It's obviously photoshopped and staring up at Dean.
"Dammit, you touched my phone," says Dean. "You don't fuck with someone's phone, dude."
"I thought you'd appreciate the change," says Sam.
Dean holds up his illuminated phone and points the screen at Sam. The background has been changed to Dean's official company headshot, copy-pasted onto a huge bodybuilder who is tan, oiled, and wearing a yellow thong. "Not cool. I thought we had a truce?"
"I'm the one who called a truce after you fucked with my laptop," says Sam, shooting an angry scowl. "You changed my homepage to your favorite porn site."
"How was I 'sposed to know you had to give a presentation that evening..."
"Every student in my Ethics of Law class saw it," says Sam, angry glare not abating. "Professor Chang was not pleased."
"That was just an unfortunate coincidence, I didn't realize that your professor," Dean's words fade away. He clears his throat and meets Sam's eye. "So, uh, we're even, then? You didn't do anything else, like download a buncha weird apps?"
Sam shrugs with a smirk.
Dean bites his cheek. The glance at his phone is automatic. How much snooping had Sam done, exactly?
"I don't know if we're even, but okay," says Sam. He rolls his eyes, but he's fighting a smile. His attention returns to the nineteen-inch television on the counter of the shop.
Sam walks across the faded, wooden floor, every board creaking under his boots. Sam usually dresses nicer for class, but that night he's working with Dean and opts for a casual shirt over dark jeans complete with a faded blue jacket. Dean's style is similar with plaid over jeans and his favorite leather jacket.
"Today, Angel Corporation announced it would be holding its official public press conference. The head of the new Savannah branch of this multi-million dollar construction company plans to unveil the upcoming projects right here in Savannah. The event is open to the public and begins tomorrow evening at five o'clock outside the Marshall Building..."
"Would you turn that shit off?" Dean calls across the open room.
The shop is located on the main floor. Faded wallpaper, outdated wall sconces, and antique photos line the walls. A large, brick fireplace and wooden mantel dominate one corner. A long counter with a computer and cash register crowds the other wall. A few old wooden benches circle the exterior walls, providing customers a place to sit and wait.
"I'm watching it," says Sam.
"You can't be serious, supporting those assholes," says Dean, giving his phone one last glance before shoving it into his back pocket.
"My professor's offering us extra credit if we attend the conference," says Sam. "Getting involved in local government, and what not."
"Makes me sick, them buying whole blocks of property," says Dean.
"They were offering a good price," says Sam.
"Yeah, well, I ain't selling. Non-negotiable, never, nu uh," says Dean.
"You're stuck in the wrong mindset," says Sam, shaking his head. "Whatever Dad made you promise, he wasn't psychic, he couldn't foresee the housing market or how good the offer would be..."
"It's not about the money," says Dean, straightening his shoulders. "It's the principle."
"Where's Garth?" asks Sam, turning away from the screen.
"Just you and me tonight, Sammy."
"Full house?" asks Sam.
"I wish," says Dean, shrugging. "No big deal, there's always a lull between Halloween and Spring Break."
"Yeah," says Dean. Sam's puppy eyes, full of sympathy, are an annoyance. "I'm gonna grab a shower. Watch the phones for me?"
"Yeah, okay," says Sam, but it's unclear if he even heard. He's staring at the screen where a newscaster drones on about some local farmers market.
Dean walks upstairs into the apartment above the shop. Probably too small for two men, especially a giant like Sam, but it's home. The main room acts as living room, dining area, and kitchen combined. The decor of empty beer bottles, framed band posters, and mismatched furniture suggests they're college students.
It's true for Sam, but Dean's twenty-seven and got out with a GED.
The disheveled stack of paper on their table draws Dean's attention. He walks over and frowns at the papers while unbuttoning his shirt. One official looking envelope catches his eye. He removes his shirt and balls it up before picking up the letter.
Tax Collector. This oughta be fun. Dean tosses his dirty shirt in the direction of the communal laundry basket and watches to make sure it goes in before he tears into the envelope.
Proposed property taxes. If he had eaten anything, Dean might have felt nauseous. Instead, he chokes back an angry growl. The property taxes always arrived in November but weren't due until the start of June. Plenty of time to address the problem.
Dean pulls out his phone, cursing at the obnoxious background he's yet to fix. He calls the number listed on the paper.
"City of Savannah Revenue Department, how may I assist you?"
"Look, there's gotta be some kinda mistake," says Dean, shaking out the paper in his hand. "I'm staring at this tax bill, and there's no way this is correct. Last year, the amount rose way too much, but this year it's somehow risen even more? How is that even possible?"
