"There Must Be Some Kind Of Way Out Of Here"
Title: “There Must Be Some Kind Of Way Out Of Here”
Author: gwenknight
Fandom: Supernatural/Criminal Minds crossover
Pairing: Dean Winchester/Spencer Reid, mention/implication of Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester and Spencer Reid/Derek Morgan
Warning: Slash
Rating: NC-17
Word Count:
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. The end. I own no rights to Supernatural or Criminal Minds, and make no profit. Ever.
A/N: Many thanks to j2sammich for the beta, and Jimi Hendrix for the inspiration.
Summary: Dean has a run-in with the FBI. In an alley. Spencer recognizes transference when he sees it. But, still.
“So, let us not talk falsely now
For the hour’s getting late”……Bob Dylan
Dean Winchester pulls the Impala into the darkened parking lot, rumble of the engine cutting through the night air, low and mean. The bar is on the edge of town, like all the best bars usually are. The neon signs blink, advertising escape in whatever your poison happens to be, Lite or Full Flavor. Dean figures this for a Full Fucking Flavor night.
He’d left Sam back at the motel, brooding over his laptop, searching for new leads that might help them find their father. Find their father, find the demon. That’s Sam’s mantra nowadays and Dean is sick of it. Partly because he can’t come up with the answers himself and, when Dean isn’t in control, he is not a happy man. Partly because it’s screwing with his ability to focus on the jobs he knows are out there and need to be taken care of right the fuck now. Mostly because it’s tearing Sammy up, eating away at him. The nightmares, the headaches, the long hours spent while Sam stares blankly out the car window, struggling in solitude under his mantle of self-imposed Winchester guilt, blaming himself for something a goddamned demon had done, locked in his own little world.
The only other obsession Sam has is Dean.
Dean knows he should have never gone to Stanford to get Sam. He should have kept hunting on his own, left Sam to his pretty blond girlfriend and his textbooks and his dreams of normal.
Or, hell, maybe that was never really an option. Dean’s never had any of that other stuff. All he has, or wants to have, is Sam. In the bright light of day, he’ll say it’s because he needs to keep his brother close to protect him. Here, in the darkened parking lot, near the lure of alcohol and whatever other diversion he can find, he’ll admit he’s just a selfish bastard and a fucking first class coward. At least Sam is honest about what’s between them. At least he admits that a few years’ separation hasn’t dampened that particular fire, doesn’t chalk it up to adolescent exploration or dysfunctional family issues or what the fuck ever like Dean tries to do. Sam doesn’t rationalize it or ignore it or, even for a minute, pretend he doesn’t want it.
He just watches Dean, all the fucking time, heated gaze and supreme confidence, like he knows Dean’s gonna fold and he’ll just sit and wait for it, thank you very much. Lets his fingers brush Dean’s when he hands Dean his coffee. Leans too close over Dean’s shoulder when they’re studying the roadmap that will take them to their next frolicking date with unspeakable evil, lets his stupid long hair brush against Dean’s face. Uses his ridiculous height advantage shamelessly when he reaches over Dean to get the toothpaste off the shelf, crowding Dean up against the sink, heat radiating off his body and making it hard for Dean to breathe.
Dean’s not caving. He’s a Winchester himself and if Sam thinks he can out-stubborn him, then he’s maybe not such a gigantic genius after all. Because if Sam can find normal once, he can find it again and Dean’s not going to stand in the way of that. Once they find Dad and take care of this demon business, Sam’s going back to school and on with whatever he wants out of life, even if it kills Dean. And, this time, it just might.
Cutting the engine, he steps out into the cool of the Wisconsin night, pops the collar of his leather jacket, and heads inside. Time to shoot a few games, down a few beers, and see what the locals have to offer.
It’s late and the place is pretty crowded. Dim lights and cold beer and Skynyrd on the juke box. Dean makes his way to the bar and leans back against it, sipping his beer and scanning the room. He watches the men gathered around the pool tables carefully, keeping tabs on who’s winning and who’s losing and who looks like they’re spoiling for a fight. He thinks he wouldn’t be averse to trading a few punches, maybe taking the edge off, but he knows it’s better not to draw attention to himself. The last thing he needs is to get thrown in some Podunk County jail and have one of his numerous fake licenses run through the system. Besides, he and Sam are getting low on money and hustling pool takes a cool head.
