Fic: Take Away The Night Time
Title: Take Away The Night Time
Pairing: Dean/Alexander Skarsgard. Er. Yep.
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Sometimes, Dean just needs to get out, forget everything. Vague spoilers for 701.
Notes: Only for annundriel would my brain take such a swift dip into crazy. ;) ♥ I DON'T EVEN KNOW, DON'T ASK. LEGS. Dependent on your ship goggles, you may pick up background Dean/Cas or Sam/Dean. /ambiguous
Dean had a thing about secrets -- what it meant to keep them, how betrayed he felt when Sam or Cas or, hell, Dad decided simply not to tell. Dean didn't like secrets, but he wore his distaste guiltily, because the thing was, he had more than a few of his own.
Sometimes, a man needed a goddamn drink. Cas was god-knows-freaking-where and Dean's head hurt thinking about it, wondering where he might turn up. Sam was still out in the panic room, but two days' fretting at his bedside was more than Dean could take or Bobby would allow, and that left pacing in the house, or leaving it.
"Get out," Bobby said, firm and pained, though Dean heard the gentleness underneath. "Go on, boy, git. Nothing you can do here, and you're getting under my feet."
Bobby was waist deep in a pile of books. Sam was sleeping, face pale and restless. Dean couldn't find the power to resist, to keep looking into the hopeless fucking void of it. So he told Bobby, "Fine," picked up his keys and went.
The nearest bar was a dive populated solely by men over the age of fifty, so Dean drove on. Kept on driving, sloughed off the road at the first likely place, some one-story saloon on the side of a one-lane highway. One visible window, too, bleeding light into the parking lot, and it looked good enough. Not Sam's kind of place, but Sam wasn't here. Sam wasn't here, and Cas wasn't here, but maybe this was the kind of place that could make Dean forget that.
As soon as he pushed open the door, he knew he was right. The place was dark, fashionably lit and playing some kind of indie crap -- not Dean's good ol' boy kinda joint at all. But every eye in the place was turned on Dean as he walked in -- older guys, twinky little things, bikers his own age, tall guys, dudes built like brick shithouses -- and Dean remembered this feeling; missed it. He felt powerful, an anchor in this sea of jumbled masculinity. All these guys. Sam had never guessed; Dean had never told him. And Cas...well. It would have been either inappropriate or pointless -- or both. Maybe Cas knew all about this anyway. Sometimes, Dean wondered just how much Cas knew, what he thought about it.
He moved toward the bar. There was a blond guy there, long legs hooked around the stilts of his bar stool, and something about him was vaguely familiar, made Dean wonder if they'd met before. If he was a hunter. God, he hoped not.
When the guy smiled at him, though, and said hello, his voice was mercifully unfamiliar. Maybe Dean was just getting paranoid in his old age. He tested it -- "Do I know you from somewhere?" and got a laugh and a wink that was more reassurance than anything else could have been.
"No," said the guy -- something slightly foreign in his voice, Dean heard now -- "but you can, if you like." He touched Dean's hand, not quite after a handshake. "Alex."
"Dean." He didn't always give his real name, but something about this guy...God. Dean wanted to hear his own name in this dude's mouth when he came. He was hot, miles and miles of him, and Dean could get behind that. Or let it get behind him, whichever.
"Buy you a drink?" There was a sheen of sweat in the hollow of Alex's long throat; it glinted in the light when he reached an arm across the counter, gesturing in the direction of the bartender. Dean wanted to lick it off, but all in good time.
God, this had been the right idea. Really, really the right idea. Already he could feel the tension seeping out of his shoulders and taking up residence somewhere else, somewhere better, tautening his abdomen, anticipatory. "Beer and a shot?" he hazarded. It was maybe a little cheeky, trying to get a twofer, but he crooked an eyebrow just so the guy would know he knew he was pushing his luck, and got the laugh he'd been aiming for.
"Bad day, huh?" Alex caught the bartender with a nod of his head, signalled for the drinks, and they appeared as if by magic at Dean's elbow. The whisky was like hot gold in his throat, burning all the way down. He shuddered pleasantly and grinned. Alex was watching him, half-amused, something dark beneath it, and Dean hardly had to pretend.
"Getting better," he said. Forward, sure, but this was a gay bar. Forward was the way to go.