"Do you wish to set up a payment plan? The full amount isn't due until June," says the city employee.
"No, I don't want to set up a fu...no, I want someone to fix this because this is too damn high, there's gotta be some problem."
"The tax value is approximately forty percent of your appraised value..."
"Well, who appraised it, because it's fu...it's wrong," says Dean, gripping his phone so tightly the plastic casing creaks.
"If you wish to contest the appraised value of your property, I can schedule a meeting with an appraiser?"
"Yes, thank you, do that," says Dean.
"Someone can be there tomorrow morning, around ten o'clock?"
After giving his information, Dean hangs up and settles heavily into one of the three mismatched chairs around their antique round table. He stares down at his phone and sighs. He clicks through settings, changing the background back to something generic, and prays Sam didn't look through too much on his phone.
Especially not the new app.
It's no big deal. Not something Dean had planned. It was an impulse, really. Curiosity more than anything else. It's not like there's anything inherently suspicious about a sexually active man downloading a dating app. Dean had used them before.
Just not one exclusively for men seeking men.
Dean looks both ways in the apartment, even though he can hear the television droning on downstairs and Sam's giant feet are incapable of walking upstairs stealthily. Dean clicks the dating app and stares impatiently until it loads.
Dean cringes at the sight of his own profile. Creating it while brown-out drunk was probably a bad idea, but it was the only way he could drum up the courage. He could make a better one when he's sober, he'd reasoned with himself. With a single, shirtless picture, his face obscured, and a tagline of "The Truth Is Out There," Dean's expectations are low.
Which is why it's shocking that he's gotten so many replies over the last couple days. That evening, a bright red '4' appears next to his message icon. Dean presses his lips together to suppress a grin. It's hard not to feel a little proud. He quickly selects to read the new messages.
Subject: Hi.
Well, that's not very creative. Not that Dean's come to expect much from the users of this particular service. A quick glance at the man's profile shows a very large, very hairy man with the tagline: "Bear 4 U." The message gets deleted.
Subject: Top or Bottom?
Dean knows that romance is dead, but this is a ridiculous new low. Even from someone with the handle "HotCkBoy6969." Delete.
The next message has no subject, and inside is a picture. Of a dick. It's turgid, gripped so tightly in a thick wrist that the head looks angry and purple. Is this really how men attract other men? Hang the worm out there as bait, and wait for a nibble?
Not for the first time, Dean wonders if he shouldn't just stick with man-seeking-woman dating sites.
The last one gives him cause for pause.
Subject: In regards to casual dating and friendship.
The strange, formal subject contrasts with the tiny profile pic. It's a man's naked back, all the way down to the swell of his hips. A tiny black stenciled tattoo perches on the small of his back. It resembles a set of extended wings around a strange symbol. Dean clicks for a larger view of the profile picture.
It's definitely a tramp stamp. A tramp stamp on a man. Of course, they can do it, but Dean's never seen one in person. Maybe some tattoos in the lower back area, but this is legit a tramp stamp. It sits right over the ass cheeks, and it's definitely a cheap stencil. Dean's at least curious enough to click on the message.
Wayward67,
I noticed from your profile that you live in the Savannah area. I am new to the city. My status as "out" is not well known outside of the family, but I am interested in meeting men for dating and friendship. This is my first experience with an online dating service, but I have difficulty meeting new people organically due to a demanding work schedule. I'm looking for a friend, and maybe more. If you have similar interests, I would enjoy chatting.
Thanks in advance,
Thursday00
Is this guy trying to get laid, or hired? It's too tempting to click on the guy's profile and skim over the information. The picture with the tramp stamp conflicts with the professional tone. Maybe it's not his picture—just a picture he likes.
Location: Savannah, GA
Age: 30
Interests: Music, Stargazing, Wine, Mythology
"...could this guy be more generic," mumbles Dean.
"Dean, you done with the shower?" Sam's voice echoes from downstairs. "I wanna run out and grab some dinner."
"Five more minutes," Dean shouts back down the stairs. He locks his phone and goes into the bathroom, turning on the water. Standing under the hot spray, Dean thinks about the strange response. Definitely the best of the batch, but that wasn't saying much.
He thinks about the alluring tattoo while drying himself off with a clean towel. He wonders what kind of music the guy is into while choosing a clean flannel shirt for the evening. The fact that he's still thinking about it once he's dressed and walking downstairs seals it. Dean's ready to write a response before he's even at the bottom of the stairs.
"I'm running down to the corner, want me to grab you something?" asks Sam.
"Bring me a burger, the usual," says Dean, walking behind the counter. He pulls up a stool and sits near the shop phone, cellphone in hand.
