Inspired partly by the movie Soldier's Girl and the face that I finder stoner Cas damned pretty. I got a review regarding my stories on adultery and incest, saying that I made someone like the kinds of things they wouldn't normally – well this is the stuff I usually hate, so I thought I'd give it a go.
First night out of the base, first night to be Dean, and not just 'Winchester'. Leave it to Pvt. Uriel to take him to a strip joint. He was starting to like his bunkmate, unstable and cranky though he could be. 'The Sweetheart' might have looked shabby and altogether 80's, but inside it had hard liquor and the promise of some skin – which was what Dean craved after months of his sweating, stinking fellow recruits.
He was feeling fairly good about it, he'd gained a lot of muscle in basic and he had the kind of easy, open face that got him in good with most women. Steven Uriel drove them to the club in his ancient sedan. Dean, Ash, Michael and Steven squeezed into a mass of broad shoulders and heavy boots on the narrow felt seats.
He misses his car like he never has before. Like he misses a lot of things about his old life, shop classes, Sam, his Mom's apple pie. The easiness with which he used to live. When everything wasn't such a fucking struggle. He can handle the drills, the yelling and the thundering of hundreds of men all falling in, falling out and fighting amongst themselves when they aren't following orders. But just for tonight he wants to remember what it was like to be Dean Winchester, to be just a man who wants something and knows how to get it. Simply.
They crowd a small circular table near the stage, Dean hunches over his whisky, rough canvas jacket and jeans worn threadbare and to the shape of his strong legs. All the sequins and silk around the place make him feel rougher than usual. On the stage a chick with long blond hair sings something showy, kicking her fishnets up to the drumbeat.
"That's a dude." Michael's thick brow furrows at the dancer. "The fuck...Uriel?"
Ash laughs like this is the funniest thing ever, but then he's pretty drunk already. Uriel just smirks like oil in firelight, slow and dark. This is his idea of a joke, bringing them to a bar for freaks and queers.
"I'm going for a piss." Dean gets to his feet with difficulty. His accent's worse now that he's drunk, snarling up into a Kansas drawl that makes him sound like a hick without even a GED. Stumbling though the dark, shimmery club he finds the bathroom, uses the stained urinal and shoulders his way out through a side door at the end of the hallway. If he isn't getting laid tonight he can at least enjoy a little bit of peace outside.
It's raining. The awning runs with water, falling like it's thicker than it should be. Greasy neon's reflect in it and for a second Dean thinks that he'd kill for a view of the sky. Just the sky, without light pollution or perimeter lamps.
There's also a woman outside.
He can tell it's a chick because she's dressed like one, and not like a show girl or a whore or whatever the dudes on stage were aiming for. Her short, dark hair just reaches the nape of her neck and she's wearing a normal outfit – skirt and stockings with cute heels and a blouse. Real tits and a nice ass to boot. She notices him almost right away, turning from her silent contemplation of the rain to lay intense blue eyes on him. They're ringed with sooty lashes and even in the dark her skin glows surreally pale. A hint of clear gloss makes her mouth slick, and it's a pretty mouth, dirty and soft.
Heat and whisky snake towards his groin. He can work with that mouth.
"Sorry" he mumbles as the door clunks shut behind him. "You gettin' out of the rain?"
"I don't like being wet" her voice comes out like smoke, laced with catlike curiosity. Deep and soft and hot as hell. Blue eyes rake over his suddenly too tight jeans and sweat-damp T-shirt. "Were you looking for something?"
Coy and fucking knowing at the same time.
"Yeah" he manages in a rush of dry mouthed breath.
She nods once, dropping a cigarette he hadn't noticed, closing the distance between them and taking Dean gently by the hand. She leads them back until she's pressed against the wall, Dean looming over her, taller by almost a foot. Her heels scraping on the sidewalk, silk stockings snagging on his jeans.
"What's your name?" He almost growls against her delicate throat.
"Cas" fingers, long fingers, hook his belt. "My name is Cas..."
Her mouth works quickly, wetly, over his, moans and whimpers following ever flick of his tongue. Dean lets his hands rub at her blouse, pushing it aside and sweeping his calloused fingers over the milky skin underneath. Feeling her shake. Her head tips against his shoulder, pearly teeth and tongue raking over his skin, used as it is to rough blankets and rougher uniforms. He groans, thrusting against her and meeting...hardness.
Dean leaps away as if burnt.
"Oh" Blue eyes meet his beneath their fringe of dusky hair, alight with understanding. "I'm sorry." And there's nothing feminine in his face, in this man's pale, beautiful skin.
Dean burns inside.
He bolts for the car, catching Uriel and the others.
"Where'd you get to?" Michael snaps.
"Restroom. Stomach feels like I ate road kill."
They drive back to the base in relative silence.
Dean falls into the sleep of the completely drunk and wretched. Waking hard from a touch he can still remember, burnt into him by another man. He jerks of, wrenching himself on purpose, but he can still taste him, smoke and slick gloss and spit. He comes hard, wanting the planes of his slim body against his own.
His duties go without incident. He runs his drills, stacks equipment for loading, speaks to no one. What would he say? There are rules here, loudly reminding him that he's crossed into territory best left alone. The soft, hard, wonderful, beautiful man, is not something he can have. Not here in this dirty, starched, rough place.
At noon Uriel sends Ash to get him.
He has a visitor at the gatehouse.
At first the guy looks like a Jehovah's Witness, darkly suited and drowning in a crumpled tan trench coat. Then Dean gets closer and it's the eyes that tip him off, sharp and blue and open. A quick slip of pink crosses his chapped lips, moistening a trail.
Dean is left with him in the guardhouse, Uriel and Ash shoot him curious looks as they march back up to the base proper.
"I came to apologise." His voice is as deep as before, rougher this morning like he's been smoking too much, too fast. "I didn't realise that you were..." he tries again "Not many soldiers come to the club and it didn't occur to me that you wouldn't know..."
"That you're a dude." Dean's voice sounds too angry, but dead at its core.
"I didn't think I was that convincing." He brushes a hand over his hair, spiked upwards now as opposed to swept flat.
"Why'd you do it...dress like that" Dean's eyes burn over him sceptically and the other man cocks his head slightly.
"I like it" a hint of wolfish smile quirks his mouth, revealing teeth that Dean can still feel against his throat. "It makes me feel..." his narrow hips shift unconsciously.
"You get off on it" Dean sneers, uncomfortable at how much he wants this guy, even in his dour church suit. The guy just quirks an eyebrow, but doesn't argue.
"You're not getting your girl on today though."
"Sometimes it's necessary to blend in."
"Shame" He doesn't mean it like a challenge, well, almost. What he wants is for this guy to fuck off, get offended by the small minded army dick routine and leave him alone. Instead his lowers his black slacks with a thumb at the hip, revealing a slip of black lace and dark blue silk.
"A concession" he murmurs.
Dean's own finger reach out to brush the fabric without his consent. The man hums low in his throat, long, delicate fingers smoothing Dean's jaw.
"I'm not..." he pants, suddenly heated and hard.
"I know" the other man almost growls, kissing him roughly, slamming them back against the wall, pulling Dean against him and arching into him. "Just touch me."