He downed the beer quickly, almost in one go. Putting on a show, letting Alex see how easy the bottle fit between his lips, how well Dean could take it. He hollowed his cheeks and let it show in his throat when he swallowed; sank down two inches onto the neck of the bottle, pointless and slutty and obscene. Alex drew in his breath sharply, the hand on the counter relocating itself to Dean's arm. That made everything worth it, and Dean chugged the last of the beer as quick as he could; slammed the bottle down after and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He made sure to leave a little wetness at the corners, shining when he smiled -- just enough to give Alex ideas. Just to clinch the deal.
Dean was good at this.
"So," he said, slow. "That's the drink taken care of. Next?"
"God." Alex's voice was startled, happy. Unreservedly amused, and Dean couldn't remember the last time he'd heard anyone speak to him that way. It was like a throwback, a relief. Sometimes it felt like he'd never been happy. "You don't mess around, do you?"
The words were accusatory, but the tone wasn't. Nor was the clear thrust of Alex's dick against the seam of his jeans. They were old jeans, worn in. Dean liked that. He let his eyes drop blatantly to Alex's crotch, dragged them up to the button of his fly, the label stitched onto the pocket.
"'Nudie' jeans?" he read off, quirking an eyebrow, because that was just too good. "What are they, gay pick-up pants?"
Alex laughed, tipping his head back. "Do such things exist? I'll have you know these are all the rage in Sweden." He let his voice dip a little over the 'w' of Sweden, and Dean's eyes widened, along with his grin.
"You Swedish?"
Alex smiled coyly. "Excellent. Ten points to the boy with the beautiful mouth."
It was a long time since anyone had startled a blush out of Dean, but that did it. He dipped his head, scratched at the back of his neck, inexplicably off his game. Alex sounded...fond, almost, and it was weird. Nice, but weird. "What the hell are you doing in the Dakotas?"
Alex shrugged. "What is anyone doing in the Dakotas? I came to America to act, like everyone else. I do a little vampire show?"
And, yeah, okay, that was where Dean remembered him from, one of those shows they always skipped in disgust on late night HBO, except when they paused to stare at boobies and make lists of the factual inaccuracies. God, the irony. Still. Dean let his hand slip onto Alex's thigh, squeezed a little. "Not in the Dakotas, though, surely?"
"No," Alex admitted, smiling. "We aren't filming now. I am...exploring." He leaned forward, his long body stretching into Dean's space. Sitting, he looked massive. Lean, but as tall as Sam was, Dean guessed, and Sam was pretty much the most ludicrously tall person Dean had ever met.
"What are you doing here, Dean?" Alex prompted, and Dean latched onto it, dragged his mind away from Sam and Cas and all that mess. He smiled, instead; drew his thumb up the inseam of Alex's jeans. And up, and up.
"I'm here," he said, quietly, "to get fucked." Not that he'd known that for sure when he came in, but he knew it now. That was what he wanted. His eyes flicked up to Alex's. "You down with that?"
The flare of heat in Alex's eyes told Dean everything long before Alex actually spoke, holding Dean's gaze steadily. "Fuck, I -- I think I can arrange that for you."
"Great," Dean said, and climbed down from his stool.
Dean led the way to the parking lot as if he had been here before -- which, in a way, he had. Every place like this was the same: narrow corridor funnelling clients out to an empty stretch of darkness where nobody would complain about a little public indecency, not during the night. Dean could feel his heart beating an irregular tarantella within the confines of his ribcage, and Alex's hand was warm at the small of his back. Broad, long-fingered, splayed there like a promise. Dean was hard, aching to feel that promise fulfilled. God. Sometimes, he just -- he fucking needed this, and it had been so long.
Outside, in the dark, Alex was nothing but the whites of his eyes and the flash of his teeth, but it didn't matter. They worked by feel, Alex making a soft sound of want in his throat as he pushed Dean flat against the bricks at his back, their teeth clicking briefly before they found their stride. Alex kissed hard and deep and rough, taking. Dean fucking wanted to be taken, wanted someone to take everything off his shoulders, make him hurt until it made things better. Sometimes it did. Dean had hope.
There wasn't time to get Alex out of his clothes, much as Dean would have liked to do so. This was fast, all rough and scramble, and the best Dean could do was get his fingers under Alex's shirt while Alex palmed Dean's dick through his jeans; ground up against it with one long thigh. Dean groaned in his throat, tipped his head back, and Alex leaned in, following the motion, nipping a line of blessed pain up the curve of Dean's neck. "Dean," he muttered, "Dean, Dean," and he knew he'd been right to give his proper name; knew this was exactly what he wanted to hear.
