Dean knows she's having an affair; the question is, with who?

Could be Greg at the yoga studio, Tom from down the street (because he does stare at Lisa when she's gardening, don't think he hasn't seen it) or it could be Sam. His fucking brother Sam who Lisa always says is so 'nice' and 'of course he should come down the holidays'.

Dean is so fucked up.

He hates this, hates thinking about it and feeling jealous and the caveman bullshit that's driving him nuts. But he knows Lisa is cheating on him, he's found the texts on her phone 'contact unlisted' all about meetings and hotels. They're not exactly sexy but then, Lisa's smart – deniability is probably something she'd aim for. Then there's the scent of unfamiliar aftershave that clings to the clothes she dumps in the laundry basket, too deeply ingrained to be anything other than full contact with some other mans naked skin. She's picked up a few tricks too, Lisa, bendy and amazing as she is, used to give pretty lacklustre head. Not that he minded, it's not the kind of thing that's a deal breaker – he just didn't ask for it, and she only volunteered when she felt she should.

She'd gotten good at it, great even.

Dean wondered where the hell that had come from.

And it puts a kind of damper on anyone's marriage when they can't kiss their wife, because all they can think of is some other man's dick in her mouth.

So he keeps checking her phone. Ignored the occasional looks she gives him in the evenings when they're cocooned on the sofa, watching the news. The looks that say 'what are you thinking about? Why do you keep moving away from me?' She actually looks hurt. Sometimes he wonders if it's all in his mind.

Then the text comes through, he reads it and deletes it without letting Lisa see it. Then he hides her phone out in the garage. Because this text isn't something obscure like 'the hotel with the green awning, 6 will be waiting room 16'. It's an apartment address in their town.

Dean has a few options here, he could have let Lisa read the text, then followed her. He could go to the apartment and check out who lives there. Or he could go for the knee jerk reaction – find the apartment and beat the hell out of the other guy.

Mature? Sane? Probably not. But more than anything Dean wants it to be a mistake, all in his mind. So when he gets there, and sees that his wife has been lying to him for months and sleeping around, worse – that it's an actual relationship? He isn't going to be able to hold off, he knows that.

He drives across town wishing that he wasn't 'that guy' the one who didn't just man up and ask his wife what was wrong. No, he's the guy who'll deny everything and push it down until he can't hide from it anymore – he has to find out what's been going on, has to make himself believe it.

The apartment building is moderately expensive, clean and modern with an entry phone and lots of chrome and exposed brick. Dean pulls up and buzzes the right apartment. A man's voice, deep and polite comes over the intercom.


Dean hasn't really thought this through, what does he say? 'Hi, are you screwing my wife? Mind buzzing me in?' He closes his eyes and swallows, playing for time as he works something out.

"Yeah...Hi, I guess I'm here to see you." He flinches at how lame that sounds. "I want to..."

The door buzzes open.

"It's alright. Come on up." The voice is pleasant, and perhaps slightly amused which does not do wonders for Dean's mood. So he's rich, for one, and amused by guys like Dean. Great.

He mounts the stairs and reaches the apartment door as it opens. The guy leans out, catches sight of him and breaks into a small, easy, smile. Dean isn't sure what he was expecting, but this guy is almost his exact opposite. Dark haired, pale and lean, resting gracefully against the doorframe and regarding him with pleased, speculative, blue eyes.

" want to come in?" his voice really is as deep as it seemed over the intercom, weirdly so coming out of such a small dude. Dean looks him over, because this is the man his wife has been sleeping with.

He can't judge himself against this stranger, can't quite work out if he's more or less attractive, or mannered or whatever the hell reasons he can think of for a woman to cheat on him.

"Yeah" he follows the guys slim, retreating back into the apartment. "You don't seem surprised that I'm here." Dean says, finally, as they reach the living room, there's a huge L shaped couch dominating the space and the other man gestures for him to sit.

"Should I be?" his manner is still easy, formal but not guarded, like he couldn't lie if he tried. Dean hates it, but then, maybe he has no idea that Lisa is married. Maybe he doesn't even know her name. He seems to catch Dean's assumption that he should be surprised and shrugs.

"I was expecting someone else...a mix-up on my part." He settles onto the couch easily, jean clad legs falling carelessly open, pale hands resting in his lap.

Neither of them speak.

"You seem nervous." He says eventually, smiling and leaning forwards, arms resting on his knees.

"I'm not...I'm not even sure why I'm here." It comes out gruffer than he intended, less confrontational, more hopeless. "so how can I be nervous?"

"Well you must know why you're here...what is it you want to ask me?" his head tilts, exposing the side of his neck, pale and uniformly soft, pulse fluttering. Dean teeters on the edge, not wanting to ask – not wanting to know. Wishing he could go back home to his two bedroom house and listen to one of Lisa's work stories, curled against her side in the warmth of their bed.

He can't, it would kill him to leave now.

He's about to speak when the other man's eyes narrow, lids lowering with shyness.

