Dean's getting coffee.

Black for himself, plenty of sugar. One of those fancy latte girl coffees for Sam. Just rolled into town, suited up to check out a heartless body in the morgue, and stopped for a hit of caffeine, because neither of them got much sleep on the way.

Smalltalk at the counter. Name tag on the barista reads Joe, and the sign over the door is Joe's, and Dean thought it was a gimmick, like how many coffee shops across the country has he seen called Joe's, but it's actually the guys name.

He's tall. Dark hair, tidy, well cut and curling behind his ears. Perhaps early forties, scattering of salt and pepper at his temples. The kind of close cropped beard that looks like a three days growth but Dean bets looks like that all the time. Well built, arms like a hunters on a guy that makes coffee for a living that tells you he spends a good part of his off hours at the gym.

And Dean looks. Appreciates.

He does, sometimes. Not that he's ever done anything about it. A good chunk of his adult life he's known that occasionally, he finds a man attractive, but he's never done a thing about it.

He's never had time, never been in the right situation, never sits still long enough to really have the opportunity, never wanted to.

That last bit is a lie. Sometimes he wanted to. Always scared, though. He's been shot down by women a million times. You never get anywhere if you don't try. It'd be different with another guy though. He might start throwing punches if Dean gets the wrong end of the stick, so what, Dean can deal with that, and it's unlikely the other dude would get near him. That's not what he's afraid of.

It's that then, someone else would know.

A stranger, sure, and Dean never sticks around long enough for gossip to touch him. But Dean would know that someone else knew, and he just isn't equipped to deal with that, not even now. He's old by hunter standards, only the best live this long. He's been to hell and back, literally, seen things that no one should ever see, but he's still human, and he's still afraid.

But he looks, sometimes. And he allows his mind to wander, gets lost in imaginings. His eyes linger on the tight stretch of the guys Joe's Coffee t-shirt over his biceps as the hiss of the espresso machine drowns out the indecipherable chatter behind him. This guy could hold him down, press him into a mattress, force him to surrender. This guy—

Two tall takeout coffee cups appear on the counter in front of him. Dean looks up, and there's a smirk on the guys face, and he's been caught, and his heart stops, because, well, someone knows.

Dean blushes, skin heating, and he drops his eyes, pulls a couple of hustled bills out of his wallet, slides them across the counter, and he's ready to gap it out of there, head down and eyes on the floor, but there's something tucked under the cup of black coffee, and the corner of the Joe's Coffee logo is showing.

"I close up around six," Joe the barista says, low, under his breath. "But I'm here until seven. If you're still in town tonight, give me a call."

Dean's head jerks up, and he stares into Joe's eyes, big and dark, pupils dilated, beautiful warm brown. Joe's mouth quirks up at the corner as his eyes slide down over Dean's body and it's not like he can see much, it's winter and it's cold and there's actual snow on the ground outside and Dean hates the snow, passes jobs where it's snowing onto other hunters when he can, but no one could take this, and it was a cakewalk, isolated heartless body, one werewolf at most, if it's a werewolf at all, so they're here, but Dean's got a coat over his monkey suit and it's buttoned to the neck, and he's sweating because it's heated in here, the baristas all in short sleeves, and it's got nothing at all to do with the fact this guy has just given him his number.

He mumbles something that might be 'yes' and it might be 'sure' and it might be 'holy crap', and then he gaps it out of there.

Dean shoves the girly latte into Sam's hands, burns his mouth on his own coffee, keeps drinking, wishes he could spike it with whiskey to take the edge off, because he knows his face is scarlet and his palms are slick.

"What the hell is with you?" Sam asks, laughter in his voice. "What's this?" He reaches out and snags the business card still tucked into the hand holding the coffee cup.

"Business card, Sammy, what's it look like?" Dean takes it back, opens the glove box and shoves it inside.

The heartless body is a bust, garden variety human murder, and monsters, Dean gets, but people suck.

They never got around to booking a motel, so they slide back into the car, and Dean leans over to put his gun in the glove compartment, and there's the card.

"Something weird about that coffee shop?" Sam asks, staring down at the card, the door to the compartment in his lap.

Dean snaps the compartment shut. "Nope." He slams himself back into the seat, turns the key in the ignition, and the Impala's engine roars to life. He's pulling out of the hospital lot and onto the road when Sam opens the compartment again and pulls out the card. "Leave it alone, Sam."