"Yeah," he panted, "yeah, come on, want it -- God -- " and then Alex was unbuttoning Dean's jeans, shoving them down below the swell of his ass. The bricks were cold against his skin, but Alex's fingers were long and clever, skirting his cock, pushing lower. Finding the tight clench of Dean's neglected hole, rubbing it light and quick until it opened, God. Dean could barely remember wanting it so bad.
"Come on," he hissed; canted his hips, dirty and wanton, drawing a groan from Alex's throat as he opened his own jeans, pressed close between Dean's thighs.
"All right," Alex whispered, and his accent was slipping, devolving into something clipped and foreign, something that made heat spark at the base of Dean's spine. "All right, Dean. Let me in." His fingers swirled a deft little circle, pushed on the muscle until it gave, and Dean closed his eyes, lifted his hips. Alex withdrew for something -- lube, probably, and a condom that Dean heard the snap of, the crinkle of the wrapper -- but then he was back, finger going deep into Dean before it crooked and retreated, came back with a friend. "All right," Alex said, and Dean bit back a cry in his throat as the fingers found his prostate, shooting warmth through his blood.
"Come on," he repeated, and Alex laughed; pulled back, a little shaky, and lined up.
"You sure?"
"Dude, do it." Dean knew he could get unpleasant when kept waiting, but shit, there was no need for it, not with his whole body vibrating to be fucked. Alex seemed to get it; pushed forward immediately until the fat head of his dick breached the tight clench of Dean's hole, shoved in further. Fuck.
"God, yeah," Dean whispered, shameless, rolling his hips, and Alex pulled back almost all the way; snapped in forward, and fuck, yeah.
"That's it," Dean murmured, "God --"
"Dean," Alex whispered, "Dean, Dean." His name tripping off this stranger's foreign tongue, and Dean was practically melting, pelvis fucking forward and onto Alex's cock, the fat shove of it splaying him open. His fingers were strong and firm on Dean's hips, making bruises. Dean would see them in the morning, and remember. The thought made his cock jerk, blurting a smear of precome that Alex caught in his hand as he wrapped it around Dean's shaft, jerking him in time with his thrusts.
"Shit," Dean muttered, head twisting blindly, searching for something to bite, and then Alex's mouth was there, covering his, licking in. He fucked hard and slowly, long driving thrusts that slammed home with a snap that Dean felt right to his bones, and, shit. Shit. All the times Dean had wanted, wanted to be taken apart like this, this was what he should have done; stopped obsessing about Cas and what he knew or didn't know and come out here instead, found a guy like this, let the worst of it be fucked out of him. Alex was perfect, the breadth of his shoulders and the length of his back overwhelming, massive. He covered Dean entirely, bracketed him against the wall as if he were nothing but a slip of a thing. As if he could be saved and protected and loved so deep it would make a difference.
Alex was panting, rough in his mouth, and Dean swallowed it down as his hips fucked up, pistoning back onto Alex's thrusts. Their pelvic bones ground together, almost painful, but Dean welcomed the pain; felt it licking up the hot sharp edges of his orgasm as it built in his groin. "Jesus," he muttered, as he felt it looming, arrowing down into the jut of his cock between their bellies. "Jesus -- Alex --"
"Come on," Alex muttered, voice breaking in Dean's mouth, and he fucked in hard, again, shuddering with how close he was. "Dean, come on, come for me, Dean --"
Dean came with a wrenched out sound like dying, and Alex followed him into it seconds later, as if he'd been hanging on, just waiting for Dean. What a freaking gentleman, Dean thought, even as the last of his slick was pulsing over Alex's hand; even as he felt Alex shooting into the condom. Part of him wished they'd done this unsafely so he could feel the drip of it out of his ass after, unpleasant and wet, hot and real. The rest of him was way more sensible than that, these days, but there was always part. There always was.
Afterward, they slumped against the wall, breathless, and Alex was a dead weight against Dean's chest. So many things were dead weights on Dean right now, it barely even registered. God, his life. How was this his life?
"You needed that," Alex said, eventually, when he could breathe again. Lifted his head, and his eyes were glints of whiteness in his face, painfully knowing. Dean clenched his jaw; laughed.
"Yeah," he said, grim. Alex would never know how true it was. Alex would never know that Dean would have to go home now, to his surrogate father and his everything-brother who was dying, or dead, or worse; to the absence of the angel who'd pulled him from the pit and who Dean needed in ways he couldn't quantify. Alex would never know.
"Yeah," he said, low and soft and sure. His smile was wry. "Yeah, I did."
