Chapter Text
Dean Winchester doesn’t have a reputation.
Sure. Every queer man in town knows to find him at Purgatory every night, leather jacket on, glass of whiskey in one hand, cue stick in the other, looking for his next prey.
But they don’t know that’s Dean. Because Dean Winchester doesn’t exist in this town.
Michael Ackles, however... Well, Michael does have a big reputation. And, rumor has it, that’s not the only big thing he has. Rumor has several things about Michael, actually. Not all of them are true, and Dean is not particularly proud of a few. But he doesn’t really care.
So what if he’s become the town slut? He thinks, grabbing his drink and winking at the bartender -last Thursday’s hook up. He’s young and reckless and trying to make the best of his summer. Come September, he’ll be back at school, and Michael will stop existing again. So he might as well enjoy it while he can, right?
Old-fashioned securely in hand, he makes his way through the concentrated musk of too many bodies on the dancefloor. The rhythmic bass rumbles on his ears, louder than his tinnitus, and he has to reject a couple of guys along the way but, eventually, he makes it to the other side of the bar.
Settling by his favorite pool table, he scans the crowd for a face he hasn’t had yet. It takes a couple of minutes before Dean’s eagle eyes catch him: a trenchcoated weirdo standing awkwardly to the side of the dancefloor.
A very hot trenchcoated weirdo.
Disheveled hair. Thick eyebrows. Big blue puppy eyes. Strong cheekbones. Three-day stubble. Dimpled chin. Squared shoulders. Slightly lose tie.
Shit, Dean smiles to himself, taking a sip of his drink and focusing his gaze on the dark-haired man, who is now looking right back at him. This is gonna be fun.
Castiel Novak looks around the dive bar, absentmindedly pulling at the label on his fourth beer and questioning his decision to order it.
He knows his efforts to not look as out of place as he feels are in vain. But if he’s being completely honest, lately, it’s been impossible to find a place he doesn’t feel uncomfortable in. So, for the hundredth time that night, he fights the urge to run back home to curl up with a book and settles for taking another sip of the stout in his hand.
It’s been a long couple of months.
Graduating from Cambridge University sounded so much more exciting than the reality of unemployment is turning out to be. Being back in the US with no plans for the future is one thing, but having to live just a couple of miles away from his father is only adding insult to injury at this point.
So here he is, at the first gay bar that showed up on Google Maps. Because he’s tired after yet another unsuccessful day of job-hunting. Because (in the words of Gabriel) if he doesn’t blow off some steam soon, he’s gonna end up blowing something up. Because, after 25 years of Goody-Gooding, he deserves some Carpe Diem for a change. But mainly, honestly? because he hasn’t gotten laid since… God, how long has it been?
So if a James Dean lookalike wants to eye him up from across the bar, of course, Cas is gonna stare back at him. And if the guy in question gestures at him to come over? Of course, Cas is gonna do it.
The fact that he has never touched a cue before is not of import. That much is evident once he gets to the pool table and is greeted by a twangy,
“Saw you standing there and thought, God, look at that face,” the guy pauses, deliberately, to like his lips and give Cas a once-over “that looks like my next mistake.”
Castiel’s face automatically tilts with a frown because, seriously?
“Wanna play?” the guy smirks before he can argue. And of course, his smile is perfect too.
“I… I don’t know anything about pool,” Castiel confesses apologetically.
The blond man chuckles and shakes his head lightly. Mischievous eyes fixed on Castiel’s, as he leans forward to say,
“Not what I asked, hot stuff.”
Oh.
Okay.
Somewhere, in the back of Castiel’s mind, an alarm goes off. Later on, he’ll blame the loud music of the bar for him not hearing it. He’ll blame the alcohol for his recklessness. He’ll blame his own weakness and stupidity for everything that will happen afterwards. But right now, he merely allows himself to get mesmerized by a pair of bright green eyes. He lets his mind wander on the freckles that cover the turned-up roman nose. He ignores how the plush pink lips frame a lopsided grin that reeks of promiscuity, self-satisfaction, and fragile masculinity. Exactly all the reasons why he tends to avoid gay bars.
He doesn’t know how long he stares.
But the guy holds his gaze, and Castiel has to give him credit for that. Most people freak out immediately when he “stares into their souls” like that.
But not this guy. This (he has to admit it) beautiful guy with his stereotypical leather jacket and his perfect face, and his clever pick-up lines. This guy who moves around bars like this with practiced ease and who could have anyone he wanted tonight but for some reason thought it was a good idea to hit on Castiel instead. This guy, who absent-mindedly licks his own lips as he lowers his eyes to Castiel’s.
“You, um...” the guy clears his throat, looking awkward for a millisecond before getting his cocky smile back on, like flicking a switch, “you got a name, handsome?”
“Castiel,” he hears himself say before his anxiety can stop him, eyes still fixed on the other man’s. Maybe he should have gone home two beers ago, after all.
Dean needs to know the story behind that name, because there has to be a story behind that name. But first, he needs to get Castiel out of that stupid trenchcoat and into his bed.
“I’m Mike,” he almost-shouts into the other man's ear. An action only half intended to make sure he’s heard over the persistent bass of whatever pop song is playing on the bar’s speakers. The other half is deliberately just to enter Castiel’s personal space, “Mike Ackles.”
Dean waits for a reaction, but there is none. This dude has never heard of him. So that’s new. By now, his long list of ex-lovers has made Michael’s a household name at Purgatory. He doesn’t really mind. It comes in handy most nights. Lately, his slutty reputation gets him laid just as often his own flirting skills do. Guys hear the name and drop to their knees right then and there. But not this dude, though. Not Cas-ti-el.
He’s probably from out of town, Dean decides, and he is probably going away in just a couple of days. But there are so many incredible things Dean can show him before he does. It’d be a shame not to, really.
“So, Castiel,” the blond winks down at him, “you didn’t answer my question... wanna play?”
This is trouble. Castiel knows it’s trouble. It hasn’t even started, but he can already see this will either be a breathtaking one-night stand, or it’s gonna go down in flames and leave him with a nasty scar. Because guys like that don’t usually talk to guys like him. And, when they do, it doesn’t end well for guys like him.
But he’s had a long couple of months, and the alcohol is climbing to his brain now, and even bad guys can be good for a weekend, right?
So if this incredibly tall and handsome guy really wants to sleep with him, who is Cas to deny him the chance?
How much harm can one fuck cause, anyway?
Without taking his eyes off the bright green ones staring back at him, he puts his beer down on the pool table and takes a step forward, smirking slightly when the taller man backs up on instinct.
“How did you know I love the players?”
Damn. Dean likes this dude.
“Well, you see,” he grins, leaning in until his lips and the shorter man’s are just half an inch apart, “it’s ‘cause I love the game.”
He can’t tell who closes the distance. And it doesn’t really matter. Perhaps it’s both of them at the same time. All he knows is soft lips, a firm tongue, the rasp of stubble against his fingertips, and the light tug of fingers on his hair.
It’s hot and wet and messy and wonderful, and it quickly escalates as Castiel grips his ass to bring him closer. Fuck. He’s getting hard, and he really wants to blow this guy. But not here. Not even Dean is that trashy. Against his best judgment, he breaks the kiss, breathing heavily.
It takes all of his willpower not to dip back in when Castiel growls at the separation, looking up at him with dilated blue eyes and swollen red lips. Fuck, that’s hot.
“Shit, man. I...” breathless, he alternates his gaze between Castiel’s lips and his eyes.
“Let’s get out of here.”