"Why'd Joe of Joe's Coffee give you his card, Dean?"

Dean stares straight ahead. Be cool. Chill. "Some gay thing."

Sam barks out a laugh. "He hit on you?"

"I'm everyone's type, Sammy."

Sam turns the card over in his fingers. "And you kept the card."

"Drop it, Sam." Dean grabs the card out of Sam's hand, tosses it out the window. He turns the car toward the interstate, doesn't even know where he's going. Home, maybe.

Sam's silent, too silent, for about 10 seconds. "We can stop, you know."

"There's no job, Sam."

"We won't get home by dark. Might as well stop here, get going in the morning. I mean, if you want to—"

Dean slams his foot on the brake, stops the car dead in the middle of the road. He leaves the engine running, gasps for air as his heart hammers in his chest.

Neither of them speak, both staring straight ahead. The Impala shudders as it idles. Five long minutes pass, and Sam sighs.

Dean puts his foot on the gas, turns the wheel, and heads back to town.

Awkward doesn't even cover it. They check into a motel, unpack their shit, going through the motions in silence like it's a regular hunt, but it's not, and the air in the room is as thick as soup.

Of course, unpacking, where Dean is concerned, at least, consists of throwing his duffle onto the bed and kicking his weapons bag under it. Then he stares down at his bag, and the fact that maybe, just maybe, he won't even be sleeping in this bed tonight occurs to him, and his skin goes warm all over again.

"I'm not gay," he says, just loud enough that Sam will hear.

Apparently there's something about that that's funny, because Sam laughs out loud.

Dean whirls on him, face burning hotter. "What?"

Sam grins. "I know you're not gay, Dean. So you're attracted to a guy. It happens."

Dean narrows his eyes. "Has it ever happened to you?"

Sam shrugs and shakes his head, and the twist of his mouth is an apology.

"Then shut up, asshole. What would you know?"

"I know you look at guys sometimes, Dean. No, wait. Stop freaking out. It's okay. I don't care, and neither should you. It's nothing to be ashamed of."

"Says you." Dean turns back to his bag, tugs the zipper open, starts shucking off his fed suit and wondering just how fast they could get packed up again and on the road.

Sam goes silent again, while Dean changes into civvies. When he turns around, Sam's already changed, and he's got his laptop out and on the table. He looks up. "Are you gonna see him? Or are you gonna sit around here all night drinking and feeling sorry for yourself?"

Dean flips him the bird and stalks out of the room.

Driving helps him think, the roar of the engine drowning out the mass of interconnected thought. His mind is full of contradictions. There's the innate sibling rivalry that doesn't want Sam to be right, that doesn't want to do what Sam tells him he should. There's that not-so-little voice that reminds him why he's never acted on these feelings before. Dean's life has been a never-ending parade of small towns, dive bars, narrow minds. Where words like 'gay' and 'fag' are thrown as insults, followed by a fist or a boot. Dean can look after himself, but why wear a target when you can go unnoticed.

Then there's those warm, liquid brown eyes, the strong arms, the flutter in his belly that hardly ever happens.

He's just driving, no real destination in mind, but he's not surprised when he pulls up outside the coffee shop.

It's barely four, the place doesn't close for another couple hours. He could just go in, though, sit down, have a coffee, clear his head. Watch Joe from a distance, perhaps, just to feel that flutter again before he walks out of there and drags Sam away, driving all night to get home, or to the next job.

He sits in the car for a good ten minutes before he takes a deep breath and opens the door. Forces himself to climb out, walk onto the pavement. He just leans there, staring at his phone, occasionally lifting his head to take quick glances through the shop window.

He doesn't see him.

He's about to leave, about to turn away and get in the car and just quit while he's still ahead, while he's still done nothing to change his perfect record of never acting on the part of him he's always hidden away.

And then a shadow falls over him, and he looks up into a pair of warm brown eyes.

"You look different out of the fancy coat," Joe says, wiping his hands on the teatowel tucked into the short apron tied around his waist.

Dean's throat locks up, his tongue thickens. He lifts a shoulder in a shrug, and he can feel his face burning, feel sweat beading up on the back of his neck. He coughs to clear his throat. "I should be heading out."

Joe studies him for a while. "Should be?"

