[Supernatural] "Necessary Hustle" (R)
Oct. 4th, 2011 01:00 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
mtxref_ficAuthor's Note: Written for "fic_promptly"'s Supernatural, Dean/OMCs, anything for a little cash This might feature my Neon Genesis Evangelion OMC, the Grigori angel known as Enniel Prussoe, aka Sariel.
The poker game had dwindled; the rest of the table had folded early since the high-roller in the white shantung silk suit had cleaned almost everybody out, not that the guy looked like he needed the cash. Dean had had a run of luck and had kept close behind him that whole evening.
"You've done well," the high roller said, one long-fingered pale hand holding the top layers of a stack of chips, letting them click back onto the stack into a controlled cascade.
"Ain't done bad yerself," Dean replied, shuffling the deck.
The guy tilted his head so that the light from the lamp over the table caught on the lenses of his rimless glasses. "What if I were to raise the stakes a bit? If you win, I let you have half of my winnings, but if I win, you get to keep it all, for a price."
The pot was worth a few grand, which would buy a few spare parts for the Impala, besides paying for gas and rooms for a while. And they hadn't had a paying job in a few weeks. "Name it: lemme know what I'm getting into first," Dean said.
The guy chuckled in his throat. "Very well: that price would be one night in my bed. No strings attached."
Dean felt himself cringe inside his clothes: the guy was easy on the eyes, but he didn't bat for the home team. "Long as yer clean and you don't try reaming me."
The pale guy snorted. "I may be fond of a man's eel, but there are places where I'd rather it didn't go.
"So what will it be?"
Dean snap-shuffled the deck. "I'm in."
The pale guy leaned forward, so that the lamp light fell on his thin, androgynously pretty face. "I will make it worth your time," he said, smirking.
* * *
Hours later, in the kind of fancy hotel room he rarely saw the inside of, Dean sat on the edge of the pale high-roller's bed, sore where the guy had bitten him "playfully", and his thighs feeling like someone had poured melted butter on them, from the lubricant the guy had used. The pale guy slept, laying on his stomach, stretched out on the dark red sheets. Wouldn't be the first time Dean had to resort to a different kind of hustle, but it had been the first in digs like this.
The guy's body was unmarked, except on his back, where the skin looked darker than the rest, as if there had been a tattoo of wings that he'd had removed.
Looking at it in the lamplight, Dean wondered if it really was a tattoo.
The poker game had dwindled; the rest of the table had folded early since the high-roller in the white shantung silk suit had cleaned almost everybody out, not that the guy looked like he needed the cash. Dean had had a run of luck and had kept close behind him that whole evening.
"You've done well," the high roller said, one long-fingered pale hand holding the top layers of a stack of chips, letting them click back onto the stack into a controlled cascade.
"Ain't done bad yerself," Dean replied, shuffling the deck.
The guy tilted his head so that the light from the lamp over the table caught on the lenses of his rimless glasses. "What if I were to raise the stakes a bit? If you win, I let you have half of my winnings, but if I win, you get to keep it all, for a price."
The pot was worth a few grand, which would buy a few spare parts for the Impala, besides paying for gas and rooms for a while. And they hadn't had a paying job in a few weeks. "Name it: lemme know what I'm getting into first," Dean said.
The guy chuckled in his throat. "Very well: that price would be one night in my bed. No strings attached."
Dean felt himself cringe inside his clothes: the guy was easy on the eyes, but he didn't bat for the home team. "Long as yer clean and you don't try reaming me."
The pale guy snorted. "I may be fond of a man's eel, but there are places where I'd rather it didn't go.
"So what will it be?"
Dean snap-shuffled the deck. "I'm in."
The pale guy leaned forward, so that the lamp light fell on his thin, androgynously pretty face. "I will make it worth your time," he said, smirking.
* * *
Hours later, in the kind of fancy hotel room he rarely saw the inside of, Dean sat on the edge of the pale high-roller's bed, sore where the guy had bitten him "playfully", and his thighs feeling like someone had poured melted butter on them, from the lubricant the guy had used. The pale guy slept, laying on his stomach, stretched out on the dark red sheets. Wouldn't be the first time Dean had to resort to a different kind of hustle, but it had been the first in digs like this.
The guy's body was unmarked, except on his back, where the skin looked darker than the rest, as if there had been a tattoo of wings that he'd had removed.
Looking at it in the lamplight, Dean wondered if it really was a tattoo.
