No beta. All mistakes my own.
Disclaimer: Not my characters. No copyright infringement intended.
Chapter One: Geary's Bar Concordia
Coming to Concordia to drink scotch in an old guys' barely furnished bar, was not one of Dean Winchester's most thought out journeys.
Having sampled, returned, and not wanted to be a regular at most of the establishments in Lebanon, he had driven the hour east, soothed by Robert Plant and Jimmy Page.
There was only so much of Sam's hacking cough that a concerned older brother could take, without snapping. Offered boiled water with honey had been rebuffed. Then Sam had "freaking ruined" in his own words a medieval text by spluttering lung-blood or some shit, all over some long dead monk's distinctly untalented rendering of some other long dead saint. In Dean's humble opinion Sam's blood spatter was an improvement. The bitch-face had been underserved in Dean's continuing humble opinion.
Some nights he just had to get out. He wasn't even consuming like he used to. A couple of well nursed scotches and one bottle of Miller or Bud, depending on his mood.
Then back home. Something warm, not the liquor, rubbed the inside of his stomach. Back home to his room, their frigging awesome kitchen, Sammy's library and their bunker.
Dean might just have hummed aloud in contentment.
"Hey dude, you want a game?"
Dean looked up at a retired line backer, or maybe a bricklayer, or a weights trainer. The guy was six foot and plenty of change, broad shouldered, black hair with soft bangs but he could wear it. He had worn denims, Dr Sexy style cowboy boots, and a warm brushed flannel shirt in a pale well washed grey.
Grey eyes, to match his flannel, sparked at Dean, "You wanna be left with your drink? Just you an' I are the only ones in this dive under forty, thought you might like one rack of pool?"
Funds were good. Hustling this friendly guy wasn't a prospect that suited his melancholy. Dean gifted buff-guy with a smile, "Not tonight amigo."
Buff guy walked off. His ass was tightly packed into those ancient denims. He deposited his cue against the far wall and moved to the bar.
Dean watched him take two bottles of Heineken, and raised his eyebrows as Mr Buff-Dude Concordia walked back towards him. "A beer, then. For your troubles."
"Dean Winchester." Dean extended his hand.
It was crushed in a vice like shake, "Paul Kerry."
Dean pushed the half empty scotch aside with the back of his hand, intending to use it as a whisky chaser.
"So Dean? What you do for a living?" Paul asked casual-like, leaning back on the hard wooden chair, which passed for comfort in the run down bar.
"I freelance. Troubleshoot. Travel a lot." Dean rolled off his pat response.
"Sounds unstable."
Dean laughed, "That's new... I've had people call it, free, independent, lonely, even dangerous, but you win a prize for originality."
They clinked bottle necks. Dean continued, "I've a place over in Lebanon with my brother, so we are not as unstable these times, but travel is part of our gig. What about you Paul?"
"Fire-fighter."
Dean was impressed. He didn't care if it showed, but it must have because Paul threw his head back and laughed, "You look like my seven year old nephew when I took him down to the station to meet the guys."
"Sorry." Dean mumbled and tried to look impassive.
"No, it's cool. Kind of sweet. Before that I was in construction for a few years, and I did a tour in Iraq, before we got Sadaam. You served?"
"No man. Never worked out that way. Are you from here?" Dean asked, genuinely interested in this guy's story, and able to squirrel away his Sammy and Cas worries for a while.
"Not far, couple of towns over. Got back from Iraq, messed up, man, you have no idea, I couldn't leave the desert behind. Was like I had returned to an alien planet. Then I met Leslie and well..."
Dean grinned, "True love and all that... "
"Yeah," Paul agreed but there was no smile.
"You and Lesley, you still got it going on?" Dean asked unsure now that he was going to get a positive answer.
"One year getting to know each other and pulling me back into civilian life, one year deciding we wanted each other, years here living together in Concordia, putting down roots, and then he left me. Needed to find himself." Paul stared at the pool table, and didn't see how Dean's eyes had widened when Lesley turned out to be Leslie.