A couple hours and six hundred bucks later, he’s ready to call it quits. Which is a pity, because he’s on a roll and could easily take his opponent for another few bills. But, the crowd around the tables has grown and, along with the usual good old boys yelling out encouragement to their local favorite and the girls, high on shots and low on inhibitions, who are shooting Dean lingering glances and blatant invitations, there’s one guy who’s tripping Dean’s spidey sense.
He looks to be a few years younger than Dean. Tall and thin with shaggy, shoulder-length brown hair, big dark eyes and an awkwardness that makes it clear the bar scene isn’t his usual habitat. Hell, the kid looks like he’d be much more at home in a library or classroom and Dean wonders what the hell he’s even doing here. He’s dressed in a striped button-down with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, loosened tie, and khakis, so maybe he’s come from work, or maybe fresh from a shopping spree at Geeks-R-Us. His arms are folded around his waist and he hunches his shoulders a bit, like he’s trying to seem smaller. Sam does that, and Dean figures it must be just a tall person thing.
He opts in for one more round with Local Loser, but keeps a careful eye on the boy. Once he really pays attention, though, the question of why he’s here becomes a little clearer. When he’s not watching Dean, the kid has his eye on the next table over, specifically on one of the players. He’s a good-looking, muscular, dude in a snug navy
t-shirt and jeans. Short-cropped hair, tatts showing beneath the sleeves of his shirt, and a blinding smile that is charming everyone around him. If Dean didn’t know better, he’d think the guy was hustling. Dean can smell cop from a hundred yards away, though, and this guy reeks of law enforcement.
Even better reason to cut his night short while he’s ahead. He lines up another shot and sinks the ball cleanly into the side pocket, laughing at the friendly jibes from the men around him and winking at a half-dressed bottle blonde who’s been edging closer to him for the last fifteen minutes. He takes a minute to chalk up his cue and catches geek boy staring at him with a raised eyebrow and an almost smile that lets Dean know he’s onto him. Fuck. The kid spends less time at the library than Dean had imagined.
Still, he’s ahead of the game, anyway, so he deliberately loses the last round and heads back to the bar with his winnings in his pocket and the blonde wrapped around him. She’s not what he wants, but she’s there and ready and really, really willing, so. He buys her a drink and half listens to her life story, but his attention goes back to the pretty boy who seems to know a con when he sees one.
The kid is still watching the game. Muscles makes a brilliant shot and the crowd around the table yells and whistles in appreciation. Muscles tosses a careless wink and smile in Geek Boy’s direction and goes back to his game, apparently oblivious to the look of stark hunger on the kid’s face.
Ah. So, that’s how it is. Poor schmuck. It makes Dean kind of want to punch Muscles in the face. But he gets distracted when the blonde……Shelly? Sherry?.......rubs her tits against his arm and puts a hand on his thigh.
The thing is? He’s not distracted in a good way. Which is all sorts of wrong and pisses him off because he should be all over this. He’s halfway to drunk and can count the times he’s been laid on one hand since he’d picked up Sam at Stanford. Not that Sam has anything to do with that. Dean’s been busy, is all.
Blondie’s hand slides a little more towards his business and Dean signals to the bartender for shots. Nothing like tequila to set the mood, he always says. Stacy….yeah, yeah, it’s Stacy….takes to it like a duck to water. His kind of girl. He’s sampling her cherry lip gloss and mentally assessing his options when, out of the corner of his eye, he sees the kid take a seat at the bar three stools down. Watches as his thin shoulders slump, his long fingers curl around his beer bottle, his dark wavy hair falls into his eyes.
Fuck.
He closes his eyes and tightens his hold on Stacy. Listens to her breathy little moan and tries like hell to get with the program. He chances another look and the boy is watching him now with an expression that’s saying all the wrong things, asking all the wrong questions.
Dean sighs and eases away from Stacy with an apologetic look. It’s more than a little affronting when she just shrugs and, with a quick kiss and a “maybe next time, stud”, wanders off in search of her next conquest. Dean gapes like a fish as he watches her walk away with a seductive twist of her hips. He’s really, really going to have to work on his game.
“You’re a hustler.”
The boy hasn’t moved from his barstool, just sits there picking the label off his bottle, his knee jiggling up and down nervously.