Dean has to force himself to look the man in the eyes, when every instinct has him wanting to look away. "Should be."

"You're still here." Joe takes a step closer.

Joe's still a good couple feet away, anyone looking at them wouldn't look twice, but Dean's breath becomes labored. It's so hard to breathe, he's got to gasp for air just to get enough oxygen and the palms of his hands go slick. He wipes them on his jeans. "To be honest, man, I don't have a goddamn clue what I'm doing."

"I'm starting to get that." Joe takes half a step back, leans away.

Dean's body reacts before his mind can intervene, head jerking up in alarm as he steps forward, reaching out with one hand. When he realizes what he's doing, he drops his hand, but the unconscious action has an effect. Joe stops, tilts his head to the side, and he's watching Dean again, like he's mapping every detail.

"I've just never done this before, okay?" Dean sighs and rolls his eyes up to the heavens, though that's the last place he's going to get help. He feels like a teenager again, sweaty and stammering and confused.

Joe's eyes rake over Dean, and there's tension, nerves, coming off him in waves. "Straight?"

Dean drops his eyes, gives a minute shake of his head. "Not completely." It comes out in a whisper, and Dean's horrified, terrified, because it's the first time ever he's voiced it, said it out loud, and that makes it real. But then, it's out. And it's like a crack in a dam, and he lifts his eyes, and it's pathetic, because he knows he's pleading, asking for help, asking for something. "Just never done anything about it before."

Joe looks back at his shop, then back at Dean. "I wish I could get away, but—"

Dean shakes his head. "We booked a place for the night."

Joe beams, and his demeanor lifts. "Then why don't you come back after closing? I'll buy you a coffee." His eyes sparkle.

Dean takes a deep breath, lets it out slow. "Make it Irish and you got a deal."

Dean crashes back into the hotel room like he's got a werewolf on his ass, euphoric and terrified all at once. Sam's where he left him, at the table, laptop open in front of him. He looks up when Dean slams the door behind him.

"We got a possible haunting about fifty miles from here," he says. "Or a nest of vampires back toward the state line." He blinks, guileless. "You know. If you were wanting to get out of here."

"I have a date," Dean blurts, and he's aware he probably looks a little crazy, can feel how wide his eyes are, how manic his movements. He's on guard, alert, like it's a hunt, like it's a case they've got to solve. Because he doesn't know what to expect.

Sam's eyes go wide in surprise, his brows reach for his hairline, and he leans back in the chair as he closes the laptop. "Seriously?"

Dean's eyes fall on his bag, upended on the bed, the meager amount of clothes he brought with him because this was supposed to be a quick hunt, he's not prepared for anything else. "Seriously, Sam." Dean heads for the bed, starts picking through worn jeans and flannel and finding nothing because the cleanest things he brought are already on his back.

"Wow. To be honest, Dean, I didn't think you were going to go through with it. You went back there?"

"Stood outside the shop until he came outside. Probably looked like I was casing the joint." Dean shoves his stuff back into his bag, leaving just a clean pair of boxers. He's going to have to wear what he's already wearing.

Sam laughs, but it's not mocking. It's almost wonder. "I'm impressed." His chair scrapes the floor, and he comes to stand by the bed. "But I gotta say, Dean. You look terrified. Are you sure this is what you want?"

Dean looks up at him, incredulous. "You're kidding, right? You think I'd be putting myself through this if I didn't want it? Dude, I'm just about having a heart attack here."

Sam grins. "Why is this any different from going out with a girl?"

Dean's jaw drops. "Anatomy?"

Sam licks his lips and looks away, like he's trying not to laugh. "Not every date has to end in sex, you know, Dean."

"Ahh, Sam? We're both dudes. Between the two of us I think someone's going to expect sex."

"If you don't want to have sex with him, don't have sex with him."

"Yeah, but what if I do?"

They're both silent, Dean shocked that he's actually said it out loud, Sam just staring, like he's thinking the same thing.

Sam blinks and coughs, breaking the tension. "Then be safe."

Dean grabs his boxers off the bed. "Yeah, you don't have to give me the speech, Sammy." Then he heads for the shower.

Dean sits outside the coffee shop in the car until he sees the last staff member leave and the shutters roll down. It's another ten minutes before he can force himself to get out and knock on the door.

