Fic: Well If I Don't Win, Imma Gonna Break Even, Part Two
Continued from Chapter One: Part One, here.
They drove to a local dive, complete with peeling green leather bar stools and wood paneling over all the walls. There was a juke box tucked into the corner by the bathroom doors, but it wasn’t playing any tunes. The murmuring of low voices and the clinking of beer bottles and cocktail glasses filled the room.
Dean threw a twenty on the bar and asked for two beers and two-double shots of the cheapest whiskey.
If Dean knew his own tolerance and could trust his hunch about Neal’s, he would be fine to drive back and his friend would be drunk enough to forget his troubles until the morning.
Neal shot Dean a strange look before he picked up the over-sized shot glass, stared at it intensely for about five seconds and downed it in one gulp. He barely even made a face.
Dean downed his just as fast and chased it with a large sip of beer. Neal watched him for a moment then turned to the bartender, a scruffy man with a noticeable beer-belly. “Another double-shot of the same,” Neal ordered.
“One for him too?” The bartender replied, indicating Dean.
“Naw, I gotta drive later,” Dean answered for himself.
The shot was promptly brought over and Neal paid the man with singles. He took the drink in the same intensely game manner and sauntered over to the juke box, one extra dollar in his hand. He swiftly punched through the albums, obviously looking for something specific.
Tom Petty’s “Wreck Me” began to play over the bar’s fuzzy sound system as Neal walked away from the machine. Dean sipped his beer and watched him, hands in his pockets all casual-like, eyes carefully bored as they scanned the room.
As he looked, Dean wondered how this man even existed. How did he walk around, breathe, speak, eat, drink, and look like that? Shouldn’t he be cast in marble or immortalized in song? Dean rarely stopped long to notice the physical beauty of the world around him, but he couldn’t help being somehow captivated by Neal Caffrey.
Neal met Dean’s eyes and he smiled, for real, as he sat down next to him at the bar. Not as if nothing was wrong, but like he was trying not to think about it. He said, “You’re going to have to stop eye-fucking me from across the room, or everyone in this bar is gonna think we’re gay for each other.”
Dean automatically smirked and replied, “Then I’ll have to think of some other way to keep that smile on your face.”
It wasn’t an admission of anything, but it wasn’t a denial either. Dean was feeling unusually ambivalent and somehow uncomfortable about that as he lifted his glass and took a long drink.
Neal must have been aware of his uncertainty because the con-man’s smile stretched lazily and his lips started mouthing the words Tom Petty was singing. Neal’s voice came in low under the blaring speakers, but Dean was close enough that he could hear him croon, “Rescue me, should I go wrong. If I dig too deep, if I stay too long.”
And the two of them broke loudly into the chorus of “Ohs” and “yeahs” and excellent guitar solos. What was a juke box for, if not obnoxiously singing each and every song you play on it until the rest of the bar hates your guts?
When the song was over, Neal grabbed his beer and took a drink. “I’m so glad I called,” he said. “I wasn’t even thinking that…I mean… it was the best thing I could have done.”
Dean felt his mouth twist in a crooked grin. “Thanks,” he mumbled. For some reason, he was never quite sure how to take a compliment.
But Neal smiled and touched his arm, "I'm glad I got to see you before we had to leave."
"Yeah," Dean replied, subdued. "Me too."
He couldn't put a finger on his disappointment at the news. He knew Kate and Neal were International art thieves. They were always telling him about their travels and would have obviously returned to Europe at some point. But six months seemed like a really long time.
Dean nearly jumped as Neal's hand, which he hadn't noticed was still on his arm, gave a quick squeeze. "The mail still gets to Europe," Neal said. "Send it to the P.O. Box. Just like before. It'll just take longer to reach us."
Dean met Neal's eyes and was reminded of the connection he’d felt to this man the first time they’d met. That thread of a common past, a shared understanding. Somehow he got the impression that Neal hated the leaving as much as Dean hated being left behind.
"Right," he replied, "same as before. Now, let's play some pool."
Neal turned towards the table and grimaced. "I'm not really very good."
Dean grabbed his shoulder and spun him back around on the squeaky bar stool. "There is absolutely no way you are not excellent at this game. Are you trying to hustle me? Me?!"
The look in Neal’s eyes was lazy and confident, and dangerous as hell. "Wanna find out?"
