Chapter Text
“I don’t want to hear your excuses,” Castiel growled into his phone.
“Cover’s ten dollars.”
He handed the bouncer a wad of cash and pushed past him, switching the phone to his other ear. “Listen to me very carefully…”
“We've got pickpockets. Probably best to keep your wallet in your front pocket—"
“—if I don’t get the financial analysis on the Draper-Larkin acquisition on my desk by six o’clock sharp tomorrow morning, I will personally make sure you never work on Wall Street again. Am I completely understood?” He nodded. “Good. Don’t fucking disappoint me.”
Castiel hung up and shoved the phone in his front pocket. Something hot and corrosive surged through his veins, pumping with the music as he strode down the long, dark corridor. A seventy-five billion dollar deal in the hands of incompetent employees—fucking perfect. He clenched his teeth. Pushing into the main room, the urge to strangle someone—anyone—completely disappeared.
East Village's sleazy gay bar, Edge, swallowed him up in sultry heat. Its thick, stale air filled his lungs. Excited him. Made him want to make a connection quickly and fuck until he forgot about investments, numbers, and acquisitions. Though he hadn't been here in months, nothing had changed. It was a typical Friday night. Gyrating bodies packed the floor. Piss and come hung in the air like perfume. Dance music, loud and thumping, coursed through the place as if it were the bar's lifeblood. The dark walls, darker floors, and dim lighting encouraged sin in every corner, and the red-lettered sign—No Sexual Activity Allowed—went unnoticed by everyone. Pictures of naked men on the walls, two go-go boys drowning in each other, touching and grabbing... it was desperation, hunger, and debauchery at its finest.
Someone grabbed his ass in the dark, but he hardly paid it any attention. No one came to Edge expecting to walk away without being groped—or possibly pickpocketed. He checked his suit pants. Phone, wallet, keys, all in his two front pockets. Personal belongings secure, he stepped toward the bar—when another hand swung out to cup him. He blocked low, but wasn't quick enough. The offender grinned wide with his considerable handful, and Castiel shut him down with a look that could chill the Devil. In his Armani suit and tie, he was all clean lines and chiseled features. The proverbial gazelle in the middle of a pride of starving lions. A prize. A challenge. He was smart enough to know he'd attract more than his share of unwanted attention.
At the bar, glasses clinked and hungry eyes stared. There was a bark of laughter. Talks of sex spiked the air with low-buzzing excitement. He sat down and ordered a shot. When the music stopped, the sounds of fucking floated out from the bathroom. More men grabbed each other. Kissed. Someone groaned in a corner. The music started up again, and it all died under a wave of beats and sing-song voices.
He threw back his shot and ordered another, letting its burn settle in his stomach. Something... made him look over a shoulder—that telltale tingle down the spine, the thought that someone might be watching. A sea of faces looked back, including one in particular. His heart jumped. Brown hair, just long enough to be swept to one side, short enough to show his eyes. They'd be slate gray. Pleading, always needing more than he could possibly give.
He turned back around, took his second shot and ordered a third. His stomach clenched and twisted, but a quarter of that was because of the liquor itself. The rest of it...
He let out a slow, careful exhale. Behind him, a pair of eyes tore him apart, piece by piece, gauging and dissecting. Deciding the best way to approach a lion—the same one that had torn him to shreds and left him dying a few years ago. He was the whole reason he'd never commit to anyone ever again. Their relationship had been complicated. Messy. And after the dramatic fallout, he knew he was better off being completely alone.
By the time he'd taken his third shot, the man had sidled next to him. Close. Enough that the smell of his cologne—cheap, inelegant—clued him in. Whoever this was... he wasn't who Castiel thought it'd been. A mixture of relief and disappointment murdered the butterflies in his stomach.
Castiel slid his eyes sidelong, slowly raking them up his form, to his face. Blue eyes stared back under a fringe of brown hair, belonging to a boy barely into his twenties. Delicate bone structure, a shade of stubble on his jaw line. Almost pretty. Certainly not his accountant he'd had a passionate affair with for two whole months—no, not Inias, but close enough.