As though Joe has been waiting for him, the door opens immediately and Joe ushers him inside.

The smell of fresh coffee hits Dean like it didn't this morning. Strong, clean, and clinging to this man like he'd bathed in it. As he looks around the inside of the shop, he's surprised to see chairs upended on tables, the lights off. He doesn't know what he was expecting, but this isn't it. One table, at least, perhaps, left alone so they could sit, and talk. Lights on so they could see each other, and Dean really wants to look at Joe.

"Come on through," Joe says, leads him toward a door in the back. It's got a bathroom sign on the door, and, okay, Dean's had fantasies like this, but they involved dark, seedy bars and a hell of a lot more anonymity.

He still follows, and there's a corridor behind the door. An arrow points the way past a narrow flight of stairs, the public bathrooms beyond. Joe heads up the stairs.

"You live over the shop," Dean says. "Huh."

Joe turns and smiles, then punches a code into the keypad on the wall. The heavy door swings open.

"There's beer in the fridge," Joe says, as he shows Dean into a small, tidy loft. "Make yourself at home, while I take a shower. Gotta wash off the layer of coffee."

Dean nods, his throat locked up, and he watches as Joe disappears into the bedroom. The sound of the shower provides white noise as Dean heads straight for the kitchen, opens the fridge, cracks a beer open and pours half the bottle down his throat before he comes up for air.

What the fuck is he doing?

He's in a man's apartment. A gay man's apartment. A gay man who knows Dean finds him attractive. It's the worst idea ever, when Dean's worked so hard his whole life to keep that side of him hidden, to keep it to himself.

But he's a grown-ass adult. How many times has he died without ever doing something about it? He's lost count, but that's not the point. The point is, he just keeps coming back, and if he's going to be an old man one day, he doesn't want any regrets.

This, if he doesn't do it, it might become a regret.

Dean finishes his beer, helps himself to another. He's draining it when Joe comes out of the bathroom, hair still dripping on his collar and skin still pink. Dean puts the second empty bottle on the counter beside the first, looks up at Joe sheepishly.

Joe shrugs. "Do you gotta be anywhere tonight?" At the shake of Dean's head, he continues. "You wanna get drunk? We can get drunk. It's my day off tomorrow." He comes around behind the kitchen counter, crouches as he opens a cupboard door under the sink. "What's your poison?"

Dean pulls a face as he eyes the whiskey bottle at the forefront of Joe's liquor store. "I'll have whatever you're having," he says, unwilling to look like a lush, can't figure out why he cares.

Joe stands up with the whiskey bottle in one hand, tequila in the other. He puts them on the counter, grabs a couple of lemons from the fruit bowl on the counter, and he starts chopping them up.

"I figure we should set some ground rules," Joe says, conversationally, as he's cutting lemons into wedges. "If we're getting drunk, you should tell me what you want up front." He looks back over his shoulder. "You're a Fed, right?" He smirks. "I don't wanna get in any trouble."

The town's small enough and Joe's Coffee, the only coffee place in town, was busy enough that Dean figures news travels fast, because he sure didn't flash his fake badge when he was buying coffee. "Hey, man. I'm responsible for my own decisions, and I can hold my booze." He pauses, watching as Joe pours shots of tequila into two glasses. "More or less."

Joe hands Dean a glass, offers him a slice of lemon. "Still. It'd make me feel better."

Dean throws back the shot, declines the lemon. "I don't know what I want." Looks him right in the eye as he says it.

Joe pours his shot down his throat, puts the slice of lemon in his mouth, bites the flesh out whole. Dean pulls a face. Joe doesn't. "Don't like lemon?"

"Don't need it," Dean says, and he nods at the bottle. "You've got the good stuff right there."

Joe smirks, and he licks his lips. "True. I like lemon. Come on."

He grabs the bottle and moves to the couch. Dean follows, sinks down as Joe's pouring out more tequila.

"So," Joe says, as he refills Dean's glass. "I suppose you can't tell me what the feds are doing in town?"

Dean shrugs. "Someone died. Looked like something we needed to look at. Turned out it wasn't."

"I heard whoever it was had their heart cut out." He looks a little sick. "What are you? X-Files or something?"

"Or something." Dean drinks.

Joe studies him. "You must see some awful things."