Sober, Neal was a master at pool. Each move he made was considered and decided on as swiftly as the strike of the cue against the cue ball. Neal wiped the floor with Dean as one after another the balls fell into each pocket before he could even take a turn of his own.
“So I guess you’re not going to even attempt to hustle me?” Dean asked sullenly.
Neal smiled, loosening his tie with a slow hand. The first game was over and Neal had just finished his beer. “I figured I wouldn’t since you already called me out on it. Would you rather I play down to you?”
Dean rolled his eyes and grumbled, “Come on man, you’re just showing off. At least let me get a turn in.”
“Fine,” Neal replied with a generous grin, and Dean wondered if the alcohol was getting to him yet. They racked up the next game and began to play for real.
Dean was a much more thoughtful player than Neal. Not that Neal didn’t think about what he was doing, but his decisions were quick, practiced, based somewhere between preternatural skill and muscle memory. Dean preferred to make sure that out of every option, the one he was about to make was the best, would be the one he could pull off the easiest and would get him in the best position.
Pool was probably the only thing he ever did that he was so methodical about. He thought maybe it was because for so many years he wanted so badly to win against Dad.
Because Dean took the game so slowly, Neal started to get distracted. He won the second game handily and did an adorable little victory dance over to the bar for two more beers. But the third game seemed more of a challenge to him. He worked more slowly, squinting at the table, hesitating before taking a stroke. He scraped by with a win and talked some trash that made so little sense it wasn’t even worth repeating.
Over the course of the evening Neal also loosened his tie significantly more, about a quarter of an inch every hour, until he finally shed his slick suit jacket and slipped the first two buttons of collar of his increasingly rumpled shirt. He’d run a hand through his hair every time a few strands fell into his wide, smiling eyes. His exhaustion and the alcohol had settled over him, relaxing his usual crisp, focused appearance into a disheveled, ragged ball of charisma and slow grins.
And by the fourth and last game he only took his eyes off Dean long enough to make a few feeble attempts at playing pool.
Dean fist-pumped when he sunk the 8-ball, but he could tell Neal barely even noticed what had happened. The con man’s eyes were trained somewhere between Dean’s mouth and his collarbone.
Dean had a feeling that if they'd been in NYC instead of rural PA the man would have been all hands hours ago. And he couldn't decide how he felt about it. He thanked the universe or whatever for small favors, hating the idea of having to cause a ridiculous scene in the middle of the sleepy bar on a week night.
He remembered that morning, outside Chicago, when he felt what could have been a real attraction between him and this guy. And then there was the freaking kiss. He didn't know what he'd been thinking; only that he'd needed Dad out of there as fast as possible. What better way to get that accomplished?
Neal seemed to have realized that the game was over and he had somehow lost. Dean took the cue from his friend's hands and said, "You ready to head out?"
Neal smiled and swayed a little, but managed to answer, without stumbling over the words, "Whenever you are."
Dean smiled ruefully at him. "You put on a pretty good act, but let's see you walk out of here in a straight line. Without my help.”
“You wanna bet I can’t do it? B’cause, I totally can.” Neal’s hand was resting on the table. If it hadn’t been, Dean would never have bet anything close to a hundred.
Neal exited the establishment just as he had entered it, except this time he was whistling and Dean followed with a curse on his breath and the usual glance over his shoulder.
In the car, Neal leaned his head heavily against the window and murmured, “I’m not going to take your money, Dean.”
“You just want me to know how good you really are?”
The con-man smiled lazily. “Something like that.”
Neal was quiet for about a minute after that, and Dean thought maybe he’d conked out. But out of the blue he spoke, softly, almost reverently, “I love your car by the way.”
Dean glanced at his friend, whose eyes were closed in a drunken half-sleep. “Yeah, me too.”
“We drove one once when I was little. From Tulsa to…Dallas maybe. The seats smelled like cigars,” Neal spoke as if dreaming. He might not even have realized he was talking out loud.
Dean did not dare reply, wanting to see if Neal would reveal anything else about his past.
As he continued, the hint of a Texas drawl crept into his words. “We ditched it at a Walmart. And I didn’t tell Billy, but I was so sad to see it go. It wasn’t in as great shape as this one. But we almost never drove cars so nice.”
Dean felt a strange sort of emotion filling his chest and throat, almost choking him. When Neal didn’t speak again, Dean glanced over at him.