The boy beamed a dimpled smile, but it rang false. His self-confidence didn't run deeper than a shallow creek and his imitation designer brand clothes were an insult to his sleek frame. The gawking and staring—he was as obvious as an enormous elephant with his want. Graceless. He wanted to fuck some dignity into him, strip away all the boyish charm and turn him into a man. Right then, he'd forgotten why he himself had come here: to get fucked until he couldn't walk. For a moment, all he could think about was grabbing the boy's hair, forcing him to his knees, and giving him a mouthful. Watch his blue, half-lidded eyes turn black while he sucked on his cock.
His young suitor said something to him, but it was lost in the loud music. When the music finally stopped, he took another chance.
"What do you do?"
That was his plan: small talk. Predictable. Ineffective.
"Investments."
"Investments? Like money?" His Inias-lookalike looked bewildered. "What are you doing in a shitty place like this?"
Hunting.
His lips quirked humorlessly, and the boy flashed him a dimpled smile. "Can I buy you a drink?"
When his voice cracked, the boy shifted his weight nervously. He jerked his head to one side to get the hair out of his eyes—and it was the sparkle there, the hopefulness in shades of blue, that told him everything. How the boy wanted so badly to kill his first shark although he was a guppy. How it was his first time in an ocean of piranhas. It was a note of innocence that reminded him of Inias again. Reminded him how... beautifully his accountant begged for him, how eager he was to please. The noises he used to make.
Castiel swept a gentle touch across his forehead, moving the hair out of his face. The boy offered up another smile for sacrifice, closed his eyes and groaned when Castiel slipped his fingers in and gripped his hair a little harder. He wouldn't be like Inias, exceedingly pliable or like butter in his hands. He wouldn't be able to mold or shape him, wouldn't be seen as a god in his eyes. There was an unmanageable fire in him, and the risk outweighed the reward. In the end, he'd be disappointed. The boy would never be like Inias. He'd be left with a cheap substitute in his bed. If he had time, patience, if he cared, he'd willingly break him if he didn't want to be broken himself for once.
Castiel let him go. "Your attentions would be better spent elsewhere."
The music started again.
"But I want you..." were the words next to his ear.
The boy's hand lunged for his cock. It didn't make it that far. Castiel caught and squeezed his wrist until his almost-pretty face screwed up in pain.
"Wanting and having are two different things, boy."
Whether he heard him over the music or not, it didn't matter. The boy took the hint, wretched his hand away, and disappeared into the crowd, leaving behind an empty barstool. Hungry eyes descended on him like a plague of locusts. He hedged off one of his would-be suitors with a glare, then ordered another shot. Knocked it back before the bartender had a chance to set it down. The boy looked so much like his accountant, and the thought of seeing him after all this time—unnerved him. The fact that he'd lost his composure disturbed him even more.
He exhaled sharply and glanced over a shoulder, suddenly desperate to make a connection. Any connection. Bears, twinks, they were all here, attaching to one another like suction cups on glass. Men much older than him, some his age, others a few years younger—none of them interesting, but in a pinch, some of them would do.
In the corner sat a lone bear, gray hair, more than ten years older, with enough weight behind him to drive his thick cock so deep he'd simply break. He had a plan, and it was much simpler than the boy's: drag the burly man into the bathroom and let him fuck the nicest ass he'd ever get.
His plan changed with a throaty growl.
It had come from the mouth of the bar, loud enough to thunder low between beats of music. Not human, but a monster. Mechanical with a steel skeleton, with chrome shining in streetlight. Not a car—at least, not one made in recent years—but a motorcycle. Its engine revved like a snarling beast. Then, nothing. Music blared again. He waited, watching the wall that separated the dark corridor and the main room. Any minute he'd come around the corner, an owner built like a machine with enough power to fuck him senseless.