“Excuse me?” Dean’s floundering. He’s been dropped by a girl and made by a guy in one night. He wants to punch somebody. But, he remembers Muscles and his police vibe and the connection this kid may or may not have with him and decides to take the high road. A glance across the room lets him know that Muscles is still showing off at the tables, so he takes his glass and moves down next to Mr. Smartass-Know-It-All.
“Maybe I’m just that good.”
That doesn’t even draw a grin. The dude just gets this earnest look on his face and launches into the whys and wherefores of the game and its beginnings way back when and gentlemen’s clubs in Victorian England and the game as not only a way out of financial woes but then growing into its own as a sport and…….
He’s waving those hands….God, those hands……around and his eyes…..up close, they’re not brown at all, but lighter, like those caramel candies Sam keeps in a bag in the glove compartment, only with dark shadows around them like he doesn’t sleep well, stark against pale skin that speaks of long hours under fluorescent lights……and he’s stammering a little, like his brain’s moving a lot faster than his tongue. He’s going on and on about trajectories and averages and shit and Dean gets kind of hypnotized until the kid hits the part about the pool cue as a phallic symbol and maybe compensating for a lack of……
“Whoa, whoa! Dude! My phallic symbol is doing just fine, thank you very much.”
“Oh. Um. Sorry.” The awkward, little-boy-lost comes back out, just like that. It’s like night and day and Dean’s getting dizzy. He downs another swallow of Cuervo and waves his glass in the kid’s direction.
“What, you gonna bust my balls, Junior? You gonna run me in just for being a brilliant player?”
Tucking his hair behind his ear in a nervous gesture, the boy shakes his head. “I was simply admiring your strategy. You had everyone completely fooled.”
Screw this. Dean hates playing cat and mouse. That’s more Sam’s territory. Dean’s a lay-it-all-out-on-the-table kind of guy.
“Not everyone, apparently.”
That’s when he gets pinned by those eyes, by that look, except this time it’s up close and personal and it’s like a blow to Dean’s gut. This is no boy. He may be young, but he’s…..Sam would say he was an old soul…..he’s been around, seen a lot of shit and lived to tell the story. Only he doesn’t look like he overshares exactly. He looks like he might hold it all in, probably too much so.
“I’m not a cop.” He gestures with his hands and stutters a bit. “Um…well, not exactly, I mean.”
Dean hesitates. “How “not exactly”?”
He holds out his hand towards Dean. “My name is Spencer Reid. I’m with the FBI.”
Dean’s shaking his hand before he realizes it, registering the surprising strength in the long fingers that wrap around his. He thinks about the fake FBI badges in the trunk of the Impala and the gun strapped to his ankle. He thinks about stolen credit cards and illegal weapons and how he’s going to get out of this and get back to the motel in time to grab Sam and get the hell out of Dodge.
“G-man, huh? What’s the FBI doing in Podunk, Wisconsin?” His voice is deceptively calm as he furtively checks out the available exits.
Spencer smiles, small and hesitant, and nods towards the pool tables. “My partner, Derek, and I are on the way back to Quantico from a lecture series in Milwaukee. We’re profilers.”
Dean relaxes a little, easing onto the barstool. “Yeah, you look like the lecturing type.”
Spencer ducks his head, blushing, and Dean absolutely doesn’t think it’s hot at all. He wonders when he fell into the fucking rabbit hole. Maybe he’s been whammied by something freaky. Wouldn’t be the first damn time.
He motions to the bartender, who slides two more beers in front of them. “So. Your partner’s not a bad player, himself, yeah?”
They both look over at the tables and Dean could kick himself because, of course, that’s the exact moment that Derek gets backed up against the wall by a redhead with a lot of curves stuffed into not much skirt. Spencer looks away quickly, again with the tucking the hair behind his ear. The thing is? He totally misses the way that Derek eases away from the woman and shoots a quick, furtive look in Spencer’s direction.
Dean doesn’t miss it at all. He sips his beer and thinks about the fuckedupedness of things. But, hell, he’s a few beers in and a few shots too far along to have any answers. Sam’s the only Winchester who watches Oprah. Most of the time, anyway.
He drains his bottle, plants it firmly back on the bar, and stands up to leave, but hesitates when Spencer clears his throat and looks him in the eye.
“Your girlfriend coming back?”
The stammer is gone, his gaze is clear, and he seems to have found his backbone.
Dean studies him silently for a full minute, the commotion around him fading into the background, until all he can see is this boy with the strong hands and long legs and impossible hair who’s evidently got more balls than common sense.