"Or...I'm sorry, usually I..." he looks up at Dean then, mouth twisting with self deprecating awkwardness. "I tend to negotiate...terms...upfront." Composure slips back into place.

Dean officially doesn't get this guy.

"You mean..." he has no idea how to finish that sentence, but fortunately the man sitting next to him takes it as a prompt.

"Payment" he inclines his head delicately.


The other mans eyes narrow as if he senses that they're not having the same conversation – finally. He leans back on the sofa, a politely confused look gracing his features.

"Who are you, exactly?" he asks, curiously.

"I'm...Lisa's husband." Dean stresses carefully. "I came here..." he breaks off and starts again with more strength in his voice. "Look, I know you've been texting my wife, and, meeting her in hotels and today she was meant to come here." He gestures at the blue walls that surround them. "so I came here to find out..."

"Oh God." The other man seems genuinely aggrieved, looking down at the floor and his own bare feet.

"...Find out that my wife's been having an affair." Dean feels like the air's pull of atomised metal or glass, making his chest ache and chafing his insides raw. "Did you know about me or did she never mention..."

"My clients don't tend to tell me much about themselves." The man looks at him cautiously, sadness warring with anxiousness on his face.

"Clients." Dean repeats, dumbly. And the gritty air inside of him turns to dirty ice and crusted blood, welling a bad taste into his mouth. Because he was expecting the worst, and this was not it, the bottom falls out of his nightmare and he realises how much more he had to lose.

"I..." The guy looks suddenly frozen with realisation and what's worse...pity. "Mr..." he realises he doesn't know his name, falters and then proceeds anyway. "I'm sorry for what you're going relationship with your, wife...was a professional one, a transaction." He almost winces as he says, "I'm an escort."

Dean is motionless for about a minute and a half.

The other man watches him with wide, watchful eyes.

"You're a hooker." Dean finally says, blankly, looking at him sharply as soon as the words have left his mouth.

"I prefer...yes. Yes I am." He sighs. "I apologise for the tactlessness, I thought..."

"You thought I was a 'client'" Dean can barely keep the disgust out of his voice. Lisa has paid this man for sex."So you do guys? That a minus of this...arrangement?" he feels empty, his head throbs with anger and pain and right now he just needs something, someone to hurt.

"I don't actually mind." The smaller man's eyes are still understanding, but his tone carries his coolness.

"Great, so my wife buys sex from you...and you're not even hot for women." Dean can feel rage fogging his brain, making his temples ache with frustration.

"Look...I know this isn't the easiest situation...but this isn't really a conversation you need to have with me." His voice is annoyingly firm and calm. He has a point, Dean has to admit, Lisa paid him for whatever he did – it's not like he chose her or wanted her. It was just his job.

Another thought hits him – one he really wishes he hadn't had.

"What did she want you to do?"

The other man's face closes down.

"I don't think...I really don't think that would be productive."

"Screw productive!" Dean suddenly shouts, startling the other man and making him jump nervously. "I want...I need" his voice turns pensive again. "I have to know."

"It won't help." The guy says softly.

"I know...but I need to..." Dean is stuck, he can't explain it, so he just looks the other man in the eye, trying to communicate the misery he feels.

"I..." He swallows, looking down at his hands. "It was just...just straight sex. Nothing unusual...and some advice on...uh...technique." a slight flush creeps up his neck and Dean wonders numbly what kind of prostitute blushes.

"On?" his voice is strained.

"Oral sex." It's almost an apology. "There was no...she didn't participate, I told her a few...tricks." The flush deepens, his brows draw together and he looks helplessly pained on Dean's behalf.

And he can't...he just can't. There's nothing to think that won't hurt. That Lisa, paid some stranger to fuck her, and then picked up tricks. Tricks to take home to her husband, why? To make her feel better about it?

"Because you blow guys." Dean closes his eyes, of course this guy would know more than any chick. "How much?" he hears himself ask, numbly.

The other man's head shoots up, looking at him carefully.

"I don't think..."

"How. Much?" he grates out. He feels bad, so so bad, and right now he just wants to feel out of it, he can't even call it feeling good. He wants to feel...nothing.

"I don't think" the other man, the whore, continues doggedly. "that would improve your feelings."

" I know...but I want..." he can't articulate it, doesn't want to try. "You need the money or not?"

The other man blinks sadly, ducks his head, eyes firmly shut against his own opinions. "Fifty."

Dean huffs with humourless laughter, but takes out his wallet and deposits notes on the couch between them. The other man takes them and folds them slowly, slipping them into the pocket of his jeans.

There's a pause of thirty second and Dean can feel his heart beating painfully, his body contracting with pain and despair.

"Blow me." He says. The other man dips his head in understanding and drops to the floor in front of him, kneeling on the carpet. Dean closes his eyes when he feels hands going to work on his fly. He doesn't want to see, or even feel. He already wants this over and done, something else to regret.