Dean shrugs. "You get used to it." He pulls a face. "Which probably sounds really disturbing. I just mean, you've gotta deal with it. Whatever way you can." He holds out his glass for more booze, because sometimes, that's how he does it. And it's not, like Joe thinks, the occasional dead body. Dean really is immune to a lot now. It's the bigger stuff he can't handle. So he drinks. Sometimes it's booze and women. And that just brings into focus even more that he's here with a man.

Why he's here with a man.

The level of the bottle goes down by a quarter, and Dean puts his hand over his glass. "Fuck tequila, man. Why do I ever?" He's got an easy buzz on, but any more and he'll be spending all night hunched over the can.

Joe screws the cap back on the bottle, pushes it to the edge of the coffee table in front of them. His eyes are on Dean, intense and intimate. "I'm thinking about kissing you, Agent... Huh. I never caught your name."

"Dean," Dean says, and it's a good thing he never flashed his badge at Joe, because he can't even remember the name on the badge right now.

"Dean," Joe says. "I'm thinking about kissing you."

Dean sinks back into the couch, cocks an eyebrow. If there's one thing he can say for tequila... "Get on with it, then."

He's not expecting it to be so damn good. It's just a kiss. Dean's kissed dozens, probably hundreds, of women. This is different. Forceful without being fast, demanding without being oppressive. And the rasp of Joe's beard against his own stubble almost makes his mind implode with how fast he gets hard.

"Holy shit," he breathes, when Joe pulls away.

Joe grins. "First kiss with a man?"

Dean nods, almost speechless.

"You ready to tell me what you want, yet?"

"More of that," Dean says, and twists his fist into the front of Joe's shirt, pulls him down. "And you should definitely take this off."

The sleeves of Joe's shirt are stretched tight across his biceps. Yeah. Dean really wants to see Joe naked. Dean bets his thighs are awesome, too.

Joe pushes away, strips his shirt off over his head, drops it to the floor. Yeah. His arms and chest are huge, he's totally ripped. Kinda like Sam when he was at the height of his rabbit food diet and that's just wrong Dean shouldn't have ever thought that.

"You okay, Dean?"

Dean opens his eyes, realizes he shut them. "Fuck, you're hot," he says, reaches out, puts his hands on Joe's chest, runs his fingertips down over his stomach, hard and twitching. "Bet you could pin me," he says, excited by the prospect. "Bet you could hold me down good."

Joe tips his head to the side, curious. "Is that what you want?"

Dean makes a noise, soft, in the back of his throat. His fingers are tucked into Joe's waistband, his eyes on the thick bulge of his cock through his jeans. "Can I see your cock? I wanna see your cock."

Joe laughs, soft, in the back of his throat. "You can't keep up with your thoughts, can you?" He starts to unbuckle his belt.

"There's a lot going on." Staring.

Joe unzips his jeans, pushes the band of his boxers down to expose his dick. Dean's mouth inexplicably fills with saliva, and he licks his lips.

"Pretty," Dean says. It is. Perfectly straight, Joe's cock stands thick and long against his belly. And he's uncut, the tip of his cock half exposed. "Jesus Christ." There's a twist of want in his belly, and his jeans are too fucking tight.

When did Joe move to the floor? He's on his knees, between Dean's spread thighs. Dean looks up into his eyes, as his hand wraps around Joe's length. "Kiss me," he says. Joe's eyes are dark and he moans softly as Dean slides his hand over the head of his dick, and then he kisses Dean like he's starving.

There's pre-come on Dean's hand, lots of it, makes it slick, and it feels backwards, because he's used to jerking his own cock. Feels good, though, in his hand. Dean wonders, as Joe's tongue fucks into his mouth, if he could get his lips around it, if he could lick up all that pre-come, if he could suck it well enough to make Joe come.

He pulls away, just turns his head to break the kiss. "We should go to bed," he says, groans as Joe pushes his dick through Dean's fist.

"Do you want to go to bed with me, Dean?"

"Yes, asshole. Would you like it in writing?"

Joe chuckles, and he rises to his feet, tucks his cock away and takes Dean by the hand, pulls him to his feet. "Tequila looks good on you," he says, as Dean falls into his arms, none too steady on his feet. "But maybe we should slow down a little."

"What are you, a priest?" Dean straightens up, puts his game face on, because he can win a bar fight drunk, he can do this. "I'm good." And he stalks toward the bedroom, as steady as a rock, because he can fake a sobriety test, too.