He expected a barrel-chested man, heavyset with arms as thick as tree trunks. Stern face, a beard maybe. What walked in was none of that. He was tall with a face that belonged to a runway model; strong jaw line, cheekbones and good, clean skin. His black T-shirt clung to him, his faded jeans molded to the subtle shape of his hips. Perfection, personified as a man, walked toward him with a cocky, bow-legged swagger and an even cockier smile, like he knew he was worthy of being chased. Even his cowboy boots and tattoo sleeves made him sexy.
Sexy but not his type. He preferred unattractive that was easy to forget. Wanted something that was both rugged and plain, not beautiful. This man was his least favorite type of beautiful: the type that would get under his skin and stuck in his head long after the night was over. The type of beautiful that shouldn't be rushed, that should instead be enjoyed over several long hours like aged wine or nine-course meal at a five-star restaurant. The expensive type of beautiful. An investment.
He didn't have time for an investment.
But that investment had time for him. Slid in next to him as if there was no doubt they were a match. Already, Castiel could tell he was different by proximity alone. He was a warm summer breeze on the cold busy streets of New York City. His comfortable lean didn't shun physical contact. It welcomed it. Their arms touched for a second and in that second, he imagined himself somewhere else. Away from the music, the drinks, the moans in dark corners. Somewhere better. Under sheets and against his skin, warm and satisfied.
He blinked and looked up at him. His skin flushed under his—green?—eyes, melted off when the beautiful stranger gave him a smile. There was no New York City winter in that smile. It didn’t gleam vicious and sharp like it would have if he’d been born and raised on Wall Street. It was genuine and wide, brilliant enough to reach his eyes and make them sparkle. Mischief was written all over his face, telling him he'd spent his whole life breaking hearts with his charm and that breathtaking smile.
"Dean," his beautiful stranger said, pointing to himself. Another half-cocked smile.
"Lucas," he lied.
"Lucas," Dean echoed. "Let me buy you a drink."
No, he had a different plan. Castiel stood up. He thought he'd made up his mind to be sensible, leave and never look back. Drop his investment, his beautiful stranger, and find something less... risky. But standing here, so close to him, their bodies burning with the heat between them... The thought of being fucked by him made his cock hard. He wondered what a body like that could do to him. How hard his beautiful stranger could fuck him. Bottom, top, it didn't matter. Whatever Dean demanded, however he needed it. Wanting him made the hairs on his neck stand on end, and gooseflesh bubbled up on his arms. He swallowed thickly. The air had gone dry. Stuffy. Couldn’t tell if he was breathing at all. No. He wouldn't be sensible. He was already long gone.
Castiel leaned in. His lips grazed the shell of his ear. "Let's cut the bullshit. We both know why we're here."
Dean turned his head minutely, inward. Barely an inch apart. Dean looked at his eyes, then down to his lips. Studied them, making Castiel want him more. "Your place?"
"No."
Castiel tipped his head back. Dean looked past him to the bathroom, then met his eyes. Staring at him as if he were contemplating jumping off the Empire State Building. Dean licked his full lips and nodded. Elation raced through his veins. Adrenaline was the best drug in the house.
They left together and headed for the bathroom. Inside, it was empty, brighter than the rest of the bar had been, with more pictures of naked men on the walls. It smelled of piss, shit and come, and it made his head swim. Behind him, Dean herded him to the only stall, and they stepped inside. Closed the door.
Castiel turned to face him—and Dean collapsed in on him like a house of cards. His body turned to jelly against his, their foreheads pressed together, lips so close he could almost taste the whiskey on Dean's breath. Then Dean cupped his face, his thumbs sweeping across his cheekbones. Castiel didn't want to love it like he did. He didn't want to need it. In a city that couldn't afford to be gentle, Dean could. And it was because of him, his gentleness, that made him believe New York City could somehow be beautiful—just like him.
Here, in the brighter light, he was more than beautiful. Dean was a type of fuck you gorgeous that was intoxicating, dangerous and absolutely unforgettable. Freckles dusted his nose, his cheeks, and his green eyes overflowed with passion that didn't belong here. He was stunning. Breathtaking. More than that, there was beauty beyond his skin. It was in his soul.