"Right," says Sam, walking out the front door without another glance.
Dean hurries to open the app and prepares his reply.
New in town huh? Where r u from? My status of "out" is similar but im def open to meeting guys. I've tried the online thing, new to this site, tho. Ur profile says you're into music so what kind do you like?
There are other questions—better questions—Dean wishes he could ask. But the door opens and a family of four waltzes through the door.
"Welcome to Winchester Ghost Tours," says Dean, sliding into his most charming smile. "Who wants to see a ghost?"
"I thought it was gonna rain there for a second," says Sam, forking the last parts of his leftover salad into his mouth. Soggy leaves melt off his plastic fork. Disgusting.
"The way our luck is going, I wouldn't be surprised," says Dean, organizing receipts into neat stacks.
"You keep saying things like that," says Sam, wiping his mouth on a napkin so flimsy it dissolves rather than cleans anything. He gives up and balls the remaining pieces. "You're making me worried like there's something you're not telling me."
"Since when do I need a reason to be pessimistic?" asks Dean. "It's the Winchester way, whatever can go wrong will go wrong."
"At least it didn't rain," says Sam, aiming the balled up napkin at the trashcan. He misses and walks to retrieve it with a sigh. "The night as a whole was a success."
"Yeah," says Dean, starting to punch in the amount of the receipts into the calculator, each additional causing the amount to print out on the tape with a mechanical hum. "Too bad it wasn't a full group, though."
"The holidays bring some traffic, families in town bored," says Sam, dropping the rest of his salad into the garbage. "Not to mention Spring Break is around the corner. We're making enough to get by, though, right?"
"Yeah," says Dean, without hesitation. "Yeah, of course, always."
"So, nothing to worry about," says Sam. His tone is casual, but he's staring at Dean, watching for some tell, some silent admission that he's lying.
Dean plasters on his best, lopsided grin. "Worrying about this place is my job, and only hobby."
Sam stares for a beat too long, before chuckling softly to himself. "You need a new hobby."
Dean returns his attention to the receipts. The tour was a success, even if half the seats were empty. The extra purchases after the tour pushed them into the black. A final keystroke and Dean rips the receipt from the machine and stares. "All done, and a little left over, wanna hit the bar?"
"I don't know, I got class first thing, and I have to go to that community meeting in the evening," says Sam, mussing up his long, brown hair as he scratches his head.
"You're no fun, how can you even call yourself a college student?" asks Dean.
"I'm in Law School, it's different, besides, it's Wednesday, okay, no one goes out on a Wednesday," says Sam.
"Your point?"
In the end, Sam goes upstairs, and Dean goes the bar—alone. Sam claims he'll study and go to bed early, but Dean suspects he'll spend the majority of the time binging Netflix using Bobby's login information.
The Roadhouse is always a welcome place, no matter the day of the week. There are always regulars crowding the bar area, tourists sitting down in the booths, and guys with leather jackets and handlebar mustaches shooting pool. Dean makes his way to a seat on the side of the bar, close to the liquor bottles lining the wall.
"Well, well, Mr. Ghost Hunter, whatd'ya have for me tonight, eh?" asks a lanky guy in a trucker cap and a mullet as he jumps onto the stool beside Dean.
"Whatcha drinking tonight, Dean?" asks the middle-aged brunette behind the bar ."You want me to chase Ash away?"
"Nah, I have some business to discuss with our boy," says Dean, putting on a charming smile. "I'll take a pour of the usual—make it a double."
Ellen walks away, grabbing a bottle of Johnnie Walker from the back wall and reaching for a thick glass. Dean reaches into the pocket of his leather jacket and pulls out a digital camera.
"It ain't much," says Dean, sliding the camera to Ash. "Only took pics at the cemetery and the Pirate House, then had to pack it away."
"Why would you do that? Before the Marshall House? After that great halo we got last week?"
"Sorry, man, looked like rain, so I packed it away," says Dean, shrugging. "I can't really afford a new camera right now, so I gotta keep it safe."
Ellen drops off the whiskey and Dean spares her a grin and a wink before pulling the glass to his lips. Ellen tends to flash concerned glances when he orders too many drinks in an evening. That's why Dean carries his flask.
"Sam's picking his nose in this one," says Ash, holding the camera out for Dean to see the preview image. Sam, mid-scratch.
"Hah," says Dean, grinning. He takes another sip before Ash speaks again.
"Oh, man, that's an orb," says Ash, holding the camera out again. It's a shot of the tour group walking through the cemetery. Dean shot the pictures as he walked, barely bothering to aim. In the light from a background street lamp, a white orb hovers.
