Chapter Text
The clock on Baby’s dashboard says 11:37 when Dean reaches Albuquerque, the city lights muted under the New Mexico stars. He pulls through silent street after street. Silent, but peppered with run-down cars, with houses that have dirt lot yards and chain link fences. Dean hums tonelessly along with the radio, focusing on everything around him and nothing. The phone in his pocket buzzes; probably another text from Sam. Dean doesn’t bother reading it. Sammy’ll be mad he took off on a hunt without him but he can handle being on his own for a few days.
Probably better he get used to the absence, anyway.
Gas tank is almost empty, his stomach too. Dean pulls in at a gas station where he’s less likely to be mugged and leaves Baby at a pump. Inside the convenience store, the lights are blue-white, chips and soda and magazines arranged in brightly-colored rows. Dean grabs Funyuns, Ding Dongs, and a big bottle of Jack. He gets up to the counter as the previous customer is leaving, and the man turns without looking and bumps Dean’s shoulder.
“Hey, watch where you’re going,” mutters Dean, and then the stranger’s eyes catch his, and he freezes.
The guy looks like he’s Dean’s age, light brown hair shaved short, a day’s worth of stubble, baggy dark clothes on a wiry frame. His eyes are so blue they’re almost electric, and they burn with a haunted desperation so intense Dean wonders if he doesn’t have hellhounds on his tail too.
And then the man grunts “Sorry,” and pushes past Dean, pack of cigarettes in hand. Dean spares him a glance before stepping up to the counter, where the dead-eyed cashier asks Dean for his ID.
Bagged purchases in hand, Dean steps out of the convenience store and pauses when he sees that same blue-eyed stranger lurking by the Impala. “Can I help you?” demands Dean.
Hands in his pockets, the stranger says, “You got a nice car, yo.”
This mollifies Dean only slightly, and he walks up to the pump, makes sure the money he paid is on it, and pops open the gas tank cover. “I’m not letting you drive her.”
The stranger snorts. He hovers as Dean starts filling up the Impala, then leans in close and says, “So you looking to buy?”
Dean stares at him blankly.
“Buy. You know,” and the stranger checks their surroundings before hissing, “Meth. The blue stuff.”
Comprehension dawns on Dean. “Oh, no,” he says, and pats the bottle of whiskey. “I already picked my poison.”
“Right, right. Just, you know, the look you gave me inside, I thought… Never mind.” The stranger shuffles his feet, rubs the back of his neck. He has a flame tattooed on his hand.
Dean eyes him thoughtfully. His plans for the evening had been the bottle and motel room pay-per-view, but things can change. And no Sammy around means he has nothing to hide. “Not saying I’m not interested, though,” Dean says casually, adjusting the nozzle in the tank.
Sharp as ice, the stranger gives him a look. “In the stuff, you mean?”
Dean shrugs. “Maybe.”
The blue-eyed stranger slides closer, near enough now he has to look up to meet Dean’s eyes. The smell of cigarette smoke clings to his clothes. “You’re looking for something else?” His lower lip glistens, a bruise Dean hadn’t noticed shadowing his jaw.
“Yeah,” says Dean, and lets the huskiness in his voice carry his meaning.
Eyeing him, the stranger gnaws on his lip. “Huh.”
“What?”
“Nothing, I thought… it’s not important. You want a cigarette?” He holds the box out to Dean.
Dean doesn’t smoke, Dad beat that habit out of him a long time ago, but since tonight seems to be the night for doing things that Dad tried to beat out of him, he accepts a cigarette. The stranger holds out a lighter for Dean, then lights his own, and they exhale twin streams of blue smoke past the warning sticker on the pump that says not to smoke. “You from out of town, huh?” says the stranger.
“Yeah,” says Dean. “How’d you know that?”
The stranger shrugs. “You don’t talk like a local.”
“Guess I don’t.”
Eyeing him shrewdly, the stranger says, “You’re running from something, huh? I can tell – I can see it, you know. I know the look.”
Acrid smoke coats Dean’s palate, and he taps ash off the cigarette, taking care it’s downwind of Baby. A dog barks in the distance, and Dean hears the baying of hellhounds in his mind. “You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to,” continues the stranger. “I’m just saying, I get the feeling, you know?”
“Oh yeah?” says Dean. “What are you running from?”
The stranger licks his lips, staring off into nothing. For the first time Dean notices a slight tremor in his hand that holds the cigarette. “Something I did,” the stranger mutters, and takes a long drag of smoke.
Dean sees monsters everywhere and too many of them look human and some of them are human and he thinks even if this man is a monster, then he’s got a good fight ahead of him instead of a good fuck and sometimes there’s not a lot of difference between the two. He taps ash off his cigarette again. “I don’t normally do this,” says the stranger abruptly. “Gas station hookups, I mean. I’m not…” He stops to suck on his cigarette again, cheeks hollowing. When he speaks, whisps of smoke come out of his nostrils. “I’m not that kind of guy, you know?”
Whatever point he’s trying to emphasize, Dean’s not entirely sure, but he doesn’t think it matters. “Sure, whatever.”
“No, it’s not whatever, it’s…” The stranger scowls, frustrated by either Dean’s not understanding or his own inability to communicate. “Anyway. Like I said. I’m kind of running.” He shoots a sidelong glance at Dean.