Joe follows, grabs him around the waist from behind, as he looks down at Joe's bed. "Okay," he says, just a whisper into Dean's ear. "I just don't want you to do anything you'll regret."

"I've done plenty of things in my life I regret," Dean says. "This won't be one of them." He starts to unbutton his shirt, pushes it back off his shoulders, Joe takes over, drops it, and then he turns Dean around by the shoulders.

"I'm not gonna fuck you." Joe's gone serious, when everything else is said with at least the hint of a smile. "That's my rule. Anything else, you're gonna have to ask for it. I'm not driving this boat, you get me?"

"I get you," Dean says, relieved. "So, strip."

Joe smirks, and drops his jeans, boxers and all. He steps out of them.

His thighs are big, all muscle. Hard and twitching as Dean's eyes drag down his body. His cock is still hard, heavy, hanging out from his body because of the weight, the length. Dean can't take his eyes off, even as he drops his own jeans.

Dean's dick hits him in the belly, bounces as he drops to his knees.

"Shit, Dean," Joe says, puts his hands on Dean's shoulders. He grunts as Dean drops further, bare ass on the floor between his feet, looks up at him from there.

Dean can see Joe's cock, and his face from this vantage. It sets a fire burning in his belly, and all he's got to do is lift his chin a little to catch the tip of Joe's cock on his lips.

Pre-come burbles out of the tip, and Dean licks it away. It punches him right in the chest, what he's just done, what he's about to do. "Fuck, you taste good," he moans, inhales, deeply, through his nose, then schooches in closer, wraps his hand around the base, takes the head into his mouth.

Joe's breathing hard, and he brushes the short strands of hair away from Dean's forehead. A pointless exercise, but it's nice, an affectionate gesture. Makes Dean feel all warm and gooey inside.

From here, Dean can stretch his lips around Joe's huge dick, he can rub his hands up and down Joe's massive, tree-trunk thighs, and he can look up into dark, liquid-brown eyes.

And it feels good. Sucking Joe's dick into his mouth, pulling off, using his tongue to create some facsimile of the things he likes having done to him, crowing inside when Joe moans, or shivers, or threads his fingers through Dean's hair and pulls tighter than he meant to.

Dean feels kind of powerful, kind of sexy, thinks about how he must look, sitting on the floor like this. He's always had a good ego, good body image, knows he's pretty—or at least, he was, when he was young.

But the look on his face, on Joe's face, he's rapt, hasn't looked away from Dean since Dean dropped to the floor, hasn't hardly blinked. Some guys, Dean included, look anywhere but at the face of the person blowing them. Dean feels special, he feels fucking awesome.

And he's hard, so fucking hard, dripping onto the floor as he sucks Joe's cock. Wraps his own hand around his dick, strokes as he bobs his head, winds up fast as he plunges down, chokes a little as the head of Joe's cock hits him in the back of his throat but he just moans around it.

"Don't," Joe croaks. "Don't come, Dean, fuck."

Dean groans, pulls off. "Really want to. Want you to come in my mouth, please."

Joe pulls him up off the floor, strong arms in Dean's pits, hauls him up and shoves him back onto the bed. "Not gonna happen," he says, and crawls up to cover Dean with his body.

Dean wants to complain, to protest, but Joe is a heavy weight on his chest and Joe's big cock is rubbing up against Dean's, slick with spit and pre-come and Dean can only cry out, head pressing back into the mattress, eyes rolling up into his head.

"You like this," Joe grunts, as he thrusts against Dean, and Dean can only moan and nod, his thighs falling apart, feet hooking behind Joe's knees, like he wants to open up, like he needs it.

Didn't think he'd roll over so easy, didn't think it would be this easy to want more than this, but he does. Feels empty inside, craves more. "Bet you'd fill me up good," he groans. "Bet you'd feel so fucking good in me."

Joe moans and his hips jerk and he kisses Dean, hard. Wet and messy, teeth tugging at Dean's lips. "Fuck, yeah," he growls. "I'd fuck you so good, make a mess of you—"

Dean arches up, stiffens, a sound issuing from his throat like a strangled moan. Fire shoots up his spine and his balls pull up tight and he starts to gasp, sucking in air that never seems to go anywhere.