Dean’s never lacked for balls, himself.
“I don’t have a girlfriend, Reid.”
Bob Seger’s on the jukebox, singing about Night Moves, when he turns and walks away, winding through the crowd, not slowing down until he’s out the back door and halfway down the darkened alley that runs along the side of the building. He hears Reid’s footsteps behind him, echoing on the pavement and he stops, spins around, and backs him up against the concrete wall.
Not surprisingly, Reid starts with the stuttering and stammering, his hands flapping around, but Dean figures they’ve talked enough.
“Shut up, Reid.”
Which he does, when Dean grabs his tie, pulls him closer, and kisses him quiet. His hands settle on Dean’s hips. His tongue tangles up with Dean’s and he makes this choked moan that goes straight to Dean’s cock. Reid’s pushing at his jacket and Dean shrugs his shoulders to help ease it off, shoving it aside with his boot when it hits the ground. He loves that jacket but Reid’s fingers are snaking underneath his t-shirt, pressing warm against his lower back and Dean can’t bring himself to care.
Dean’s fumbling at Reid’s shirt buttons, pulling his tie loose, until he can finally get his mouth on Reid’s throat because, God, it’s miles of pale, smooth skin that tastes so fucking good when Dean is finally able to bite down on the sweet spot between Reid’s neck and shoulder. Reid sucks in a breath and trembles underneath Dean’s hands when Dean smoothes the bite with his tongue, when he pushes Reid’s shirt aside and grazes his collarbone with his teeth, just this side of rough.
Reid’s fumbling with Dean’s belt, gets it open, turns them around, and puts Dean’s back to the wall. He’s got a knee between Dean’s legs, pressing just hard enough to mean it, and whispers against Dean’s mouth.
“Let….Let me. “
Dean’s power of speech has deserted him, for once, and he can only nod his head and struggle to breathe as Reid drops to his knees, pushing Dean’s jeans out of the way as he goes. The night air washes cool over Dean’s skin for only a second before strong fingers wrap around his cock and he’s lost in the wet heat of Reid’s mouth.
It’s pretty evident that Reid’s not a player, but what he lacks in technique, he makes up for in intensity and all Dean can do is hang on and go with it. He threads his fingers through Reid’s hair, just because he can. Shivers as it slides over his hands, soft and seductive as sin. Reid’s got one big hand planted against Dean’s stomach to hold him still while he licks and sucks and moans around Dean’s dick until Dean’s feeling dizzy and babbling and cussing and calling on Jesus and all his saints, until he feels fire starting up in his spine, snaking all through him and he pushes at Reid in warning, but Reid doesn’t go, just hangs the hell on and sucks him down and that is all she wrote. Dean comes hard and long and shaking and he’ll never admit it out loud but he might have hit the ground if Reid hadn’t been holding him up.
It’s a minute or two till he can get his bearings and when he looks down at Reid, he almost loses them again. Reid’s got his pants open and his fist around his cock and if it were humanly possible, Dean would be hard again because, fuck.
Dean falls to his knees, bats Reid’s hand away, and replaces it with his own. Reid bows his head and watches as Dean jacks him. Messy hair falling into his face, one hand wrapped around the back of Dean’s neck, groaning soft and low, and Dean works him with sure strokes until Reid makes a strangled sound and comes over Dean’s hand, hot and pulsing, leaning into Dean, his whole body shuddering.
They sit there a few minutes to catch their breath, still wrapped up in each other, a dog barking off in the distance, the bass from the jukebox in the bar pounding behind them, stars clear and bright overhead. Somewhere out in the parking lot, a car door slams and Dean knows how vulnerable they are, how easily they could be found. A little late for caution now, but it makes him move, makes him urge Spencer to his feet. They zip up and button up and Reid runs a hand through his hair.
Dean picks his jacket up off the ground, looks at Spencer. He’s looking all awkward and shy and bumbling again, like he hasn’t just given Dean the blow job of his life and Dean can’t help but grin.
“Hey, Professor.” He reaches out to straighten Reid’s tie for him. “You’re a smart guy. You know what you want. Go get it.”
He turns to walk away, but Spencer’s voice stops him.
“You should practice what you preach, you know.”
Dean looks at him and Spencer steps closer and kisses him, long and slow and lazy, then whispers against his mouth.
“You called me Sam.”