Pairing: Dean/Alexander Skarsgard. Er. Yep.
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Sometimes, Dean just needs to get out, forget everything. Vague spoilers for 701.
Notes: Only for annundriel would my brain take such a swift dip into crazy. ;) ♥ I DON'T EVEN KNOW, DON'T ASK. LEGS. Dependent on your ship goggles, you may pick up background Dean/Cas or Sam/Dean. /ambiguous
Dean had a thing about secrets -- what it meant to keep them, how betrayed he felt when Sam or Cas or, hell, Dad decided simply not to tell. Dean didn't like secrets, but he wore his distaste guiltily, because the thing was, he had more than a few of his own.
Sometimes, a man needed a goddamn drink. Cas was god-knows-freaking-where and Dean's head hurt thinking about it, wondering where he might turn up. Sam was still out in the panic room, but two days' fretting at his bedside was more than Dean could take or Bobby would allow, and that left pacing in the house, or leaving it.
"Get out," Bobby said, firm and pained, though Dean heard the gentleness underneath. "Go on, boy, git. Nothing you can do here, and you're getting under my feet."
Bobby was waist deep in a pile of books. Sam was sleeping, face pale and restless. Dean couldn't find the power to resist, to keep looking into the hopeless fucking void of it. So he told Bobby, "Fine," picked up his keys and went.
The nearest bar was a dive populated solely by men over the age of fifty, so Dean drove on. Kept on driving, sloughed off the road at the first likely place, some one-story saloon on the side of a one-lane highway. One visible window, too, bleeding light into the parking lot, and it looked good enough. Not Sam's kind of place, but Sam wasn't here. Sam wasn't here, and Cas wasn't here, but maybe this was the kind of place that could make Dean forget that.
As soon as he pushed open the door, he knew he was right. The place was dark, fashionably lit and playing some kind of indie crap -- not Dean's good ol' boy kinda joint at all. But every eye in the place was turned on Dean as he walked in -- older guys, twinky little things, bikers his own age, tall guys, dudes built like brick shithouses -- and Dean remembered this feeling; missed it. He felt powerful, an anchor in this sea of jumbled masculinity. All these guys. Sam had never guessed; Dean had never told him. And Cas...well. It would have been either inappropriate or pointless -- or both. Maybe Cas knew all about this anyway. Sometimes, Dean wondered just how much Cas knew, what he thought about it.
He moved toward the bar. There was a blond guy there, long legs hooked around the stilts of his bar stool, and something about him was vaguely familiar, made Dean wonder if they'd met before. If he was a hunter. God, he hoped not.
When the guy smiled at him, though, and said hello, his voice was mercifully unfamiliar. Maybe Dean was just getting paranoid in his old age. He tested it -- "Do I know you from somewhere?" and got a laugh and a wink that was more reassurance than anything else could have been.
"No," said the guy -- something slightly foreign in his voice, Dean heard now -- "but you can, if you like." He touched Dean's hand, not quite after a handshake. "Alex."
"Dean." He didn't always give his real name, but something about this guy...God. Dean wanted to hear his own name in this dude's mouth when he came. He was hot, miles and miles of him, and Dean could get behind that. Or let it get behind him, whichever.
"Buy you a drink?" There was a sheen of sweat in the hollow of Alex's long throat; it glinted in the light when he reached an arm across the counter, gesturing in the direction of the bartender. Dean wanted to lick it off, but all in good time.
God, this had been the right idea. Really, really the right idea. Already he could feel the tension seeping out of his shoulders and taking up residence somewhere else, somewhere better, tautening his abdomen, anticipatory. "Beer and a shot?" he hazarded. It was maybe a little cheeky, trying to get a twofer, but he crooked an eyebrow just so the guy would know he knew he was pushing his luck, and got the laugh he'd been aiming for.
"Bad day, huh?" Alex caught the bartender with a nod of his head, signalled for the drinks, and they appeared as if by magic at Dean's elbow. The whisky was like hot gold in his throat, burning all the way down. He shuddered pleasantly and grinned. Alex was watching him, half-amused, something dark beneath it, and Dean hardly had to pretend.
"Getting better," he said. Forward, sure, but this was a gay bar. Forward was the way to go.