His eyes were open and gazing unfocused out the window, his feet were up on the seat and his elbows were resting, clasped by his hands, on his up-raised knees. It wasn’t a defensive position. Dean got the impression that he would always sit like that if social niceties and his chosen profession would allow it. Neal was just relaxed, probably for the first time in days, maybe weeks.
“What kind of cars did you drive?” Dean asked softly.
Neal turned his head to face Dean. His movements were languid and his expression was tired, yet his eyes were now clear. “Some other time, Dean,” he said heavily.
“Yeah,” Dean replied immediately. “Of course.”
They didn’t speak again, and when Dean parked the Impala outside their room, he looked over to find Neal had fallen asleep for real this time, his cheek leaning against the door, his forehead pressed to the window glass. His shoulders were slumped, his arms crossed in his lap, hands lying open and loose.
Dean didn’t want to disturb him, but he thought maybe too long like that and Neal would have one hell of a headache in the morning and probably a neck cramp. He tugged on Neal’s shirt, then gently shook his shoulder.
“Nggh,” he groaned, and then looked over at Dean, favoring him with the same salacious smile he’d been serving up all night long. “Oh, fell ‘sleep, huh?”
“Yeah, it looks like.” Dean smirked and pulled the keys out of the ignition. “You gonna need help getting inside, big boy?”
Neal laughed, shaking his head no, and pressed his hands to his face, like he could rearrange his features and erase all traces of the exhaustion he was obviously feeling. “God,” he said, muffled, “I haven’t been this drunk in a while. Maybe not since Kate turned 18.”
Dean rolled his eyes. “You fucking cradle robber. I mean, I get it. I do, but Jesus.”
Neal glanced at Dean as he straightened himself. “You’re not surprised she told me about that?”
“I’d be surprised if she didn’t, dude. Not with the way you guys planned all that from the beginning. Which, by the way, was very nice of you.” He smiled, feeling warm just thinking about Kate wrapped up in the sheets from his bed, soaking in the afternoon glow.
Neal didn’t reply, but a strange expression came over his face, and Dean kept a careful eye on him as they walked together into the hotel room.
As soon as Dean shut the door behind them, Neal spun and made a clumsy but strong grab for him, pressing him roughly against the wall. The unexpected force surprised a heavy curse from Dean’s lips, but somehow he couldn’t say anything else. Neal’s proximity left Dean speechless, uncertain of what he wanted to demand the conman do next: get the fuck off him or kiss him until he was as short of breath as he was of words.
Dean shook his head, not knowing. So again he kept his mouth shut.
Neal’s forearms braced Dean’s shoulders flat against the wallpaper as he leaned in close. But Neal didn’t kiss him as Dean was expecting. Instead, he drew a deep breath across Dean’s neck, in one slow movement up to his ear, where he whispered Dean’s name with a smile, as if he couldn’t quite believe he was there. And then he said, “I wanted…I’ve been waiting so long. Ever since Kate came home with you all over her.”
He breathed in deep again and huffed softly, a small, pleased laugh. “Oh God, Dean, you smell so good.”
Dean was pretty sure he smelled like a combination of his general gunpowdery aroma and lingering cigarette smoke from the bar. Which he thought wouldn’t really be that appealing, but it didn’t seem worth it to argue.
Dean was beginning to feel overwhelmed by Neal’s enthusiasm, by his words and by his own body’s reactions. Neal had been waiting that long? He’d been wanting Dean…like this…for months now?
Dean had never kept up with anybody who wasn’t family for as long as he had with Neal and Kate. And sure he wished Kate could come and warm his bed up from time to time, but he couldn’t quite believe what Neal was saying. After everything, Dean was sure Neal wouldn’t lie, yet he still found he didn’t know if he wanted to shrink away from this intensity or wrap himself in it.
He felt Neal rock his body, ever so slightly, an attempt to get even closer. And he knew he had to stop before things got out of hand, before he couldn’t think straight. If he wasn’t sure, then the answer had to be no.
Dean lifted his hand to Neal’s cheek, his fingers stretching to the strong line of his jaw, and drew those blue eyes up to meet his own. Neal’s pupils were blown wide and his mouth parted in a slight pant. Dean felt a powerful desire to kiss that goddamn mouth, annoyed that it didn’t have to work at all to be drop-dead sexy.