Dean’s still standing there when Spencer Reid goes back into the bar, closing the door softly behind him.
****************************
Author: gwenknight
Fandom: Supernatural/Criminal Minds crossover
Pairing: Dean Winchester/Spencer Reid, mention/implication of Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester and Spencer Reid/Derek Morgan
Warning: Slash
Rating: NC-17
Word Count:
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. The end. I own no rights to Supernatural or Criminal Minds, and make no profit. Ever.
A/N: Many thanks to j2sammich for the beta, and Jimi Hendrix for the inspiration.
Summary: Dean has a run-in with the FBI. In an alley. Spencer recognizes transference when he sees it. But, still.
“So, let us not talk falsely now
For the hour’s getting late”……Bob Dylan
Dean Winchester pulls the Impala into the darkened parking lot, rumble of the engine cutting through the night air, low and mean. The bar is on the edge of town, like all the best bars usually are. The neon signs blink, advertising escape in whatever your poison happens to be, Lite or Full Flavor. Dean figures this for a Full Fucking Flavor night.
He’d left Sam back at the motel, brooding over his laptop, searching for new leads that might help them find their father. Find their father, find the demon. That’s Sam’s mantra nowadays and Dean is sick of it. Partly because he can’t come up with the answers himself and, when Dean isn’t in control, he is not a happy man. Partly because it’s screwing with his ability to focus on the jobs he knows are out there and need to be taken care of right the fuck now. Mostly because it’s tearing Sammy up, eating away at him. The nightmares, the headaches, the long hours spent while Sam stares blankly out the car window, struggling in solitude under his mantle of self-imposed Winchester guilt, blaming himself for something a goddamned demon had done, locked in his own little world.
The only other obsession Sam has is Dean.
Dean knows he should have never gone to Stanford to get Sam. He should have kept hunting on his own, left Sam to his pretty blond girlfriend and his textbooks and his dreams of normal.
Or, hell, maybe that was never really an option. Dean’s never had any of that other stuff. All he has, or wants to have, is Sam. In the bright light of day, he’ll say it’s because he needs to keep his brother close to protect him. Here, in the darkened parking lot, near the lure of alcohol and whatever other diversion he can find, he’ll admit he’s just a selfish bastard and a fucking first class coward. At least Sam is honest about what’s between them. At least he admits that a few years’ separation hasn’t dampened that particular fire, doesn’t chalk it up to adolescent exploration or dysfunctional family issues or what the fuck ever like Dean tries to do. Sam doesn’t rationalize it or ignore it or, even for a minute, pretend he doesn’t want it.
He just watches Dean, all the fucking time, heated gaze and supreme confidence, like he knows Dean’s gonna fold and he’ll just sit and wait for it, thank you very much. Lets his fingers brush Dean’s when he hands Dean his coffee. Leans too close over Dean’s shoulder when they’re studying the roadmap that will take them to their next frolicking date with unspeakable evil, lets his stupid long hair brush against Dean’s face. Uses his ridiculous height advantage shamelessly when he reaches over Dean to get the toothpaste off the shelf, crowding Dean up against the sink, heat radiating off his body and making it hard for Dean to breathe.
Dean’s not caving. He’s a Winchester himself and if Sam thinks he can out-stubborn him, then he’s maybe not such a gigantic genius after all. Because if Sam can find normal once, he can find it again and Dean’s not going to stand in the way of that. Once they find Dad and take care of this demon business, Sam’s going back to school and on with whatever he wants out of life, even if it kills Dean. And, this time, it just might.
Cutting the engine, he steps out into the cool of the Wisconsin night, pops the collar of his leather jacket, and heads inside. Time to shoot a few games, down a few beers, and see what the locals have to offer.
It’s late and the place is pretty crowded. Dim lights and cold beer and Skynyrd on the juke box. Dean makes his way to the bar and leans back against it, sipping his beer and scanning the room. He watches the men gathered around the pool tables carefully, keeping tabs on who’s winning and who’s losing and who looks like they’re spoiling for a fight. He thinks he wouldn’t be averse to trading a few punches, maybe taking the edge off, but he knows it’s better not to draw attention to himself. The last thing he needs is to get thrown in some Podunk County jail and have one of his numerous fake licenses run through the system. Besides, he and Sam are getting low on money and hustling pool takes a cool head.
