Another angsty, porny, weird-thing. It's been so long!

Dean sees the blue lights before he hears the sirens, and he knows he's in deep shit now.

In all fairness, it's a miracle he hasn't been caught sooner. After all, this is how he spends quite a few of his nights now. They're in the not-so-top-secret location of a stand of trees just off the turnpike, and there's a car parked out there, lights on (not his care, he doesn't involve the impala in this) and a load of other cars not so far away. The other cars are of course all empty. Everyone has turned out for the show.

Dean is, for the record, not an exhibitionist. He likes his sex private when he can get it, but, there's no way he's going to take even one strange dude back to his place, let alone seven. And motel s get fussy about renting by the hour to groups of more than three.

So, it's the woods off the turnpike, or he's out of luck.

He's not an exhibitionist, so the circle of men around him doesn't really do much to get him going. He can't really see them anyway, because he's bent face first over the front of the car, half kneeling on the bonnet. This is why he's the first one to see the lights, they're reflected in the dark glass below him.

Having said he's not into being watched, Dean is the first to admit that he's not exactly kink free. That's kind of why he's here.

The cop car pulls up, and most of the guys try to make a run for it. Dean has no idea if they manage to get away, but when he manages to get himself upright, picking his pants up from the ground and slipping clumsily into them, he realises that he's alone in the clearing.

Well, apart from the cop.

"Hands where I can see them," the guys says, sounding almost bored.

Dean holds his hands up.

"Been a while since anyone actually turned tricks on the turnpike. I was hoping it would just become an expression." The cop looks tired, and he reaches for his cuffs almost reluctantly, coming over and cuffing Dean quickly.

"I'm not a hooker," Dean says, uncomfortable without his shirt, with his skin all sweaty and going cold under the trees, aching inside because he got interrupted in the middle of his fix.

"Oh really," says the cop's bored voice.

"Yeah, really. I have a job, and it pays way better than turning tricks."

"Good to know."

"Hey, I just don't want you booking me without knowing all the facts."

The cop manoeuvres him to the car, slides Dean into the back and gets into the driver's seat. Into the radio he says,

"Dispatch, disturbance by the turnpike turned out to be a gathering of horny white gentleman. One possible sex worker in custody, white, mid-forties-"

"I'm thirty-one!"

"Claims to be a civilian."

The radio rasps something Dean doesn't catch, and the cop puts the car into gear and starts driving.

"I'm really not a hooker," Dean says quietly.

"I believe you."

"No you don't."

"I do...I'm just trying to think what you were doing out there if you weren't getting paid."

"I was..." Dean tries to shrug, which is hard with his hands cuffed behind his back. "I was just getting my fix."

"So you're a strawberry?"


"You trade sex for drugs."

"No! Dude, I don't take drugs. Look, I'm an EMT OK? I lied about making more than a hooker, but I am not on drugs."

"So by fix you mean?"

"That's what I call it," Dean muttered, looking out of the window, wishing he'd kept his fool mouth shut.

"I'm guessing you like people watching you have sex?" the cop said, an ok, so Dean can only see the back of his head, the curly dark hair and pale skin, but he knows the guy is uncomfortable.

"Not particularly...I just, like guys." Dean shifted uncomfortably, feeling the cuffs dig in. He can feel the lube running out of him, making his underwear sticky. Not a pleasant feeling. "More specifically, I like...dick, a lot."

There's a very long, very strained silence.

"You were going to..."

"Fuck all of those men? Every one." Dean tries for blasé, "you know that feeling where you've gotten a lot of something you love, like...I don't know, candy, drink – and then you just get a little more, a little more...ever been that far past what you need? Just because you could?"

It's true, Dean has never been able to get enough, not since he discovered guys back in high school. Only now, instead of going out every night for one quick, unsatisfying screw, he gets his 'fix' weekly. Seven or so guys, picked from craigslist, or anywhere else pervs gather, all meet up and fuck him, one after the other. Sure, he usually comes around the second guy, but that feeling of just going and going, 'till he can't walk? That feeling fucking ruins him, and he loves it.

The cop clears his throat and Dean hears him take a breath.

"That's...quite a dangerous thing to be doing."

Dean shrugs. "What isn't these days?"

"But the sheer amount of diseases, not to mention potentially unstable's incredibly risky."

"I know," Dean says, because he does, and he's had his share of close encounters to know exactly what kind of fire he's playing with. "'s just this itch, man...can't get by without it. I bet you've got a vice or two."

"Sometimes I kill hitch hikers," agrees the cop.

Dean sits in stunned silence.

"That was a joke."

"Oh...good one."

The cop sighs, "I used to have a problem, kind of a...chemical imbalance."

"What kind?"

"The prescription kind."

Dean whistles.

"I was...uh...well, actually, my partner was shot, and the guy that killed him broke my foot, so I wound up on pain pills. And...well, turns out I'm not so great at impulse control."

They drive in silence for a moment.

"Sorry about your partner."

"He was a good cop, funny probably would have gotten along with him."

Dean glances up, and spots a pair of blue eyes in the rear-view. They're the colour of the dirty neon stripe over the bar he visits every night he has off work. The rims of them are red, like the guy's been crying, or like he plans to start soon.

"How long ago did he..."

"Three months."

"Shit," Dean mutters. "You...are you ok, to be back at work after something like that?"

The cop nods quickly. "Work helps me not think about it...or, I only think about the good parts. Plus, it keeps me away from the pills." He shakes his head, "I'm sorry, I don't know why I'm talking about it to you. You don't even know me."

"Hey, I'm Dean," Dean says, "talk away Officer..."

"Novak...Castiel Novak."

"Officer Cas," Dean says, glancing back at the mirror. "After I get out of the slammer we should go do something, talk some more, do shots."

"That could be...nice." Castiel says, taking his eyes off of the road to meet Dean's eyes in the mirror.

"Hey, if you feel like it we could even make it back out to the turnpike," Dean says. He has no idea why he says it, maybe it's because, what with trying to get his fixes, he's learnt to hit on any guy that comes his way. Maybe it's because he only got up to guy number two, and he's still itching for more.

Or maybe it's because the thing he wants most at that moment is to reach around the seat and put his arms around the skinny, red-eyed cop.

Either way, Castiel's eyes widen a little, but he doesn't say no. He doesn't tell Dean he's an idiot, or that he's way too good to fuck some messed up dick-addict out in the woods.

He just drives them both to the station, and, as he closes the door on Dean's cell, he says a quiet,

"See you later."