"Hey, no shit, gotta save it for the wall," says Dean, nodding at the camera.
"That's the second one this month, the graveyard is really picking up in activity, did you guys take the EMF reader?"
"Yeah, of course, always," says Dean.
"And was it going insane?!"
"I was...busy, there were a lot of little kids, so I had to talk fast, and constantly keep an eye on them, since their lazy ass parents weren't..."
"Oh, man, this is amazing, you're getting great stuff," says Ash, quickly navigating back through the picture files until he stops with a loud whistle.
"More orbs?" asks Dean, raising his eyes.
"No, it's a shirtless dude, and whoa..."
Dean grabs the camera back. "That's the end of picture time."
"If that's you, you're a good-looking guy, you work out, or what?"
"Stop," says Dean.
"...there's nothing wrong with a dude telling a dude he's sexy," says Ash.
"I don't want to hear that from you, ever," says Dean.
"Oh, right, hey, I wanted to tell you, I got a lead. I know you said you were in a money crunch and needed a scenic haunt closer to home. Well, how do you feel about Saint Augustine, Florida, and lighthouses?"
"Uh, you'll have to send me the information," says Dean. "I might be focusing on the book starting again real soon. If it's a good location, it's just a bonus that it's close."
"Exactamundo," says Ash, shooting a pair of finger guns. "Where's Sam?"
"Early night, just grabbing one drink, then pushing out, myself," says Dean.
"I'll shoot you an email," says Ash, tapping the bar top before moving away into the crowd near the pool table.
Email. Dean pulls out his phone, immediately clicking on the dating app icon. More messages.
Another picture of a dick. Charming. Delete. CckGuzzlerGA wants to know if Dean's interested in a gangbang. Not only is Dean not interested, he's a little afraid. Delete. The last unchecked message makes him grin.
Wayward67,
I enjoy playing music—I play the piano and the harp. The harp is my favorite. I have been playing since I was a child. I enjoy playing different styles of music. My current job does not allow me anytime to practice. Are you also a musician?
Sincerely,
Thursday00
Dean glances around the room. Ellen's busy behind the bar, chatting up customers. Most people are busy watching the basketball game on the televisions in the corners, playing pool, or involved in their own conversations. It's safe. Dean pushes a few buttons and prepares to respond before he's stopped.
Thursday00 is online.
Hmm. Dean pulls up the message function, instead.
Wayward67: hey
Thursday00: Good evening.
Wayward67: I meant I like music as in listening to music. Mostly classic rock. U really play the harp?
Thursday00: I'm afraid my knowledge of Classic Rock is limited, but I do appreciate all forms of music. I play the harp, though it is sitting in storage at the moment. My move to Savannah is recent—I'm still getting settled.
Wayward67: I have been here my whole life
Thursday00: I enjoy this city, thus far.
Wayward67: it's alright
Thursday00: What do you do for fun around here?
Wayward67: depends on ur definition of fun
Thursday00: What do *you* like to do for fun?
Wayward67: hang at the bar, shoot pool, Riverside is run to walk around, if u can avoid tourists
Thursday00: Your profile says you enjoy Microbrews. Are you familiar with the Moon River Brewing Company?
Wayward67: beer is good, place is trendy, tho. I go there sometimes for work
Thursday00: What do you do for work?
Wayward67: sorry, internet stranger danger, not sure I'm supposed to tell u that
Thursday00: You're afraid I might be a sexual predator?
Wayward67: R u?
Thursday00: No.
Wayward67: Just what a sexual predator would say
Thursday00: You don't believe me?
Wayward67: jk ur one of the only dudes on this app to send an actual message so ur probably not a predator. Most of this site seems to think all they gotta do is send a dick pic
Thursday00: I have encountered those users, as well. I appreciate the male form, and I love a good photograph, but as a greeting, it can be uncomfortable. I much prefer your profile picture.
Wayward67: I like ur pic too nice ink
Thursday00: A drunken mistake I have learned to embrace.
Wayward67: It makes for a nice pic much classier than 'how u doin here's my junk'
Thursday00: Is it even possible to make a 'dick pic' classy?
Wayward67: need some filters, turn it black and white. Instant class.
Thursday00: Very film noir.
Wayward67: gotta figure out the best angle to make it look bigger
Thursday00: Or, in my case, to make it look smaller. I wouldn't want to scare away any potential partners.
Dean reads the incoming message and laughs out loud before he catches himself. Too late. Ellen is giving him a knowing grin from across the bar.
Shit.
Dean shoves his phone into his pocket and attempts to look nonchalant.
"Good to see someone making you smile," says Ellen. She picks up the empty glass in front of Dean and holds it up. "One and done?"