Warm breath hits his exposed skin, dick still soft, not that he expected otherwise. Damp, plush lips move over him and he feels himself stirring at the contact. By the time the other man's sucking lightly at his head, he's almost fully hard, pushing reluctantly into the contact. Loose open mouthed kisses are pressed over his balls, harsh, excited breath rumpling the crisp hair. Dean lets out an involuntary mumble of appreciation.

The slow, exploratory touches become more of a constant pressure. The man on his knees encircles Dean's shaft with one hand, sucking the tip and running his tongue over the slit and the thick vein that Dean is personally acquainted with himself. With one quick movement he withdraws his hand and takes Dean in as far as possible, tongue swirling on the way down. Dean makes a strangled sound, heat and slick tightness and the pressing weight of the whore's tongue overloading him for a second. The guy bobs his head up and down, unsurprisingly moving like a pro. Dean recognises the technique as Lisa's new approach.

It's almost the same sensation, a little more practiced but still similar enough to blur together with her in his mind. He's losing himself to bitterness, forgetting where he is and remembering Lisa and what she's done.

And then the guy moans.

The rough, wrecked sound breaks Dean from his thoughts and he opens his eyes, looking down at the dark head still intently bobbing on his cock. The man moans again on the down stroke and Dean can feel his tongue sweeping at his head, tasting pre-come and coming back for more. He shifts from his place, thrown back on the couch, raising himself enough to look at the guy's face.

His eyes are tightly shut, squeezed closed not at the strain of the motion, as he finds Lisa sometimes looks, but instead with guilty pleasure. Strong hands grip Dean's thighs, urging him up, closer. Another wordless, animal groan of pleasure wracks the throat of the man kneeling before him. His eyes flicker open a little, taking a second to focus on Dean's flushed, intent face. Blue eyes turn slightly worried for a second, as if he's suddenly remembered that this is one sided deal – that Dean is paying for a service and not doing him a massive favour by shoving his cock down his throat.

Dean lays a hand on his dark hair, soft and untidy, gently pushing him further down onto his erection, hips bucking up as he watches the whore's lips stretch around him. His eyes flick closed as he goes back to sucking, cheeks hollowing and he moans around the weight of him, soft keening noises and greedy, thick moans that catch his throat.

Dean can't tear his eyes away.

The whores hand fumbles with the front of his jeans, tugging the fly open and fisting around his own painfully swollen cock. The sounds that make his mouth and throat thrum around Dean's dick increase in volume and frequency. Hungry, desperate noises that burn along Dean's nerves, because there is a man on his knees, getting off on having him in his mouth. Almost chocking on his dick in eagerness. They grow increasingly desperate, Dean adding his own 'Fuck...fuck...yeah, god..." in a steady litany as they both crash into their orgasms, Dean coming first and hard down the other guys throat. The whore swallows around him, still sucking for all he's worth as his hand moves over himself in a blur, finally spilling onto the carpet with an agonised sound. He curls in on himself, sheltering his groin as he pulses over his fist.

He sucks Dean lazily, pulling off when Dean emits a soft noise at the stimulation of his sensitive dick. He presses his nose to the dark hair there instead, inhaling shakily and making a wretched sound in the back of his throat. Dean can only shake, body and mind still lost and only aware that someone is lavishing attention on him, tender and soft as he comes down.

"...uh..." the sound falls from the whore's lips, body trembling as he presses his mouth to the skin beside the root of Dean's spent cock. Dean pets his hair, feeling the soft nudging of the other man's head against his palm.

This is intimate, wrong on levels beyond levels. But Dean can't pull away. He's lost his wife, his perfect, beautiful wife. And the only thing that's made him feel good in months is a whore who's sucked him down for fifty bucks.

And loved every second of it.

The man pulls away after a while, sitting back on his heels and rubbing the back of his hand across his reddened mouth.

Dean straightens up, the guy refuses to look him in the eye, instead he busies himself with fastening his jeans, then straightening and going to sit back on the couch. Dean notices that he makes no move to wash his mouth out.

"I take it I should...go." Dean hears himself say. The guy looks up, looking for the first time like he isn't sure, not just mildly confused but downright uncertain.

"...I...yes." he says. He gets up and goes to the door, laying his hands on it. "I'm sorry...about how this has gone..."

"Don't. It's's really not your fault." Dean steps through the opened door, looking back the man and feeling awkward, somehow regretting what they've done, for the wrong reasons. "Thank was good."

"Good" he says, smiling slightly, then, without meaning to. "what's your name?" he never usually asks things of his clients.

"Dean." Dean says, feeling the weight in his chest decrease a little. "Winchester." He adds, because being just Dean would make him like any one of the John's this guy must see. He wants to be different, not just a client but the guy who came to find out about his wife, who came for a reason other than sex.

"I'm Castiel." He realises this must sound like a fake name. "Usually I introduce myself as James, it's my middle name. But I'm Castiel. Novak."

Dean likes the fact that he gets this guys real name. He likes him more than he should like someone who's slept with his wife and then blown him for a handful of bills.

"Hi Castiel."

"Hello Dean."

They shake hands over the threshold as if meeting for the first time.