Instead, he made himself speak slowly and calmly, like he was sure as hell of the words that were coming out of his mouth, “Neal, I really don’t think I can do this. Not tonight.”
Dean wasn’t sure if he should be pleased that Neal didn’t even bother to try and hide the hugely crestfallen expression that broke over his features, or if he should kick himself for causing it in the first place. He reflexively tried to pull Neal close again, but the man stubbornly braced his hands against the wall and locked his elbows.
“No,” Neal said, resignedly, his tone a step away from the harshness of a thwarted hard on.
Dean closed his eyes regretfully, hating that he could hear Neal’s disappointment in his voice. But he felt warm, strong fingers slide across his skin to cradle the back of his neck and he opened them again to meet Neal’s clear stare.
“No, Dean, you’re right. This isn’t the way. Not tonight.” His voice was now calm, and his body held a stillness it hadn’t a moment before, as if he were willing his libido into submission. But his eyes, they bore into Dean’s and they were fucking electric, like all that energy was swirling around in his head and it was flashing and thundering and lighting up the blue.
“I’m so sorry,” Dean bit out. “I wish…” he started to say, but then Neal smiled. It was a bright, dazzling flash of teeth and good feelings and Dean stopped talking.
“Don’t be sorry.” Neal pulled them both, somewhat unsteadily, away from the wall and towards the bed. “Let’s just get some sleep.”
They didn’t even bother to take off their clothes before they collapsed side by side on the mattress. Dean met Neal’s eyes again and was reminded again of the first night, the last time they had slept in the same place. He took Neal’s hand, feeling that connection as strong as before.
“I know it might take a while,” Neal said, then yawned involuntarily. He blinked sheepishly at Dean. “Maybe you shouldn’t get me so drunk next time.”
“Get you drunk?” Dean replied incredulously. “You were the one who ordered that extra shot. It’s not my fault.”
Neal smiled and closed his eyes. “Well, quit being so sexy then.”
“Yeah, I’ll get right on that,” he mumbled, still smiling as he fell asleep.
***
A/N: This fic was begun and is set between Short Letters and the Christmas fic that I posted in December. I will shortly be posting a master list to keep this stuff straight. Chapter 2 will be up next week and will be looong and full of Neal/Dean goodness.
They drove to a local dive, complete with peeling green leather bar stools and wood paneling over all the walls. There was a juke box tucked into the corner by the bathroom doors, but it wasn’t playing any tunes. The murmuring of low voices and the clinking of beer bottles and cocktail glasses filled the room.
Dean threw a twenty on the bar and asked for two beers and two-double shots of the cheapest whiskey.
If Dean knew his own tolerance and could trust his hunch about Neal’s, he would be fine to drive back and his friend would be drunk enough to forget his troubles until the morning.
Neal shot Dean a strange look before he picked up the over-sized shot glass, stared at it intensely for about five seconds and downed it in one gulp. He barely even made a face.
Dean downed his just as fast and chased it with a large sip of beer. Neal watched him for a moment then turned to the bartender, a scruffy man with a noticeable beer-belly. “Another double-shot of the same,” Neal ordered.
“One for him too?” The bartender replied, indicating Dean.
“Naw, I gotta drive later,” Dean answered for himself.
The shot was promptly brought over and Neal paid the man with singles. He took the drink in the same intensely game manner and sauntered over to the juke box, one extra dollar in his hand. He swiftly punched through the albums, obviously looking for something specific.
Tom Petty’s “Wreck Me” began to play over the bar’s fuzzy sound system as Neal walked away from the machine. Dean sipped his beer and watched him, hands in his pockets all casual-like, eyes carefully bored as they scanned the room.
As he looked, Dean wondered how this man even existed. How did he walk around, breathe, speak, eat, drink, and look like that? Shouldn’t he be cast in marble or immortalized in song? Dean rarely stopped long to notice the physical beauty of the world around him, but he couldn’t help being somehow captivated by Neal Caffrey.
Neal met Dean’s eyes and he smiled, for real, as he sat down next to him at the bar. Not as if nothing was wrong, but like he was trying not to think about it. He said, “You’re going to have to stop eye-fucking me from across the room, or everyone in this bar is gonna think we’re gay for each other.”
Dean automatically smirked and replied, “Then I’ll have to think of some other way to keep that smile on your face.”