God must have loved him best.
Dean stared into his eyes, then at his lips. Began to lean forward. He intended to kiss him, but he’d never get that far. This wasn't that. This was a hard fuck, here then gone.
"Don't," Castiel snapped.
Dean’s eyes narrowed, darkened, maybe understanding the purpose of his role in what this was supposed to be: anonymous sex. Fast, rough and unfeeling. Dean bracketed his hands against the stall.
"Turn around."
Firm on his lips, the command made him spin. For free fucks, call... stared at him while Castiel fumbled with his belt. Fingers both sweaty and trembling, they slipped over the buckle. Dean's breath was hot and heavy on his neck and his own cock leapt with impatience. More fumbling—he'd tear it apart with his goddamn hands if he had to.
Once he unhooked his belt and dropped his pants, he thumbed down his underwear. The anticipation made him shake. He'd become that boy he'd met earlier in the bar: a gawking, needy, ungraceful mess.
His doubts, his thoughts, everything, disappeared when Dean touched him.
He nearly buckled when Dean pressed his hips into him. Practically collapsed against the stall as their bodies fell flush together, back-to-chest. Dean’s lips grazed his ear, and the sudden rush of adrenaline made him woozy. Hands slid up his outer thighs and wrapped around to fondle his hard cock—hands that were strong and soft, treating him like fine, expensive china. He could get lost in those hands. He could get lost in Dean, touching him like this.
Castiel let out a noise. Dean responded by gripping his length and giving it a firm upward stroke, thumbing the wet head. He turned to butter in Dean’s hands and shuddered against him, slowly falling apart. Dean held him against his chest as if they'd been lovers for years. Tender. Inappropriate. A puff of warmth at his neck, whiskey dark, was his first warning. Then, there were full lips, sweet and gentle on his skin. Castiel closed his eyes and let himself indulge in its simplicity. His innocence. For a moment, he wanted this and only this—then, that moment was over.
With a growl, Castiel jerked his shoulder back. "Just fuck me, goddamnit."
Dean’s arms dropped like lead. A chilly breath snaked along the back of his neck. With Dean no longer flush against him, Castiel was naked. Cold. Left needing him again. Instead of a gentle touch or a brush of soft fingers, Dean grabbed his left wrist and yanked it up. His silver-steel Rolex glinted in the bathroom’s light, brilliant and out of place. Dean shot out a sharp breath. There was judgment in it, as glacial as the bathroom had become.
“A Rolex?" Violence pinched his wrist. "You’re one of those rich fucks, aren’t you? Used to ordering people around and shitting on them because they’re not as good as you." Dean's lips brushed against his ear. "I bet you get off on it.”
Dean tossed his hand away. There was a promise of heat when Dean leaned forward, bracketing his hands against the stall on either side of his head again. Castiel closed his eyes and sought his warmth. Arching his spine just enough to brush his naked ass against Dean's crotch. Something grumbled in Dean's chest—something between a growl and a groan. It sounded like thunder. It sounded like—
"Don't you."
—punishment.
"Yes."
Dean huffed out an arctic blast against his neck. There was a dark energy inside Dean that he wanted. It promised pain and retribution. Right then, he wanted to be punished. For cheating his clients and lying to his employees. For insulting a homeless woman on the corner this morning and firing his receptionist—he didn't even remember her name—last week over nothing. Every time he fucked someone over, he’d felt a surge of excitement and he liked it.
Dean's lips brushed his ear again. "Tell me how much you want me to hurt you."
Castiel pressed his face into the dirty stall. His whisper was like an aphrodisiac and he was high on it, arching his back again, offering up his ass as if he were a cat in heat. Dean exhaled hard through his nose, and it raced down his skin. The way he leaned into him a little more, his mouth so close, on the verge of either biting him or kissing him—Castiel knew Dean wanted him as much as he hated him.
"You want to punish me, don't you?"
For being rich and successful, for shitting on people like you...
"Yes."
"Punish me, then," Castiel whispered. "Make it hurt."
