SPN fic: Any Old Music Will Do - prologue - Dean/Cas, NC17, AU

[the_diggler]

Any Old Music Will Do - prologue.

Please see the fic masterpost for warnings and other information.



~

Dean is not a dancer. But he looks good in his underwear, has a decent sense of rhythm, and more importantly, has no shame whatsoever. Fake it ‘til you make it – is Dean’s motto, and it works well enough to land him a spot in the ‘Male Revue’ strip-show at The Inferno. Turns out that a few well-placed muscle poses, a couple random displays of calisthenics (seriously, who would’ve thought push-ups could be such a turn-on?), interspersed between a good amount of air-guitar and lip-syncing, and Dean is boss of le strip. Or so the club’s owner Crowley tells him.

Accessories help keep things fresh too. When he’s doing his cowboy routine, he’s got a whole bunch of tricks he can do with his hat, and some guns, and his shiny gold lasso. It’s his favorite getup. Not hard to twirl a night-stick around when he’s doing his cop routine either. And just last week he spent most of his fireman routine hosing down a bride-to-be and her bachelorette party with a fake fire-extinguisher full of whipped cream. They loved it. Especially the maid of honor.

Now she was a wild one. He would’ve taken her to bed for free if he didn’t already have a paying client lined up for the night.

Dean is no hooker, though. Can’t even really call himself an escort either. He’s not that classy. He just enjoys sex. A lot. So he might as well get paid for it. Especially when Sammy needs all the help he can get paying for his fancy lawyer college over on the west coast.

His brother’s smart as a whip, and a damn good-looking kid too, but there’s no way he’s got the skills to work a crowd of ladies like Dean does. And he’s too much of a prude to work a private party like Dean either. At least at the club, they have bouncers and clearly established rules of conduct that the guests have to follow. But at a private party, no one’s ass is safe. And that’s where the real money is.

Dancing at the club is more like advertising. A preview of the goods, if anything. And the tips from that are a great addition to Crowley’s standard pay, but they’re nothing compared to what Dean makes offstage.

It started a few years back, when one of Crowley’s friends came to the bar and liked Dean’s act. Dean had worked a few private parties already, and had already woken up in bed with one (or more) of the guests the following morning – but that night was a little different. That was Dean’s first private party for one.

Now, The Inferno isn’t set up like the kind of strip clubs targeted to a male clientele, with private rooms for personal lap dances and such. The Inferno is a stage show. More of a theater than a bar, if anything. And although they have a ‘gentlemen’s night’ on Tuesdays, the clientele normally consists of women. Masses of loud, drunk, paying women.

But apparently, being friends with the owner has its benefits. So on that fateful night, after his show, Dean found himself in another one of Crowley’s establishments. The kind that pays by the hour.

As it happens, Crowley owns the crappy little hotel behind the club as well – The White Plains Hotel (more aptly nicknamed the White Stains). And for some reason the two buildings share the same boiler-room basement, giving the club direct access to the hotel’s service elevator. Eliot thinks the buildings were designed that way during the Prohibition era, as an easy escape route. Since they were behind each other the two establishments opened up on completely different streets, so even if the cops had one place surrounded, it wasn’t likely they would be keeping an eye on the next block over. Dean buys it. In fact, he’s pretty sure it was the major selling point for Crowley. There’s just something about the man that screams underground tunnels and easy escape routes.

In any case, it’s ridiculously convenient. All Dean had to do that first time was take a short walk and an elevator trip up to one of the better rooms in the hotel, where Crowley had so generously set them up for free, and Dean was giving his first private lap-dance ever.

Word got around. Requests for private performances happened more often. And they weren’t just from women either. Hell, most of the guys who worked male revue shows were gay. (Guys who spend that much time in the gym, and can actually dance? Come on.) It just meant Dean could expand his clientele. And have a lot more sex.

But it wasn’t about that at first. It was just dancing to start with. A little more personalized attention while he shimmied around the room to some dirty Zep. Then one night, he might’ve had one too many drinks while he was with one of his regulars, and they’d offered him extra to dance naked. It was one of the most erotic experiences of his life. Which didn’t actually involve any sex, that is. But it wasn’t long before that was on offer to his other clients as well.

Things escalated pretty quickly from there. By that point it was just too hard to resist, for both Dean, and his clients. They started paying him extra to watch him touch himself. And that was easy because the whole naked thing got him pretty turned-on to begin with. A little more extra and he let the client take care of their own business while they watched him get off. Not much more extra and Dean was the one taking care of the client’s business. First with his hands, then with his mouth, and finally, the full deal.

So much sex. So much fun. Every night was a party, but so much better because he didn’t have to waste any effort looking for someone to pickup – it was already arranged. And he didn’t have to worry about any awkward mornings after either, because everyone knew exactly what they were getting into from the start. And on top of it all, he got paid for it.

It was easy and uncomplicated, and most importantly, Sam got a ‘free’ ride to Stanford. Though technically it was Dean doing the riding. Or being ridden. He likes it both ways, doesn’t matter.

Dean wonders which way it’s going to go tonight.

He’s in the middle of his act when he sees the guy. It’s the construction worker routine, which is great because there’s this steel cage he gets inside, hidden under a curtain until it gets wheeled onstage for his big reveal. Boy does the crowd go wild when they see him behind those bars. It works great for his cop routine too.

He dances inside it for a bit, then around it, the bars sort of work like your good old-fashioned pole, after all – but the highlight of the act is when the lights go down, and he pulls out an angle-grinder, taking it right to the steel bars of the cage and sending bright sparks flying all across the stage. He’s gotten really good at angling the flow of the sparks too, making them flare out real pretty and sending a nice golden glow over his skin.

But it’s when the lights go down on-stage that Dean can see the audience better as well. Then he can see all the way past the tables of frothing women, right to the bar. And sitting there, is this awkward looking trenchcoat with rumpled hair, too shy to look at him directly and trying to keep himself busy by drinking long gulps of beer. It’s freakin’ adorable.

Dean smirks to himself as he sends one last spray of sparks across the stage, angling his body so it looks like they’re shooting suggestively from his crotch, and when he looks back up towards the bar, the guy has lost the battle, staring at him transfixed.

Dean sends a wink his way. He can’t wait to see what’s under that trenchcoat.

~ tbc

A/N: Guys! Check out this adorable fanart by catcitycat at tumblr!

Also, just thought you might like to know, White Stains is the title of Aleister Crowley's collection of erotic poems lol ;p