Curry. Dean loved the smell of curry and seafood. A beautiful conglomeration of spicy and fishy aromas permeated the entire establishment, warming him from the inside out.
The one good goddamn thing about taking this job. Dean thought bitterly. As good as he was feeling at the moment, in a restaurant, getting ready to order an ungodly huge bowl of seafood gumbo, he felt an overall throb of emptiness. It was no more than usual, but now that he had a moment alone, to eat in peace for once, it felt worse. There was no teenage angst-ridden Sam to deal with, and no alcoholic douchebag of a father to deal with either. He should be relieved, he knew. But instead of peace, he felt bored; stir-crazy even.
A waitress handed him a small piece of cardstock on which the simple menu was written in calligraphic ink by a skilled hand. The menu included: Gumbo, $8/$12; Jambalaya $10/$12 Beignets $2; Combo platter $20/$25
The menu options came in options of a small or large portion, and despite the simplicity of the options Dean found himself undecided as to whether or not he wanted a large portion. He was very hungry. But if he had leftovers he didn't want them to go bad. And if he so happened to take someone back to his hotel that night, carrying a Styrofoam box home wasn't exactly the sexiest thing on earth.
The waitress was just about to come back to his side of the bar counter when a man suddenly sat down on the neighboring barstool next to Dean.
The man was much older than Dean but of indiscernible age and had shoulders that went on for miles. His light brown hair peeked out from a black cab hat and his graying beard was well trimmed. The man's face was firm, but in some way, kind.
Dean would not have paid this man too much attention, ordinarily, but the man in question was actually paying Dean much attention, right from the moment he sat down. But he wasn't being measured up, Dean realized; the man seemed to casually regard him, almost as if he already knew Dean.
The man leaned forward, much to Dean's surprise, and whispered very closely in his ear,
"I'm gonn' to be takin' you home tonight, mon cher."
And with that, he leaned back to normal posture again, and tipped his chin to the nearby waitress to order food.
Dean was simply too stunned to say anything. Never had he met anyone, man or woman, who was so forward. The waitress took the man's order, which Dean frankly did not hear due to his mind being elsewhere, and she then stared expectantly at the stunned hunter, waiting for him to order.
Dean eventually got with the program, and the first words the stranger ever heard him say, most definitely not the most intelligent he's ever spoken, "I um… errr… will have what he's having." He stuttered with a little nod towards the mystery man not eight inches from him.
The waitress smiled a little knowing smile, gave an almost imperceptible wink and shuffled off.
"Well…" The man's Cajun accent was thick in every word he spoke.
"I took you for the adventurous type but I didn't think bull testicles would be your thing."
"Wait – what?!" Dean instantly looked for the waitress among the crowd of workers, hoping to stop her before putting the order in with the cook.
"Relax, mon cher. I'm only kiddin'. You should have seen the look on your face, though."
Dean became quiet, not knowing what to make of this man, who had just propositioned him and then bamboozled him only within sixty seconds.
"You ordered the gumbo. The large one, so I hope you're hungry." The man still had a sultry glint in his eyes; like all of this was part of his seduction technique.
"Do you do this often?" Dean decided to be just as forward as the stranger had been with him.
"Eat gumbo? Yes, almost e'ery day. It's the best in town, here; real good after a long day on the water."
"No, I mean pick up guys by saying you'll be 'taking them home' the first second you meet them?"
"I was just statin' the facts, darlin'. I happen to know for sure that tonight we'll be going back to mine, and that I'll be fuckin' you good. Best you e'er had, I reckon."
Dean scoffed, for multiple reasons. One, he could not believe the balls on this guy. The gall it took to be so certain… Dean could hardly believe this was happening. Two, the man was talking about this in public. The restaurant was nearly packed, and they were just about shoulder-to-shoulder seated with other strangers. Three, and most important to mention, he was never the bottom. Literally never. And this Cajun hunk not only assumed that Dean would willingly go home with him, but that he would be the one doing the fucking.
"Look, let's get one thing straight here, bud. I'm a top."
The man looked completely unfazed by Dean's show of bravado.
"Look, darlin' I don't make t' rules. I just tell it like it is."
"Then what makes you so sure?" Dean asked, almost at the end of his rope with this guy. And what he said next made his very first line seem tame. And it was the last thing Dean would ever expect from a man like him.
"Because I'm a fortune teller; I see t' future from time t' time. And before I even set foot on the dock this ev'nin' I knew that I would meet you here; right now; and that by midnight t'night I would make beautiful love with you."
Dean instinctively looked at his watch: 8:15.
"Well…" Dean tried not to look squeamish at this point; 'fortune tellers' really got on his nerves. He knew they were all fakes; and using the charlatan tactic to hook up with him? That was even more irritating.
"You've got just under four hours to convince me." Dean knew he wouldn't be convinced; or that he couldn't be convinced. Winchesters were known for being stubborn.
The waitress brought two enormous bowls of gumbo and a proportional glass of ice water. Dean immediately dug in, and seconds later he was groaning.
"Oh God, this is good."
"I told ya, mon cher… I'd ne'er lie to you."
"And I'll bet you would tell me you'd never lie about being a fortune teller as some story to take me to bed."