A couple hours and six hundred bucks later, he’s ready to call it quits. Which is a pity, because he’s on a roll and could easily take his opponent for another few bills. But, the crowd around the tables has grown and, along with the usual good old boys yelling out encouragement to their local favorite and the girls, high on shots and low on inhibitions, who are shooting Dean lingering glances and blatant invitations, there’s one guy who’s tripping Dean’s spidey sense.
He looks to be a few years younger than Dean. Tall and thin with shaggy, shoulder-length brown hair, big dark eyes and an awkwardness that makes it clear the bar scene isn’t his usual habitat. Hell, the kid looks like he’d be much more at home in a library or classroom and Dean wonders what the hell he’s even doing here. He’s dressed in a striped button-down with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, loosened tie, and khakis, so maybe he’s come from work, or maybe fresh from a shopping spree at Geeks-R-Us. His arms are folded around his waist and he hunches his shoulders a bit, like he’s trying to seem smaller. Sam does that, and Dean figures it must be just a tall person thing.
He opts in for one more round with Local Loser, but keeps a careful eye on the boy. Once he really pays attention, though, the question of why he’s here becomes a little clearer. When he’s not watching Dean, the kid has his eye on the next table over, specifically on one of the players. He’s a good-looking, muscular, dude in a snug navy
t-shirt and jeans. Short-cropped hair, tatts showing beneath the sleeves of his shirt, and a blinding smile that is charming everyone around him. If Dean didn’t know better, he’d think the guy was hustling. Dean can smell cop from a hundred yards away, though, and this guy reeks of law enforcement.
Even better reason to cut his night short while he’s ahead. He lines up another shot and sinks the ball cleanly into the side pocket, laughing at the friendly jibes from the men around him and winking at a half-dressed bottle blonde who’s been edging closer to him for the last fifteen minutes. He takes a minute to chalk up his cue and catches geek boy staring at him with a raised eyebrow and an almost smile that lets Dean know he’s onto him. Fuck. The kid spends less time at the library than Dean had imagined.
Still, he’s ahead of the game, anyway, so he deliberately loses the last round and heads back to the bar with his winnings in his pocket and the blonde wrapped around him. She’s not what he wants, but she’s there and ready and really, really willing, so. He buys her a drink and half listens to her life story, but his attention goes back to the pretty boy who seems to know a con when he sees one.
The kid is still watching the game. Muscles makes a brilliant shot and the crowd around the table yells and whistles in appreciation. Muscles tosses a careless wink and smile in Geek Boy’s direction and goes back to his game, apparently oblivious to the look of stark hunger on the kid’s face.
Ah. So, that’s how it is. Poor schmuck. It makes Dean kind of want to punch Muscles in the face. But he gets distracted when the blonde……Shelly? Sherry?.......rubs her tits against his arm and puts a hand on his thigh.
The thing is? He’s not distracted in a good way. Which is all sorts of wrong and pisses him off because he should be all over this. He’s halfway to drunk and can count the times he’s been laid on one hand since he’d picked up Sam at Stanford. Not that Sam has anything to do with that. Dean’s been busy, is all.
Blondie’s hand slides a little more towards his business and Dean signals to the bartender for shots. Nothing like tequila to set the mood, he always says. Stacy….yeah, yeah, it’s Stacy….takes to it like a duck to water. His kind of girl. He’s sampling her cherry lip gloss and mentally assessing his options when, out of the corner of his eye, he sees the kid take a seat at the bar three stools down. Watches as his thin shoulders slump, his long fingers curl around his beer bottle, his dark wavy hair falls into his eyes.
Fuck.
He closes his eyes and tightens his hold on Stacy. Listens to her breathy little moan and tries like hell to get with the program. He chances another look and the boy is watching him now with an expression that’s saying all the wrong things, asking all the wrong questions.
Dean sighs and eases away from Stacy with an apologetic look. It’s more than a little affronting when she just shrugs and, with a quick kiss and a “maybe next time, stud”, wanders off in search of her next conquest. Dean gapes like a fish as he watches her walk away with a seductive twist of her hips. He’s really, really going to have to work on his game.
“You’re a hustler.”
The boy hasn’t moved from his barstool, just sits there picking the label off his bottle, his knee jiggling up and down nervously.
“Excuse me?” Dean’s floundering. He’s been dropped by a girl and made by a guy in one night. He wants to punch somebody. But, he remembers Muscles and his police vibe and the connection this kid may or may not have with him and decides to take the high road. A glance across the room lets him know that Muscles is still showing off at the tables, so he takes his glass and moves down next to Mr. Smartass-Know-It-All.