"That's it, Dean," Joe says, cradling Dean's neck in his big hands. "Come for me, let it go."

It's like exploding, all the tension built up in him releasing all at once, and he shouldn't be coming harder than he ever has before at his age, and as the fire spreads outward, all the way to his fingertips and his toes, he marvels that he's put this off so long.

His cock is still spurting when Joe pulls back, pulls up onto his knees, grabs his dick and starts to jerk it. Aims it at Dean's belly as he starts to come, and it streaks up Dean's chest before it makes a viscous puddle in Dean's belly button.

Then it's over, and they're both gasping for air, filling their lungs. And Dean looks up, and he grins as he trails his fingertips through the mess. "Awesome," he breathes, and Joe beams down at him.

Dean wakes up alone. There's sun streaming through the window, melting the ice on the outside of the panes. There's a scrap of paper on Joe's pillow.

Meet me downstairs for coffee.

A little bit of bitter disappointment creeps in. No goodbye blowjobs, then. And he's got to do the walk of shame through Joe's shop. It's almost certainly open by now. Maybe his staff is used to random men leaving in the mornings. It bothers him a little. More than it should, because he knows this was a one night stand.

Dean didn't feel like the latest in a string of meaningless fucks, though. They didn't even fuck, for a start.

Yeah, fuck it. He finds his jeans and yanks them on. He had fun. His shirt, boots. Joe was probably the best choice he could have made for his first gay experience. Pulls on his jacket and heads downstairs.

The noise hits him as he pushes through the door into the shop. The mid-morning rush, and Dean's just another guy coming out of the bathroom. Almost no one looks his way.

Except Joe, seated at a table by the window, with Sam.

Dean freezes, doesn't even know why, except that he's still got that don't-let-anyone-know kind of thing twisting in his stomach. But Sam knows where Dean was going, knows why he was going there, so it's okay, and when Joe grins and waves him over, Dean takes a deep breath and keeps moving.

Dean grabs a spare chair from nearby, swings it around and sits on it backwards, resting his arms on the back of it. He's nervous as fuck, but he can fake it, and Sam might not buy it, but he'll appreciate the effort.

"Morning," Sam says, doesn't seem to be able to stop himself from looking Dean up and down. It's not like the look he gives Dean after a hunt, checking for injuries, there's just not that level of concern, and he's got the same smirk on his face he has when he picks Dean up any morning after he's spent the night in someone else's bed.

"And you can shut up," Dean says, smirking himself, before he turns to Joe. "Morning. You chew your arm off this morning when you woke up and found me in your bed, or...?"

Joe laughs, deep and musical. "Definitely not. Would have stayed, if I hadn't got a call that there was an Agent Jones down here, looking for his partner. But I couldn't bear to wake you."

Dean notices that Sam's wearing the suit for the first time. "Oh. Right. We got something?"

"That thing at the state line?" Sam says. "There's been some activity overnight. I think we should check it out. We've got an appointment with the coroner at noon."

"That means I got time for a whole lot of coffee." Dean turns, but Joe stops him with a hand on his arm.

"I'll get it," he says, gets up and heads for the counter.

"So, vampires?"

"Yeah," Sam says, and leans over the table. "Later. What happened?"

Dean leans back, eyes wide. "Seriously, Sammy? You want details?"

Sam chokes and coughs. "Not too much, no. But you...and he...?"

Dean rolls his eyes. "We got drunk on tequila, fooled around, and went to sleep, and that's all you're getting."

"And?"

"And it was awesome."

"What's awesome?" Joe hands Dean a tall takeaway cup, and it's steaming, then he sits back down.

"You are, apparently," Sam grins, and Dean blushes.

"I think you're awesome, too, Dean," Joe says.

Sam's in the car already, grabbed the keys and slid into the drivers seat, and Dean let him.

"If you're ever in town again, you call me, you hear?"

"I will," Dean says, realizes it's the truth. Then he fishes in his pocket, pulls out a card. It's got his own number on it, not a burner. "Home's Kansas, but..." He's never done this before, most people he gives this number have already lived through monsters or ghosts or demons, and Joe hasn't. "We deal with weird. You need that kind of help, you call me, okay?"

"You are X-Files." Joe beams.

Dean rolls his eyes. "Kiss me goodbye, asshole."