"That's tough man."
"It is. It still is. If he came home in the morning I would take him in. Some sap I am." Paul's weak smile tugged at something in Dean's psyche.
"Love. It is a fugly beast." Dean pronounced and lifted his bottle for another toast.
Paul met him in mid air, "To fugly love."
They took a swig each.
"You live with your brother then?" Paul asked, no mistaking the tentative come on.
"Mmm-huh." Dean nodded, "Just me and him rattling around our big ole space. Crap, that wasn't meant to sound maudlin. I have a friend, a good friend, who is off finding himself or some messed up shit."
"I hear ya." Paul pressed his giant hand down over Dean's and then patted it once. "You wanna another?"
It was getting late. Two scotches and a beer was Dean's self imposed still-able-to-drive-Baby-limit.
"Naw man. I'm good. I'm gonna havta skip." He stood and retrieved his green jacket from the back of the chair.
"Yeah? Well see you around, Dean. I'm here most off nights. It is a good place for a quiet drink."
Dean nodded. If he turned a waved from the door, and if Paul waved back enthusiastically, then that wasn't weird.
Six nights away on a Garth initiated wild-goose chase for Kevin, in rural Oklahoma, brought Dean home weary and with a short fuse. Not willing to risk losing it and arguing with his ill brother, or to endanger their re-found brotherly connection, Dean snagged Baby's keys from the long table in the library and announced he was going out. Sam teased him with a "Don't be late home, bitch."
Pulling up in the lot outside Geary's Bar, Dean wondered if he would rather have some peace, or if he would be glad to see the buff friendly fireman again.
Paul was sinking the black in a game against a guy who could have fought in the Korean War. He had the same denims and boots as the previous week, but his chest was barely restrained inside a black Henley. He looked up and met Dean's eyes. Excusing himself and laying the cue on the felt, he came directly over to Dean. "Nice to see you back."
"Hey Paul. Off tonight?" Dean said lamely, caught out with the sudden appearance of his new bud.
"Not just off, not on call roster either. I am a free man, Mr Winchester." Paul winked.
Dean swallowed hard then played along, "Well Mr Kerry, I am home from a job. A bust out and in need of some distraction. What does a single man do on a Tuesday in Concordia?"
Paul laughed loud, causing a table of old guys to glance their way. When they saw it was the fire-fighter they just rolled their eyes and got back to their card game.
"Jerk off." Paul intoned low.
"Ex-el-sque-z-me." Dean asked.
"Tuesday night entertainment. I offer a functioning X-box, Netflix, and or a game of scrabble. Jerking off to scrabble is optional."
Dean chuckled. "Jeez guy, you are priceless. You wouldn't be trying to lure me back to your lair to go all Dexter Morgan on me."
"Shucks, Dean. My lair? I don't live in a batcave."
Dean gave a dry chortle, "Good cos that's my digs. Come on, where do you live?"
Paul gave him an assessing gaze at his comment but shrugged it off, "Over the road, not far, five minutes' walk. You coming pal?"
Dean shrugged but followed the guy out the door.
Paul's apartment was a pack rat's natural habitat. He either hoarded for America, or he didn't believe in storage. With no sign of shame, the large fire-fighter picked up a stack of DIY manuals from his sofa and dumped them on the floor, so that Dean could sit.
"Leslie was the tidy one." Was the only comment on the mess.
While the place was full of crap, it was clean. The sofa had clean covers and the tiled floors were grime free. Paul had the most goddamned awful mustard walls in his living area, reminiscent of the scumiest low budget motel.
Once Dean had evaluated his surroundings, Paul offered X-box or movie, pizza or curry, beer or Irish whiskey, and chips or pretzels.
Skyfall, pizza, beer and Pringles.
Dean did not get half hard during the shaving scene. Paul didn't move closer during the Scottish scenes. Dean did not moan his appreciation of the explosions or cry in empathy over a car.
