is tugging Dean onto the dance floor, pulling at a wrist with one hand and using the other to explore the various open expanses of skin Dean’s outfit offers up, Dean’s panting like they’re already naked in bed. The man just smiles and pulls him close, though, leading them into a slow, dirty grind in the middle of the dance floor. Dean feels rough jeans scraping the skin of his legs, the fishnets allowing for pretty much full contact over his entire lower half. The dark-haired man throws his head back as he grasps large handfuls of Dean’s lace-covered ass, pulling their groins together as they just barely manage to keep swaying along to the beat of the song pulsing around them.
Dean feels himself moan, the sound lost in the club ambiance, as his panty-clad cock starts chubbing up. He’d considered doing that thing he’d learned about -- tucking -- but he’d been hoping for a moment kind of like this and he hadn't wanted anything in the way. It seems like the wrong choice, now, as he sees the man he’s dancing with smirk knowingly, gaze pointed towards where Dean’s starting to peek out of his panties, and Dean feels hot as his face is inflamed with what he's sure is a burning red blush. He's probably the same color as his panties again, as the head of his cock poking out from the panties --
The crowded floor around them fades into almost nothing as Dean keeps grinding with this stranger, the bass pounding from the speakers still making Dean feel like he’s gonna lose his balance. The man who keeps pushing them closer and closer towards flat out having sex on the club floor is also contributing to Dean’s dizziness.
Suddenly that voice is right in his ear again. “C’mon, babygirl, let’s take this somewhere more private.”
It’s not the endearment that gets him -- to the contrary, that rough babygirl has his dick practically leaking with want. But something about the proposition holds the sudden reminder that this is a random man in Chicago, that Dean’s no closer with this guy emotionally than he was with the johns he used to service behind shitty motels, that this man doesn’t know Dean -- know the world -- the way his family does.
The way Sam does , that traitor part of him whispers inside his mind again.
Dean fights that voice back viciously by nodding into the man’s chest and this time being the one to tug the two of them somewhere, leading them off the dance floor and towards coat check. This man may not know his name, Dean thinks, or the horrors that exist out in the dark, but this man has seen Dean dressed up like a chick in a way Sam never has, never will, so fuck it.
The stranger seems delighted to follow Dean’s lead, leaving the club without protest when Dean mentions the empty motel room he has just a couple blocks away. It’s very late at night, or very early in the morning, while they make their way together through the cold October air. They’re laughing at stupid shit, giddy, and incredibly handsy with each other. Dean’s shocked with himself -- he may have his jeans back on, fishnets and panties and garter belt firmly hidden away from the outside world -- but he’s still letting himself be a fucking faggot out in the open. He hasn’t let himself act so queer in public since John took a belt to him when he was seven, for walking around too limp-wristed, Dad had said.
They still haven’t traded names when Dean’s unlocking the motel door and subsequently getting pushed through it, still haven’t talked about themselves one bit when Dean’s throwing his jacket to the side, but the stranger stops when his hands reach Dean’s jean zipper to ask just one thing about him. “You clean?” he asks gruffly, and it’s the first time all night Dean’s seen the stranger uncertain, a strange sort of grief creeping up in his eyes.
“I’m clean, got checked last month,” Dean reassures with a squeeze to the guy’s hand. He’s not lying, either -- he’s gotten real familiar with different states’ free clinic options over the years.
With that, they exchange a smile that starts gentle and quickly turns dirty, before the man is flipping Dean around so he’s pressed up against the wall with his crop top letting his exposed belly rub up against the cold cement. Dean groans at the roughness of the movement, though, something feeling guilty-satisfying as Dean lets himself be manhandled for the first time in six months.
He’s fucking missed this is the thing -- not John, certainly, and not even necessarily Sammy, not with how angry Dean is at feeling so abandoned right now -- but he’s missed this. Being shoved around, used, shown his place. He’s basking in it when the man suddenly offers something new to bask in by trailing soft kisses across Dean’s lower spine. The press of gentle lips, that easy affection, instantly becomes the star of the show, even as the man pulls Dean’s jeans down and begins trailing hot fingers over fishnetted flesh. Dean’s only focus is still on the lips kissing around his waist, his hips, the line of his bright red panties.
“So pretty, so good for me, my girl,” the man is mumbling, and it barely feels like the words are for him, but Dean keens . He feels like this stranger has eviscerated him, stripped his skin off his very bones. As the man turns Dean around to face him, Dean registers the man kneeling before him when his cock is engulfed by a hot wetness. Dean’s eyes slam shut and his head falls back against the wall, breath picking up.
The stranger takes him apart with his mouth, bringing Dean off almost gently before leading him to the bed. That night, for the first time in years, between stained motel sheets and three orgasms a piece, Dean thinks it again.
If he can’t have his family -- can’t have Sam -- at least he can have this:
soft, affectionate kisses pressed all over his face, and red lace pushed aside just enough to make room for somebody who sees this bit of woman in him.