It wasn’t an admission of anything, but it wasn’t a denial either. Dean was feeling unusually ambivalent and somehow uncomfortable about that as he lifted his glass and took a long drink.
Neal must have been aware of his uncertainty because the con-man’s smile stretched lazily and his lips started mouthing the words Tom Petty was singing. Neal’s voice came in low under the blaring speakers, but Dean was close enough that he could hear him croon, “Rescue me, should I go wrong. If I dig too deep, if I stay too long.”
And the two of them broke loudly into the chorus of “Ohs” and “yeahs” and excellent guitar solos. What was a juke box for, if not obnoxiously singing each and every song you play on it until the rest of the bar hates your guts?
When the song was over, Neal grabbed his beer and took a drink. “I’m so glad I called,” he said. “I wasn’t even thinking that…I mean… it was the best thing I could have done.”
Dean felt his mouth twist in a crooked grin. “Thanks,” he mumbled. For some reason, he was never quite sure how to take a compliment.
But Neal smiled and touched his arm, "I'm glad I got to see you before we had to leave."
"Yeah," Dean replied, subdued. "Me too."
He couldn't put a finger on his disappointment at the news. He knew Kate and Neal were International art thieves. They were always telling him about their travels and would have obviously returned to Europe at some point. But six months seemed like a really long time.
Dean nearly jumped as Neal's hand, which he hadn't noticed was still on his arm, gave a quick squeeze. "The mail still gets to Europe," Neal said. "Send it to the P.O. Box. Just like before. It'll just take longer to reach us."
Dean met Neal's eyes and was reminded of the connection he’d felt to this man the first time they’d met. That thread of a common past, a shared understanding. Somehow he got the impression that Neal hated the leaving as much as Dean hated being left behind.
"Right," he replied, "same as before. Now, let's play some pool."
Neal turned towards the table and grimaced. "I'm not really very good."
Dean grabbed his shoulder and spun him back around on the squeaky bar stool. "There is absolutely no way you are not excellent at this game. Are you trying to hustle me? Me?!"
The look in Neal’s eyes was lazy and confident, and dangerous as hell. "Wanna find out?"
Sober, Neal was a master at pool. Each move he made was considered and decided on as swiftly as the strike of the cue against the cue ball. Neal wiped the floor with Dean as one after another the balls fell into each pocket before he could even take a turn of his own.
“So I guess you’re not going to even attempt to hustle me?” Dean asked sullenly.
Neal smiled, loosening his tie with a slow hand. The first game was over and Neal had just finished his beer. “I figured I wouldn’t since you already called me out on it. Would you rather I play down to you?”
Dean rolled his eyes and grumbled, “Come on man, you’re just showing off. At least let me get a turn in.”
“Fine,” Neal replied with a generous grin, and Dean wondered if the alcohol was getting to him yet. They racked up the next game and began to play for real.
Dean was a much more thoughtful player than Neal. Not that Neal didn’t think about what he was doing, but his decisions were quick, practiced, based somewhere between preternatural skill and muscle memory. Dean preferred to make sure that out of every option, the one he was about to make was the best, would be the one he could pull off the easiest and would get him in the best position.
Pool was probably the only thing he ever did that he was so methodical about. He thought maybe it was because for so many years he wanted so badly to win against Dad.
Because Dean took the game so slowly, Neal started to get distracted. He won the second game handily and did an adorable little victory dance over to the bar for two more beers. But the third game seemed more of a challenge to him. He worked more slowly, squinting at the table, hesitating before taking a stroke. He scraped by with a win and talked some trash that made so little sense it wasn’t even worth repeating.
Over the course of the evening Neal also loosened his tie significantly more, about a quarter of an inch every hour, until he finally shed his slick suit jacket and slipped the first two buttons of collar of his increasingly rumpled shirt. He’d run a hand through his hair every time a few strands fell into his wide, smiling eyes. His exhaustion and the alcohol had settled over him, relaxing his usual crisp, focused appearance into a disheveled, ragged ball of charisma and slow grins.
And by the fourth and last game he only took his eyes off Dean long enough to make a few feeble attempts at playing pool.
Dean fist-pumped when he sunk the 8-ball, but he could tell Neal barely even noticed what had happened. The con man’s eyes were trained somewhere between Dean’s mouth and his collarbone.