Beer and tomato sauce, BBQ Pringles, and a burn of stubble. Credits on the screen and a dude's tongue in his mouth. It felt good, warm, comfortable. Paul's hand spanned Dean's shoulder blade as he pulled him closer. Dean pressed deeper, taking control of the kiss. When they pulled apart, Paul cupped his cheek with his hand and pressed his large thumb along Dean's own stubbled jaw.
"Mmm, good?" Paul asked.
"Mmm-uh," Dean affirmed. He lay back and closed his eyes. Paul moved his hand over Dean's crotch and pressed down.
"Testing, testing, one, two, three."
"Freak." Dean muttered.
"Test has confirmed positive for response." Paul laughed softly, as Dean's cock strained under the attention.
Dean pushed Paul's hands away, and a fleeting slant of rejection tainted the big man's features. But Dean was unzipping his fly and letting little Dean out for air.
He was going with the flow here. Rudderless, but allowing this, taking it, letting Paul give him what he wanted, what perhaps they both needed.
Paul got with the program quick smart. He ran his thumbnail across Dean's slit, eliciting a grateful moan. Sliding closer, almost straddling Dean, he slid down his own trousers and lined up their well matched cocks.
One large hand, two hard guys, one expert, one novice.
Paul jerked them hard, rapid, brutal, freaking awesome, Tightening, coming together. Paul growled "Dean!"
Dean bit his lip, but drew the sagging grey eyed man down for another kiss of pressed top lip against top teeth, then seeking entry and more teeth and tongue and no breath until burning lungs and opening eyes enforced their parting.
Paul collapsed beside Dean on the sofa. "Handsome and hot, you got the full package, Dean-man."
"You have quite the package yourself, fire-fighter." Dean complemented back.
"Beats, beating in the shower."
"Sure does, Paul." Dean eased himself up and tucked his dick back in his pants. He could do with a shower put didn't want to push things.
"So, your guy?" Paul pushed his body out from the seat, using an elbow to brace himself against the sofa back, "you waiting on him coming home?"
Dean looked up at the ceiling, not seeing Paul's flaky plaster-work. He nodded. "Sorry."
"No big, dude. Hey, one round of frottage does not a marriage make." Paul joked.
"An awesome round," Dean grinned.
"When he comes back..." Paul began.
"Cas. His name is Cas. And yeah, when he comes back, I'll let him in." Dean replied.
"No, man, I was going to ask, when Cas comes back, you gonna tell him about us?"
Dean shrugged, but he wondered if he could, if he should, use Paul to open the door, see if Cas wanted to step through.
"I'll tell Leslie. I'll tell him one night in Geary's divebar, I found a sex-god, and I took him home, got him hard for Daniel Craig, fed him chips, got him off, tasted his mouth, and prepped him for the return of his own angel."
Dean jolted a fraction, but saw the lost look on Paul's face. "You tell that Leslie when he lands his sorry ass back here that I'll boot him back to soul-searching camp if he pulls another stunt on you."
Paul grinned and clapped an arm around Dean's shoulder, "Vice versa, man, I pack a mean right hook. That Cas better show his face."
Dean nodded.
The silence got strained and Dean made his excuses.
Paul left the door open. "Pool table Geary's bar, anytime handsome."
Sam was still up, pouring over some other ridiculously old volume. He took one look at Dean. "You scored?"
Dean grinned and winked.
"You bother with a name?"
"Hey, Sammy, you wound me. Paula." Dean quirked his own secret smile as he turned his back on his little brother, heading for the kitchen to make them a midnight snack.
"Paula?" Sam shouted after him, shaking his head. Once Dean was gone he mused, "She must have had some beard on her for that skin burn. Denial, river of Egypt, meet Dean."
He listened for a moment ensuring Dean was in fact in the kitchen.
"Castiel. I offer you this prayer, FYI, Dean's gotten man-love, if you don't get your angelic ass back here, you'll lose out on all his firsts. Come on Cas, move your butt," Sam coughed, "Amen."