His Chains

Rated M

Summary: Sam feels the need to suffer for his sins; the very things he'd confessed before the last trial commenced. Taking a hunting break while Sam recovers from that trial, Dean takes on a job that suits desires he thought he'd left behind in Hell...

AN: I just got this into my head and needed to write it, even though I'm super busy with other things! Had to get this out! Not my usual thing, but I hope you like it :)

.~*~.

Dean sat alone at a bar not too terribly far from their 'super lair' that had become their home. After everything that had happened, trying to complete the trials and thinking they were doing the world some good, they had failed. Thing is, they'd failed on purpose. As bad as Dean thought he should feel, he just didn't. He didn't feel bad for stopping Sam. No wonderland version of the world would ever make Dean happy if Sam wasn't in it with him. He'd take this crap-hole any day of the week, as long as he had his Sammy by his side.

Right now, as he tossed back another shot of whiskey and felt his head swim, he thought about how long it'd actually been since he'd been in a bar. The lair was stocked for drinking, after all. But he'd needed to get out of there, just for a little while. Sam was sick and he'd become angry again with Dean's mother-henning. Maybe not angry. Frustrated. Sam was frustrated that he was sick, and that's just how Sam got when he was sick. But this sick, Dean couldn't help. He couldn't make it better, and truth be told, it kind of killed him a little inside. It meant he was useless; that he couldn't take care of his little brother.

Dean tossed back another shot, slammed the empty glass on the bar and tapped beside it without even looking up at the bartender.

"Rough night?" a man's voice sounded beside him and he turned his head slightly to look. He hadn't even been aware someone had taken the seat beside the empty one next to him. The guy was Dean's age, actually likely a little older. He was dressed oddly, Dean thought as he looked him up and down. He realized that the man had been in some sort of costume and had thrown a big tee shirt over the top half of himself, probably to keep from causing any alarm. It only took a moment, even in his haze, to know what the man did for a living.

"Rough life," Dean replied to the man's question.

"I hear that," he picked up his beer and took a long swig.

Dean glanced back over at him. "They not serve beer over at Crucible?" he asked.

The man seemed genuinely startled that he picked up on where he'd come from. "You a customer over there?" he asked, looking him up and down now.

Dean smirked. "Nah. Had to talk to the owner a few weeks ago, though. Was during daylight hours, so I didn't really see much but the décor." Crucible was a BDSM club. Its owner, they'd thought, was part of a hunt they'd been working on. But it turned out they'd been wrong. "I saw your picture up on the wall," Dean told him, grimacing at himself for mentioning that he'd remembered as much. "You're a Dom."

"You've got a good memory," the man replied. "I do, too. It's why I was surprised you knew the place. Didn't think I'd seen you there before. Name's Bill," he held out his hand.

"Not according to that poster in the club," Dean replied and looked at the man's hand. "You washed before you left there, right?"

Bill let out a choked laugh. "Oh you are funny. You act like I just fist guys all night," he giggled.

"Oh god," Dean turned back to his drink.

"Really, though, we're all clean over there. Part of our contract."

"Contract?" Dean raised a brow as he looked back over at him.

"Yeah. There's a lot that can go wrong if you're unsanitary about stuff. Clean room, clean hands, just as important as a condom."

"Excellent" Dean feigned a smile and downed his shot.

"You should come by and play sometime," Bill said, suggestively. "Nothing helps you through a rough day like a night at Crucible."

"No thanks, pal. I've taken part in both sides of torture before, and I'd rather not do it again."

"Oh, a man with experience," Bill shifted into the seat beside Dean. "You know," he looked around as f making sure no one was listening. Dean felt a bit uncomfortable. "They're looking for another experienced dom to take over temporarily for Blaze."

"That so?" Dean feigned interest, just barely.

"He got a little carried away, and the newbie sub he was working on kinda flipped out and broke his nose. He'll be out for two weeks, or however long it takes for him to get over it and come back."

"And you think I'd wanna do that?" Dean raised a brow at him again. "I'm not exactly into dudes."

"Not exactly? Hmm. Well, most of my clients claim the same thing. Never ask me to touch them in a sexual way, and I'm fine by that, honestly. The pay is great and I get to beat the crap out of jock-boys who can't find a woman strong enough to beat them the way they really want it."

"Great pay, huh?" Dean hears himself say, and he thinks maybe he's had enough to drink that he'd be considering this.

"Oh yeah. Tips on top of it. I quit my job at the bank two weeks ago when I realized I didn't need both anymore."

"And you said it was temporary, right?"

"Swear to god," he raised his hand up, then glanced at the clock on the far wall. "Shit. Honey, I've gotta get back. To answer your initial question, yes they serve beer. But when I'm on break, I want a break. If I do it there, I've got a swarm of subs buzzing around my like mosquitoes." He stood and went for his wallet, trying to fumbled through the tee shirt to find his pocket.

Dean stood and pulled out his own. "I got it," he told him.

Bill smiled at him. "Thanks. You coming, then?"

"To check it out," Dean said as he threw a few bills on the bar.

"Oh goody!" Bill pressed his hands together. "We'll take my car. I've only had a beer. I'll bring you back to get yours afterward."

Dean grunted in agreement. He wasn't in any shape to drive, anyway. And he didn't need to be afraid of taking a ride with a stranger. He had his gun. And his knife. And this dude couldn't even get to his own wallet in all that tee shirt.

Tbc...