Dean had a feeling that if they'd been in NYC instead of rural PA the man would have been all hands hours ago. And he couldn't decide how he felt about it. He thanked the universe or whatever for small favors, hating the idea of having to cause a ridiculous scene in the middle of the sleepy bar on a week night.
He remembered that morning, outside Chicago, when he felt what could have been a real attraction between him and this guy. And then there was the freaking kiss. He didn't know what he'd been thinking; only that he'd needed Dad out of there as fast as possible. What better way to get that accomplished?
Neal seemed to have realized that the game was over and he had somehow lost. Dean took the cue from his friend's hands and said, "You ready to head out?"
Neal smiled and swayed a little, but managed to answer, without stumbling over the words, "Whenever you are."
Dean smiled ruefully at him. "You put on a pretty good act, but let's see you walk out of here in a straight line. Without my help.”
“You wanna bet I can’t do it? B’cause, I totally can.” Neal’s hand was resting on the table. If it hadn’t been, Dean would never have bet anything close to a hundred.
Neal exited the establishment just as he had entered it, except this time he was whistling and Dean followed with a curse on his breath and the usual glance over his shoulder.
In the car, Neal leaned his head heavily against the window and murmured, “I’m not going to take your money, Dean.”
“You just want me to know how good you really are?”
The con-man smiled lazily. “Something like that.”
Neal was quiet for about a minute after that, and Dean thought maybe he’d conked out. But out of the blue he spoke, softly, almost reverently, “I love your car by the way.”
Dean glanced at his friend, whose eyes were closed in a drunken half-sleep. “Yeah, me too.”
“We drove one once when I was little. From Tulsa to…Dallas maybe. The seats smelled like cigars,” Neal spoke as if dreaming. He might not even have realized he was talking out loud.
Dean did not dare reply, wanting to see if Neal would reveal anything else about his past.
As he continued, the hint of a Texas drawl crept into his words. “We ditched it at a Walmart. And I didn’t tell Billy, but I was so sad to see it go. It wasn’t in as great shape as this one. But we almost never drove cars so nice.”
Dean felt a strange sort of emotion filling his chest and throat, almost choking him. When Neal didn’t speak again, Dean glanced over at him.
His eyes were open and gazing unfocused out the window, his feet were up on the seat and his elbows were resting, clasped by his hands, on his up-raised knees. It wasn’t a defensive position. Dean got the impression that he would always sit like that if social niceties and his chosen profession would allow it. Neal was just relaxed, probably for the first time in days, maybe weeks.
“What kind of cars did you drive?” Dean asked softly.
Neal turned his head to face Dean. His movements were languid and his expression was tired, yet his eyes were now clear. “Some other time, Dean,” he said heavily.
“Yeah,” Dean replied immediately. “Of course.”
They didn’t speak again, and when Dean parked the Impala outside their room, he looked over to find Neal had fallen asleep for real this time, his cheek leaning against the door, his forehead pressed to the window glass. His shoulders were slumped, his arms crossed in his lap, hands lying open and loose.
Dean didn’t want to disturb him, but he thought maybe too long like that and Neal would have one hell of a headache in the morning and probably a neck cramp. He tugged on Neal’s shirt, then gently shook his shoulder.
“Nggh,” he groaned, and then looked over at Dean, favoring him with the same salacious smile he’d been serving up all night long. “Oh, fell ‘sleep, huh?”
“Yeah, it looks like.” Dean smirked and pulled the keys out of the ignition. “You gonna need help getting inside, big boy?”
Neal laughed, shaking his head no, and pressed his hands to his face, like he could rearrange his features and erase all traces of the exhaustion he was obviously feeling. “God,” he said, muffled, “I haven’t been this drunk in a while. Maybe not since Kate turned 18.”
Dean rolled his eyes. “You fucking cradle robber. I mean, I get it. I do, but Jesus.”
Neal glanced at Dean as he straightened himself. “You’re not surprised she told me about that?”
“I’d be surprised if she didn’t, dude. Not with the way you guys planned all that from the beginning. Which, by the way, was very nice of you.” He smiled, feeling warm just thinking about Kate wrapped up in the sheets from his bed, soaking in the afternoon glow.
Neal didn’t reply, but a strange expression came over his face, and Dean kept a careful eye on him as they walked together into the hotel room.