“Maybe I’m just that good.”
That doesn’t even draw a grin. The dude just gets this earnest look on his face and launches into the whys and wherefores of the game and its beginnings way back when and gentlemen’s clubs in Victorian England and the game as not only a way out of financial woes but then growing into its own as a sport and…….
He’s waving those hands….God, those hands……around and his eyes…..up close, they’re not brown at all, but lighter, like those caramel candies Sam keeps in a bag in the glove compartment, only with dark shadows around them like he doesn’t sleep well, stark against pale skin that speaks of long hours under fluorescent lights……and he’s stammering a little, like his brain’s moving a lot faster than his tongue. He’s going on and on about trajectories and averages and shit and Dean gets kind of hypnotized until the kid hits the part about the pool cue as a phallic symbol and maybe compensating for a lack of……
“Whoa, whoa! Dude! My phallic symbol is doing just fine, thank you very much.”
“Oh. Um. Sorry.” The awkward, little-boy-lost comes back out, just like that. It’s like night and day and Dean’s getting dizzy. He downs another swallow of Cuervo and waves his glass in the kid’s direction.
“What, you gonna bust my balls, Junior? You gonna run me in just for being a brilliant player?”
Tucking his hair behind his ear in a nervous gesture, the boy shakes his head. “I was simply admiring your strategy. You had everyone completely fooled.”
Screw this. Dean hates playing cat and mouse. That’s more Sam’s territory. Dean’s a lay-it-all-out-on-the-table kind of guy.
“Not everyone, apparently.”
That’s when he gets pinned by those eyes, by that look, except this time it’s up close and personal and it’s like a blow to Dean’s gut. This is no boy. He may be young, but he’s…..Sam would say he was an old soul…..he’s been around, seen a lot of shit and lived to tell the story. Only he doesn’t look like he overshares exactly. He looks like he might hold it all in, probably too much so.
“I’m not a cop.” He gestures with his hands and stutters a bit. “Um…well, not exactly, I mean.”
Dean hesitates. “How “not exactly”?”
He holds out his hand towards Dean. “My name is Spencer Reid. I’m with the FBI.”
Dean’s shaking his hand before he realizes it, registering the surprising strength in the long fingers that wrap around his. He thinks about the fake FBI badges in the trunk of the Impala and the gun strapped to his ankle. He thinks about stolen credit cards and illegal weapons and how he’s going to get out of this and get back to the motel in time to grab Sam and get the hell out of Dodge.
“G-man, huh? What’s the FBI doing in Podunk, Wisconsin?” His voice is deceptively calm as he furtively checks out the available exits.
Spencer smiles, small and hesitant, and nods towards the pool tables. “My partner, Derek, and I are on the way back to Quantico from a lecture series in Milwaukee. We’re profilers.”
Dean relaxes a little, easing onto the barstool. “Yeah, you look like the lecturing type.”
Spencer ducks his head, blushing, and Dean absolutely doesn’t think it’s hot at all. He wonders when he fell into the fucking rabbit hole. Maybe he’s been whammied by something freaky. Wouldn’t be the first damn time.
He motions to the bartender, who slides two more beers in front of them. “So. Your partner’s not a bad player, himself, yeah?”
They both look over at the tables and Dean could kick himself because, of course, that’s the exact moment that Derek gets backed up against the wall by a redhead with a lot of curves stuffed into not much skirt. Spencer looks away quickly, again with the tucking the hair behind his ear. The thing is? He totally misses the way that Derek eases away from the woman and shoots a quick, furtive look in Spencer’s direction.
Dean doesn’t miss it at all. He sips his beer and thinks about the fuckedupedness of things. But, hell, he’s a few beers in and a few shots too far along to have any answers. Sam’s the only Winchester who watches Oprah. Most of the time, anyway.
He drains his bottle, plants it firmly back on the bar, and stands up to leave, but hesitates when Spencer clears his throat and looks him in the eye.
“Your girlfriend coming back?”
The stammer is gone, his gaze is clear, and he seems to have found his backbone.
Dean studies him silently for a full minute, the commotion around him fading into the background, until all he can see is this boy with the strong hands and long legs and impossible hair who’s evidently got more balls than common sense.
Dean’s never lacked for balls, himself.