Dean knows better than to ask a second time.
As if by agreement, both men drop their cigarettes and grind them out, Dean taking a moment to put the pump nozzle back in its slot and close Baby’s gas tank before walking with the other man to the back side of the convenience store, into a dark little alley shielded from the eyes of man or CCTV. The stranger’s tremor is more noticeable now, his gaze darting from Dean’s hands to his mouth and back again. “You mind if I, uh, if I bump up?” he says, already fumbling in his pocket.
Shrugging, Dean waits as the stranger snorts a pinch of blue-white powder and then tilts his head back with an exaggerated sigh, eyes closed. A tiny part of Dean – only a tiny part – is disappointed the stranger isn’t a vamp or a werewolf or something. Anticipation thrums low in his gut, a wolf licking its chops.
“Okay,” says the stranger, watching Dean with a mixture of wariness and hunger. “So like, what do you want to do –”
Dean steps forward, grabs the stranger behind his head, and kisses him.
The stranger stiffens for a second – maybe he wasn’t expecting kissing, some guys don’t – but then he returns the kiss with a gratifying ferocity. Dean lets go of everything in his head, fills it instead with the cigarette taste of the stranger, with the heat of his lips, with the tenacity of his grip. As his back hits the wall, Dean pulls the stranger in closer, grabbing him around the narrow waist. The stranger kisses like he’s running from something too, all quick inhales and hints of teeth, and Dean gives him just enough resistance to make it good, encouraging the stranger to manhandle him more. The bright little pricks of pain from when the stranger nips at him, the grind of his shoulders against the wall, the stranger’s nails digging into his hips – these are all welcome.
“You like that, huh?” mutters the stranger, throaty, and Dean grunts in response. “You like being pushed around like a bitch?”
Reflexively, Dean’s hand finds his knife and has the tip pressed against the stranger’s ribs in an instant, but the warning is intimate, almost tender. “I’m no one’s bitch,” murmurs Dean, so close he can taste the stranger’s exhale. “Especially not yours.”
The stranger, who didn’t flinch away from the knife, grins. “If you say so.”
He yanks on Dean’s belt to pull himself closer, their thighs interlacing, their mouths pressing feverishly together. Dean sticks his knife back in its sheath and because they don’t have much time, even in this dark alley in the dead of night, reaches down and starts unbuckling the stranger’s belt. The stranger hisses, and Dean kisses down along his neck, rough enough to leave marks for the next day.
With a grunt, the stranger gets Dean’s belt and jeans open, sticking a hand down over Dean’s stiffening cock. Dean nips at the stranger’s earlobe and he growls, making Dean wonder if he’s not a werewolf after all. Too bad his machete’s in the trunk. Spitting in his hand, Dean shoves it down the stranger’s pants and gets to work.
There’s nothing elegant or sensual about hand jobs behind a gas station and that’s how Dean wants it, just a rough grip on his cock and hot breath on his throat and a taut body colliding with his. The stranger grabs Dean behind the neck, pulling their heads close together, and Dean groans quietly. Tension inside him coils tighter and tighter, like turning a screw, and Dean pumps his hand up and down the stranger’s shaft. The stranger shudders, new urgency in his movements. “Yeah,” he grunts, Dean only half-listening to the words that tumble out of his mouth, “God, yeah, like that, unh, don’t stop, don’t stop…” He thrusts into Dean’s hand in rhythm with his heavy breaths.
Dean presses his face into the crook of the stranger’s neck and breathes through his nose, smelling cigarettes and sweat and his own leather jacket, and when the stranger’s grip tightens on his cock he groans again. All his attention narrows down to the stranger’s touch on his skin, every little pressure point attuned, the world contained in each pulsing heartbeat.
The stranger jerks in Dean’s grip, a cry muffled in Dean’s shoulder, and jizz splatters onto Dean’s hand. Dean’s stomach clenches in visceral response, and when the stranger gives a final tug on Dean’s cock he comes too, biting his tongue to keep quiet, his clawed hand gripping the small of the stranger’s back. For a precious few moments, all is still in his world, just their heavy breathing intermingled and their weight supporting each other.
Then the stranger steps back, and Dean does too, and the stranger looks down at his sticky hand in disgust. “You don’t have like, a tissue or something, do you?”
They have to use paper towels from the squeegee station to clean off. An imperfect job, but Dean doesn’t care. “Hey,” says the stranger as Dean gets into the Impala, and leans on the open car door. Dean raises his eyebrows at him, but the stranger isn’t meeting his eyes. “What’s, uh, what’s your name?”
Dean’s eyebrows go higher. “There a reason you care?”
“No, I just mean, it feels weird, yo.” The stranger gestures helplessly. “If you don’t want to tell me, that’s fine.”
For a long moment, Dean considers the stranger, who rubs at the back of his head and looks off to the side. “Dean Winchester,” he says evenly.
In a flash of bright blue, the stranger’s eyes meet his. “Jesse,” he says. “Jesse Pinkman.”
“Jesse,” repeats Dean.
“How long you, uh, gonna be in town for?”
“Few days.” Hunting a chupacabra shouldn’t take much longer than that.
Jesse nods and straightens, drumming on the car door. “Right, right,” he says. “Cool. Uh…”
Suppressing a smirk, Dean eyes him shrewdly. “You want my number?”