As soon as Dean shut the door behind them, Neal spun and made a clumsy but strong grab for him, pressing him roughly against the wall. The unexpected force surprised a heavy curse from Dean’s lips, but somehow he couldn’t say anything else. Neal’s proximity left Dean speechless, uncertain of what he wanted to demand the conman do next: get the fuck off him or kiss him until he was as short of breath as he was of words.
Dean shook his head, not knowing. So again he kept his mouth shut.
Neal’s forearms braced Dean’s shoulders flat against the wallpaper as he leaned in close. But Neal didn’t kiss him as Dean was expecting. Instead, he drew a deep breath across Dean’s neck, in one slow movement up to his ear, where he whispered Dean’s name with a smile, as if he couldn’t quite believe he was there. And then he said, “I wanted…I’ve been waiting so long. Ever since Kate came home with you all over her.”
He breathed in deep again and huffed softly, a small, pleased laugh. “Oh God, Dean, you smell so good.”
Dean was pretty sure he smelled like a combination of his general gunpowdery aroma and lingering cigarette smoke from the bar. Which he thought wouldn’t really be that appealing, but it didn’t seem worth it to argue.
Dean was beginning to feel overwhelmed by Neal’s enthusiasm, by his words and by his own body’s reactions. Neal had been waiting that long? He’d been wanting Dean…like this…for months now?
Dean had never kept up with anybody who wasn’t family for as long as he had with Neal and Kate. And sure he wished Kate could come and warm his bed up from time to time, but he couldn’t quite believe what Neal was saying. After everything, Dean was sure Neal wouldn’t lie, yet he still found he didn’t know if he wanted to shrink away from this intensity or wrap himself in it.
He felt Neal rock his body, ever so slightly, an attempt to get even closer. And he knew he had to stop before things got out of hand, before he couldn’t think straight. If he wasn’t sure, then the answer had to be no.
Dean lifted his hand to Neal’s cheek, his fingers stretching to the strong line of his jaw, and drew those blue eyes up to meet his own. Neal’s pupils were blown wide and his mouth parted in a slight pant. Dean felt a powerful desire to kiss that goddamn mouth, annoyed that it didn’t have to work at all to be drop-dead sexy.
Instead, he made himself speak slowly and calmly, like he was sure as hell of the words that were coming out of his mouth, “Neal, I really don’t think I can do this. Not tonight.”
Dean wasn’t sure if he should be pleased that Neal didn’t even bother to try and hide the hugely crestfallen expression that broke over his features, or if he should kick himself for causing it in the first place. He reflexively tried to pull Neal close again, but the man stubbornly braced his hands against the wall and locked his elbows.
“No,” Neal said, resignedly, his tone a step away from the harshness of a thwarted hard on.
Dean closed his eyes regretfully, hating that he could hear Neal’s disappointment in his voice. But he felt warm, strong fingers slide across his skin to cradle the back of his neck and he opened them again to meet Neal’s clear stare.
“No, Dean, you’re right. This isn’t the way. Not tonight.” His voice was now calm, and his body held a stillness it hadn’t a moment before, as if he were willing his libido into submission. But his eyes, they bore into Dean’s and they were fucking electric, like all that energy was swirling around in his head and it was flashing and thundering and lighting up the blue.
“I’m so sorry,” Dean bit out. “I wish…” he started to say, but then Neal smiled. It was a bright, dazzling flash of teeth and good feelings and Dean stopped talking.
“Don’t be sorry.” Neal pulled them both, somewhat unsteadily, away from the wall and towards the bed. “Let’s just get some sleep.”
They didn’t even bother to take off their clothes before they collapsed side by side on the mattress. Dean met Neal’s eyes again and was reminded again of the first night, the last time they had slept in the same place. He took Neal’s hand, feeling that connection as strong as before.
“I know it might take a while,” Neal said, then yawned involuntarily. He blinked sheepishly at Dean. “Maybe you shouldn’t get me so drunk next time.”
“Get you drunk?” Dean replied incredulously. “You were the one who ordered that extra shot. It’s not my fault.”
Neal smiled and closed his eyes. “Well, quit being so sexy then.”
“Yeah, I’ll get right on that,” he mumbled, still smiling as he fell asleep.
***
A/N: This fic was begun and is set between Short Letters and the Christmas fic that I posted in December. I will shortly be posting a master list to keep this stuff straight. Chapter 2 will be up next week and will be looong and full of Neal/Dean goodness.