He downed the beer quickly, almost in one go. Putting on a show, letting Alex see how easy the bottle fit between his lips, how well Dean could take it. He hollowed his cheeks and let it show in his throat when he swallowed; sank down two inches onto the neck of the bottle, pointless and slutty and obscene. Alex drew in his breath sharply, the hand on the counter relocating itself to Dean's arm. That made everything worth it, and Dean chugged the last of the beer as quick as he could; slammed the bottle down after and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He made sure to leave a little wetness at the corners, shining when he smiled -- just enough to give Alex ideas. Just to clinch the deal.
Dean was good at this.
"So," he said, slow. "That's the drink taken care of. Next?"
"God." Alex's voice was startled, happy. Unreservedly amused, and Dean couldn't remember the last time he'd heard anyone speak to him that way. It was like a throwback, a relief. Sometimes it felt like he'd never been happy. "You don't mess around, do you?"
The words were accusatory, but the tone wasn't. Nor was the clear thrust of Alex's dick against the seam of his jeans. They were old jeans, worn in. Dean liked that. He let his eyes drop blatantly to Alex's crotch, dragged them up to the button of his fly, the label stitched onto the pocket.
"'Nudie' jeans?" he read off, quirking an eyebrow, because that was just too good. "What are they, gay pick-up pants?"
Alex laughed, tipping his head back. "Do such things exist? I'll have you know these are all the rage in Sweden." He let his voice dip a little over the 'w' of Sweden, and Dean's eyes widened, along with his grin.
"You Swedish?"
Alex smiled coyly. "Excellent. Ten points to the boy with the beautiful mouth."
It was a long time since anyone had startled a blush out of Dean, but that did it. He dipped his head, scratched at the back of his neck, inexplicably off his game. Alex sounded...fond, almost, and it was weird. Nice, but weird. "What the hell are you doing in the Dakotas?"
Alex shrugged. "What is anyone doing in the Dakotas? I came to America to act, like everyone else. I do a little vampire show?"
And, yeah, okay, that was where Dean remembered him from, one of those shows they always skipped in disgust on late night HBO, except when they paused to stare at boobies and make lists of the factual inaccuracies. God, the irony. Still. Dean let his hand slip onto Alex's thigh, squeezed a little. "Not in the Dakotas, though, surely?"
"No," Alex admitted, smiling. "We aren't filming now. I am...exploring." He leaned forward, his long body stretching into Dean's space. Sitting, he looked massive. Lean, but as tall as Sam was, Dean guessed, and Sam was pretty much the most ludicrously tall person Dean had ever met.
"What are you doing here, Dean?" Alex prompted, and Dean latched onto it, dragged his mind away from Sam and Cas and all that mess. He smiled, instead; drew his thumb up the inseam of Alex's jeans. And up, and up.
"I'm here," he said, quietly, "to get fucked." Not that he'd known that for sure when he came in, but he knew it now. That was what he wanted. His eyes flicked up to Alex's. "You down with that?"
The flare of heat in Alex's eyes told Dean everything long before Alex actually spoke, holding Dean's gaze steadily. "Fuck, I -- I think I can arrange that for you."
"Great," Dean said, and climbed down from his stool.
Dean led the way to the parking lot as if he had been here before -- which, in a way, he had. Every place like this was the same: narrow corridor funnelling clients out to an empty stretch of darkness where nobody would complain about a little public indecency, not during the night. Dean could feel his heart beating an irregular tarantella within the confines of his ribcage, and Alex's hand was warm at the small of his back. Broad, long-fingered, splayed there like a promise. Dean was hard, aching to feel that promise fulfilled. God. Sometimes, he just -- he fucking needed this, and it had been so long.
Outside, in the dark, Alex was nothing but the whites of his eyes and the flash of his teeth, but it didn't matter. They worked by feel, Alex making a soft sound of want in his throat as he pushed Dean flat against the bricks at his back, their teeth clicking briefly before they found their stride. Alex kissed hard and deep and rough, taking. Dean fucking wanted to be taken, wanted someone to take everything off his shoulders, make him hurt until it made things better. Sometimes it did. Dean had hope.
There wasn't time to get Alex out of his clothes, much as Dean would have liked to do so. This was fast, all rough and scramble, and the best Dean could do was get his fingers under Alex's shirt while Alex palmed Dean's dick through his jeans; ground up against it with one long thigh. Dean groaned in his throat, tipped his head back, and Alex leaned in, following the motion, nipping a line of blessed pain up the curve of Dean's neck. "Dean," he muttered, "Dean, Dean," and he knew he'd been right to give his proper name; knew this was exactly what he wanted to hear.