Rip me apart.
Dean smiled like a blade against his ear. The pressure of Dean's weight was gone. Behind him, a litany of sounds: the crinkling of a condom's packaging, a belt buckle unfastened, jeans unzipped, clothes falling to the filthy floor. The packaging tore—
"No," Castiel snapped. "No condom."
"You got a death wish?"
"Do you have something that would kill me?"
"Other than my fucking dick?" Dean growled. “No. You?”
“No.”
The half-opened package fell discarded to the floor, like the last shreds of their sanity.
Dean grabbed his hips and yanked back, pressing hot and hard against his ass. His fingers pinched and bruised, but Castiel didn’t care. Too caught up in the way Dean was teasing him, sliding his cock just over his hole and not shoving it in like he desperately wanted him to. It shred every last thread of his composure. The sound he made—a groan, a whimper, he didn’t know—broke pathetically. He needed him with everything he had left, but Dean wouldn’t give that to him. Dean was bent on punishing him with another sweep of his hot cock, burning a trail on his skin. Castiel trembled. Against his neck, Dean weathered a small noise, deep and beautiful.
It was torture. Absolute fucking torture. The teasing, Dean’s lips brushing his ear—it drove him crazy. Castiel rocked his hips back, fluid and easy, catching the friction of Dean's cock. The head of him slipped inside so effortlessly it made Castiel gasp. Dean teased him like that, letting the crown of his cock breach his rim, nothing more, before pulling out. Again, sliding his length across his hole just to punish him.
Castiel pressed his face against the dirty stall, each noise he made closer and closer to desperate. Bordering on pain because he was left without Dean inside him, fringing on hysteria because it felt so fucking good. And when Dean shoved inside him brutally, stretched him wide without so much as a warning—
He cried out. Not because of the pain, because there was none, or the discomfort of the stretch—he cried out because he was so incredibly full, because every inch of Dean belonged inside of him. He was dazed, his head whirling with his adrenaline. Dean rocked his hips back, slowly pulling out to the head, then thrust forward with all his weight behind it. Castiel banged his head on the stall, groaning, panting heavily. The force of him, how it felt, God, he was harder than he'd ever been, wet and dripping between his legs. Dean's groan disappeared with the bar's heavy-bass music. Another deep, hungry thrust like the first. A third. Slow and calculated, rough and just a shade painful. Castiel let out another whimper. Behind him, Dean gripped his hips hard. A reckoning was coming.
"You a whore for dick?"
For a second, the question confused him. Didn't catch the meaning of it because he was too concerned with how far Dean had drawn back, only the head of his cock still inside him—as if he were was using it as a weapon. If he didn't answer the way Dean wanted him to, the way he needed him to, he was afraid Dean would leave him here, alone, naked.
Castiel pushed back into him, using the stall for leverage. Inches of hot, thick cock slid into him again, and he groaned, his deep, needy noise both filthy and arousing. Dean thrust forward so hard, so savagely, that Castiel crashed into the stall. It hurt—and he loved it.
"Answer me."
It dawned on him. He could only mean how easily Dean had slid into him, how loose he was. Abusing oneself on dildos every day for months did that: stretched tight muscles and trained them to accept a cock of any size. With Dean deep inside of him, stretching him, filling him up, Castiel barely had the mind to answer. Dean grabbed his hair and pulled. Hard. It was the thrill of being man-handled, abused, mistreated, that had him gasping.
“Yes,” Castiel whispered, breathless. "I'm a fucking whore for dick."
There was a sudden change in the air. Charged with something... electric. Dangerous. Dean leaned forward, flush against his back, and Castiel trembled as his lips touched the shell of his ear again. “Gonna ruin you for anyone else, Lucas," Dean promised. "No one's gonna give it to you as good as me…"
Castiel groaned again. He believed him. Dean had already ruined him, claimed him with the very first thrust. He'd never be the same again after his beautiful stranger. Before Dean, he liked unattractive that was forgettable. Now, he'd always chase beautiful that would kill him.