"Yeah," says Dean, adjusting on his stool to get his wallet out of his back pocket.
"Someone special, then?" asks Ellen.
"Oh, nah, just Sam attempting to be funny," says Dean, clearing his throat. He counts out enough bills to cover the cost, plus tip, and flops them on the bar top.
"Talking to your brother is making you grin and blush? That'd be a scandal, Winchester," says Ellen, smirking. "You don't gotta keep secrets from me, son. Jo and I have both been worried about you since the big break up."
"I noticed our girl was absent," lies Dean, smiling at his smooth topic change, "how's my second favorite bartender?"
"She's out with a fella, third date," says Ellen, putting both hands on the bar and slouching. "Might be gettin' serious."
"That's great," says Dean, "I'm really happy for her."
"Hopefully he treats her better than the last two jerks," says Ellen, standing up with a sigh.
"Have a great night, Ellen, and tell Jo I said hey," says Dean, standing up.
It's only a few blocks, but Dean walks the entire way, hands in his pockets and eyes downcast. Sitting at the bar, flirting with a guy over a dating app. What a perfect invitation to get the Roadhouse regulars interested in his damn private life. Never good.
Dean takes the steps two at a time. The porch creaks and moss hanging from the twisted oak out front sways in the breeze. People often comment that heir family home looks haunted. A spooky house is good for business and saves money on repairs.
Quiet. The store's shut down, and no light comes from upstairs. Dean walks up as silently as possible, peeking slowly around the corner into the apartment.
Soft snores float down the hall. Dean breathes a sigh of relief before walking over to the lumpy sofa and dropping down. He makes sure the snoring continues before pulling out his phone.
Thursday00: That was only a joke, I hope I haven't caused any alarm.
Dean bites his knuckle to keep from laughing loud enough to wake Sam.
Wayward67: hey sorry about that I was out earlier, home now, and that wouldn't scare me away, though I'm more curious about the rest of ur body
An icon pops up on the screen and a loading bar begins to fill. Dean looks around the room, staring at the phone in confusion. Then a new message comes through, and it's a photo.
The lighting is bad, and it's obviously taken using a phone and a mirror. The person is only visible from the neck down, but damn. Dean stares, dumbfounded. The person is twisted to display part of his back, enough that the angel wing tattoo is recognizable. His toned chest is also visible—tanned skin with a light spattering of dark hair fully on display.
A liquid heat snakes through Dean's insides at the sight. He stares—what choice is there? The upper hemisphere of those as cheeks is painfully hot. The definition in the abdominal and pectoral muscles. Dean appreciates a man that works out—he hits the weights himself.
Wayward67: u r so sexy
Thursday00: Do you need proof that it is me?
Wayward67: I believe u
Dean exits the app and brings up his phone's camera, changing the setting to forward facing. He unbuttons his jeans and pauses when he sees the lacy top of that day's chosen undergarments. Well, if the guy was going to freak out about a dude in panties might as well get it over with. Dean lets his jeans hang to reveal the black lacy top of the day's pink panties with black trim.
In an attempt to show as much skin as possible, Dean tries to hold his shirt in one hand, and his camera in the other. He grunts in frustration as the actions prove incompatible. Biting the edge of his shirt to keep it raised, Dean uses two hands to angle the photo to show his bare torso and peeking panties. He flexes his muscles a little. Gotta put forth a good first impression. Once he has a few good shots, he picks the best one, sets the filter to black and white, and hits send.
A long minute follows.
Thursday00: You were right, a black and white filter is very classy. Your panties look delicious.
Wayward67: u like that? ;)
Thursday00: I very much want to run my tongue over every inch of that skin. And that lace.
Dean swallows, staring at the screen. He types and erases several attempts before settling on his next message.
Wayward67: how bout we meet then?
Minutes tick by and there's no reply. Dean frowns at the phone. He checks to see that Thursday00 is still online, but there's no change.
Well, no big deal, not like Dean hadn't walked away with no notice when he left the bar. Being needy and weird wasn't the way to casual sex. Dean made his way down the hall. Sam's door was cracked open, the sound of snoring a familiar comfort.
Dean walks into his own room, small and neat. He shrugs out of his plaid shirt and jeans. He checks his phone. Nothing. Dean creeps into the bathroom, brushes his teeth, and washes his face. Still no reply. Dean crawls into his own bed wearing only thin pajama pants over his pink and black panties and plugs the phone in on the nightstand.
He checks the messages. He checks the phone's wifi signal. He restarts the app. He checks the messages again. He finally dozes off, still staring sleepily at his phone and fantasizing about using that stencil tattoo for target practice.