"Yeah," he panted, "yeah, come on, want it -- God -- " and then Alex was unbuttoning Dean's jeans, shoving them down below the swell of his ass. The bricks were cold against his skin, but Alex's fingers were long and clever, skirting his cock, pushing lower. Finding the tight clench of Dean's neglected hole, rubbing it light and quick until it opened, God. Dean could barely remember wanting it so bad.
"Come on," he hissed; canted his hips, dirty and wanton, drawing a groan from Alex's throat as he opened his own jeans, pressed close between Dean's thighs.
"All right," Alex whispered, and his accent was slipping, devolving into something clipped and foreign, something that made heat spark at the base of Dean's spine. "All right, Dean. Let me in." His fingers swirled a deft little circle, pushed on the muscle until it gave, and Dean closed his eyes, lifted his hips. Alex withdrew for something -- lube, probably, and a condom that Dean heard the snap of, the crinkle of the wrapper -- but then he was back, finger going deep into Dean before it crooked and retreated, came back with a friend. "All right," Alex said, and Dean bit back a cry in his throat as the fingers found his prostate, shooting warmth through his blood.
"Come on," he repeated, and Alex laughed; pulled back, a little shaky, and lined up.
"You sure?"
"Dude, do it." Dean knew he could get unpleasant when kept waiting, but shit, there was no need for it, not with his whole body vibrating to be fucked. Alex seemed to get it; pushed forward immediately until the fat head of his dick breached the tight clench of Dean's hole, shoved in further. Fuck.
"God, yeah," Dean whispered, shameless, rolling his hips, and Alex pulled back almost all the way; snapped in forward, and fuck, yeah.
"That's it," Dean murmured, "God --"
"Dean," Alex whispered, "Dean, Dean." His name tripping off this stranger's foreign tongue, and Dean was practically melting, pelvis fucking forward and onto Alex's cock, the fat shove of it splaying him open. His fingers were strong and firm on Dean's hips, making bruises. Dean would see them in the morning, and remember. The thought made his cock jerk, blurting a smear of precome that Alex caught in his hand as he wrapped it around Dean's shaft, jerking him in time with his thrusts.
"Shit," Dean muttered, head twisting blindly, searching for something to bite, and then Alex's mouth was there, covering his, licking in. He fucked hard and slowly, long driving thrusts that slammed home with a snap that Dean felt right to his bones, and, shit. Shit. All the times Dean had wanted, wanted to be taken apart like this, this was what he should have done; stopped obsessing about Cas and what he knew or didn't know and come out here instead, found a guy like this, let the worst of it be fucked out of him. Alex was perfect, the breadth of his shoulders and the length of his back overwhelming, massive. He covered Dean entirely, bracketed him against the wall as if he were nothing but a slip of a thing. As if he could be saved and protected and loved so deep it would make a difference.
Alex was panting, rough in his mouth, and Dean swallowed it down as his hips fucked up, pistoning back onto Alex's thrusts. Their pelvic bones ground together, almost painful, but Dean welcomed the pain; felt it licking up the hot sharp edges of his orgasm as it built in his groin. "Jesus," he muttered, as he felt it looming, arrowing down into the jut of his cock between their bellies. "Jesus -- Alex --"
"Come on," Alex muttered, voice breaking in Dean's mouth, and he fucked in hard, again, shuddering with how close he was. "Dean, come on, come for me, Dean --"
Dean came with a wrenched out sound like dying, and Alex followed him into it seconds later, as if he'd been hanging on, just waiting for Dean. What a freaking gentleman, Dean thought, even as the last of his slick was pulsing over Alex's hand; even as he felt Alex shooting into the condom. Part of him wished they'd done this unsafely so he could feel the drip of it out of his ass after, unpleasant and wet, hot and real. The rest of him was way more sensible than that, these days, but there was always part. There always was.
Afterward, they slumped against the wall, breathless, and Alex was a dead weight against Dean's chest. So many things were dead weights on Dean right now, it barely even registered. God, his life. How was this his life?
"You needed that," Alex said, eventually, when he could breathe again. Lifted his head, and his eyes were glints of whiteness in his face, painfully knowing. Dean clenched his jaw; laughed.
"Yeah," he said, grim. Alex would never know how true it was. Alex would never know that Dean would have to go home now, to his surrogate father and his everything-brother who was dying, or dead, or worse; to the absence of the angel who'd pulled him from the pit and who Dean needed in ways he couldn't quantify. Alex would never know.
"Yeah," he said, low and soft and sure. His smile was wry. "Yeah, I did."