He spread his thighs wider for him, angled his ass so Dean could take all of him, anything and everything he wanted. Dean pushed his head against the stall, pulled his left wrist behind his back and held it there—and pounded him until he couldn't see. Rapid, hard, unforgiving thrusts, over and over again. They ripped him apart from the inside out. Made him gasp and struggle for breath. It was exhilarating. The most pleasurable thing he'd ever experienced.
Dean jack-hammered him with no mercy, plunging deeper and harder than anyone ever had. Like pliable dough, Dean stretched him and abused him, fucking him so hard he could feel it in his throat. Castiel panted, grimaced. Dean gripped his hair, fucked him harder, and bruised him. Under that sunny southern smile lived an animal as dark as sin, with a brand of dominance that'd shatter him for the rest of his life. It made his knees weak. Dean made his knees weak.
"You know what's gonna happen?" Another hard, brutal thrust. "You're going to crave my dick after we're done."
Dean let his head and wrist go, grabbed both his hips—and fucked his ass raw. This was bliss; out of control and devastating, at the mercy of another man. Surrendering. The pleasure was unbearable, and he grabbed his limp cock, stroking it back to life with quick, rough fingers. Dean's thighs slapped against his. His own legs quaked. His stomach twisted. He could smell Dean's sweat, his arousal, and could hear him groan low and dark over the music. Castiel tightened his grip around his cock, jerking it hard enough to almost hurt... he couldn’t take much more of this… the hard fucking, the constant rubbing inside him… his own touch on his cock.
He lost it when Dean groaned, ragged and broken, and came over his fingers with an orgasm that almost killed him. For a moment, Castiel basked in his afterglow. Then, the world came into focus again. Dean’s come rolled down his inner thighs. The bar’s music rattled the walls. The stench of shit and piss stung his nose. Dean had already pulled out and was fumbling with his clothing. Castiel stood there, out of breath, physically satisfied, but—
Fingers sunk into his abused hole. Castiel jerked ram-rod straight with a gasp. He was turned and roughly pushed back into the stall before he could realize it. Green eyes glittered dark in the bathroom's shitty lighting. Then, Dean smiled. Not sunny-bright and disarming, but as lethal as a snake. Full of venom. Dean wiped his come on his Armani suit jacket out of spite, but didn't stop there. They were on his face then, his filthy fingers, marking him. Castiel opened his eyes to Dean’s hateful frown.
"Fuck you."
It was in Dean’s voice; the hatred he had for him. Poorer and with less privileges, Dean would probably slink back to the hole from which he’d come, no better than when he’d swaggered into Edge. The second Castiel pitied him was the second Dean flashed him a grin. A wink. Triumphant that he’d ruined him for anyone else just like he promised—and Dean was right. He was ruined, completely and utterly, and it made him angry, vengeful and destructive.
Instinct took over.
Castiel grabbed Dean's waist and pulled him in. He squeezed his ass over jeans—found his wallet in his back pocket and slipped it out. It earned him a forceful slam against the stall. Castiel feigned timid and turned his head away when Dean got in his face.
"You grab me again, and I'll break your fucking fingers. You hear me?"
Castiel nodded—while hiding the wallet behind his back. None of Dean's gentleness was there when he grabbed his chin, yanking it toward him. No southern gentleman in his eyes as Dean stared him down. Although his fingers squeezed and pinched, punishing him, there was beauty in that face. Kindness in his soul. Brutality belonged on him like the sun belonged in the night sky.
Dean closed in on him. So close he thought he’d try to kiss him again. His breath whispered across his face, their lips almost touching. Breathing, any movement at all would—
“See you around, Lucas."
His words ghosted against his mouth. Dean let him go and left him in the stall without looking back. When the bathroom door slammed shut, Castiel closed his eyes and swallowed hard. His heart pounded in his chest. He recovered, opened the wallet and fumbled for Dean's license.
Dean Winchester
14 Saint Marks PL #10D
New York, New York 10003
He smiled, licked his lips and tasted Dean Winchester on his tongue.