“I don’t have a girlfriend, Reid.”
Bob Seger’s on the jukebox, singing about Night Moves, when he turns and walks away, winding through the crowd, not slowing down until he’s out the back door and halfway down the darkened alley that runs along the side of the building. He hears Reid’s footsteps behind him, echoing on the pavement and he stops, spins around, and backs him up against the concrete wall.
Not surprisingly, Reid starts with the stuttering and stammering, his hands flapping around, but Dean figures they’ve talked enough.
“Shut up, Reid.”
Which he does, when Dean grabs his tie, pulls him closer, and kisses him quiet. His hands settle on Dean’s hips. His tongue tangles up with Dean’s and he makes this choked moan that goes straight to Dean’s cock. Reid’s pushing at his jacket and Dean shrugs his shoulders to help ease it off, shoving it aside with his boot when it hits the ground. He loves that jacket but Reid’s fingers are snaking underneath his t-shirt, pressing warm against his lower back and Dean can’t bring himself to care.
Dean’s fumbling at Reid’s shirt buttons, pulling his tie loose, until he can finally get his mouth on Reid’s throat because, God, it’s miles of pale, smooth skin that tastes so fucking good when Dean is finally able to bite down on the sweet spot between Reid’s neck and shoulder. Reid sucks in a breath and trembles underneath Dean’s hands when Dean smoothes the bite with his tongue, when he pushes Reid’s shirt aside and grazes his collarbone with his teeth, just this side of rough.
Reid’s fumbling with Dean’s belt, gets it open, turns them around, and puts Dean’s back to the wall. He’s got a knee between Dean’s legs, pressing just hard enough to mean it, and whispers against Dean’s mouth.
“Let….Let me. “
Dean’s power of speech has deserted him, for once, and he can only nod his head and struggle to breathe as Reid drops to his knees, pushing Dean’s jeans out of the way as he goes. The night air washes cool over Dean’s skin for only a second before strong fingers wrap around his cock and he’s lost in the wet heat of Reid’s mouth.
It’s pretty evident that Reid’s not a player, but what he lacks in technique, he makes up for in intensity and all Dean can do is hang on and go with it. He threads his fingers through Reid’s hair, just because he can. Shivers as it slides over his hands, soft and seductive as sin. Reid’s got one big hand planted against Dean’s stomach to hold him still while he licks and sucks and moans around Dean’s dick until Dean’s feeling dizzy and babbling and cussing and calling on Jesus and all his saints, until he feels fire starting up in his spine, snaking all through him and he pushes at Reid in warning, but Reid doesn’t go, just hangs the hell on and sucks him down and that is all she wrote. Dean comes hard and long and shaking and he’ll never admit it out loud but he might have hit the ground if Reid hadn’t been holding him up.
It’s a minute or two till he can get his bearings and when he looks down at Reid, he almost loses them again. Reid’s got his pants open and his fist around his cock and if it were humanly possible, Dean would be hard again because, fuck.
Dean falls to his knees, bats Reid’s hand away, and replaces it with his own. Reid bows his head and watches as Dean jacks him. Messy hair falling into his face, one hand wrapped around the back of Dean’s neck, groaning soft and low, and Dean works him with sure strokes until Reid makes a strangled sound and comes over Dean’s hand, hot and pulsing, leaning into Dean, his whole body shuddering.
They sit there a few minutes to catch their breath, still wrapped up in each other, a dog barking off in the distance, the bass from the jukebox in the bar pounding behind them, stars clear and bright overhead. Somewhere out in the parking lot, a car door slams and Dean knows how vulnerable they are, how easily they could be found. A little late for caution now, but it makes him move, makes him urge Spencer to his feet. They zip up and button up and Reid runs a hand through his hair.
Dean picks his jacket up off the ground, looks at Spencer. He’s looking all awkward and shy and bumbling again, like he hasn’t just given Dean the blow job of his life and Dean can’t help but grin.
“Hey, Professor.” He reaches out to straighten Reid’s tie for him. “You’re a smart guy. You know what you want. Go get it.”
He turns to walk away, but Spencer’s voice stops him.
“You should practice what you preach, you know.”
Dean looks at him and Spencer steps closer and kisses him, long and slow and lazy, then whispers against his mouth.
“You called me Sam.”
Dean’s still standing there when Spencer Reid goes back into the bar, closing the door softly behind him.
****************************