"That would be a fact as well. Just ask an'one 'round here. They all know me as the local 'voodoo' man; people come to me for this 'n that, ask me to tell them their future. Most of the time I have to give them some canned answer, because I don't get premonitions 'bout e'ryone. But anytime I've given a specific prediction, it's always come true. Down t' the letter."
"Well you must feel very special." Dean was at the level of patronizing, as was his way when he was met with something he just didn't understand. Like this guy: a surely sailor, a voodoo user and fortune teller, blatantly flirting with a barely-legal young man in a restaurant where he is apparently well known. It boggled Dean's mind but he was anything but willing to show it.
...XoXoXo...
They ate their gumbo in relative silence after that. Dean couldn't help glancing back at the guy every few seconds. He was handsome, in his own way; massive jaw but it suited him. But he wasn't the sort of guy Dean would take home for his first time with a guy. No siree. Dean had plans to eventually find himself a cute, petite long-haired blond boy to take home and fuck. He figured it couldn't be much different than fucking a girl.
But being a bottom? Dean could hardly stomach the idea.
"What's your name, mon cher?" The man was over halfway done with his bowl of gumbo when he finally asked.
"Dean. You?"
"My name's Benjamin Lafitte. Most people call me Benny."
Dean looked 'Benny' up and down again. The name really fit him; it fit him like a glove.
"So, Benny, I assume you fish? I mean, when you aren't predicting the future and making voodoo dolls."
"Botchio."
"Huh?"
"They're called botchios, Dean; not voodoo dolls. And yes; I work on a shrimping boat: Our Lady Suzanna. She's a fine boat I should show 'er t' you sometime."
"I don't plan on being in town for very long." The truth, surprisingly.
"Oh? And what are you in town for?"
"I'm on a job for my family's business. I don't expect it will take long."
"What kind of business? I know this town better than an'one I know. I could help you out."
"I doubt it." Dean clammed up then, although he was feeling unusually loose-lipped and open with Benny. Something about him just exuded the warm sense of trustworthiness and goodwill.
"Suit yourself." Benny's words were neutral and passive. He took no offense to Dean's withholding information.
A waitress came by for the check, and to Dean's utter surprise (and relief) Benny made no motion to pay for his meal; a gesture many people use to cause a sense of obligation in the other person; most often while they're trying to bring them to bed. Dean knew this tactic well because he used it himself a time or two.
"Hope you have a nice night, gentlemen. We're closin' up now though so you'd better scoot off." The young waitress informed them kindly.
Dean looked at his watch. Amazingly, time had flown by quickly and it was already 9:45.
But, his stomach stuffed full of delicious gumbo and rice, Dean felt he had no qualms about taking his leave. Perhaps he would go for a walk before ending up at his hotel.
He nodded his head in acknowledgement to Benny and left. He felt relieved and quite smug when the sailor made no move to follow him out. He just tipped his hat to the young hunter and then turned away.
Dean walked nonchalantly down the streets of hot-breezed New Orleans. Going to Louisiana in July was not the best idea. But unfortunately there wasn't much he could do about it; when there was a job to do, someone had to do it no matter the time of year. It was amazing to him that even at quarter to ten in the evening it could still be so humid and hot. Even the breeze annoyed him.
The young Winchester was so caught up in his distaste for the weather that he didn't notice someone loosely tailing him. He walked a few blocks more before he took a turn down an alleyway, in an attempt to take a shortcut to his hotel. He didn't know the city well at all, but he knew the general direction of the main road that would take him to his motel, so he thought cutting across would be wise. Little did he know, that he wandered into a very rough neighborhood, riddled with gangs and drug deals and impoverished, desperate individuals. And he was walking right down their alley.
The figure who followed Dean to this very spot was suddenly much, much closer, and before Dean knew what was happening he heard a harsh, high pitch whistle.
In an instant, the quiet night was ruined by loud bangs and clattering of metal; trash bins getting thrown about in a struggle Dean was all too underprepared for. He was sluggish from having eaten so much, and the four or five unknown assailants seemed dead set on tackling him to the ground, assumedly to kill, rape, mug, or all of the above.
Dean was punched in the face repeatedly by a very strong, yet lithe street rat covered in old green tattoos. The intense pain made Dean's knees go weak, and finally he fell to the ground, toppled over by the weight of the dog-pile style attack. Sharp nails clawed at him while bony hands rifled through his pockets. They took his leather jacket, the fuckers. It's not like he would need it, considering the current hellish heat, but it held sentimental value; it was his Dad's jacket.
They also took his wallet and small wad of cash. It was about half of the money he had to his name; the other half was well hidden inside his Impala.
"Hold him down, Jiju, I'ma pull his pants down.."
Dean gulped, swallowing a good amount of blood as he did. The crumbly asphalt grinding into his cheek smelled like cat piss and sewage. He was afraid, although he wouldn't admit it to himself. He thought for sure that he was going to get raped; There were five people holding him down, clawing at him like animals, and he felt someone roughly pulling his pants down his legs.
Dean was just about to try to scream, when suddenly there was a voice.
"Wete kò nou nan men l '!" (Get away from him!)
It was familiar, but the language spoken was not. Dean figured it to be Creole, since a sizeable portion of the people in this part of New Orleans was from the Caribbean.
Dean's assailants noticeably paused their current actions. He felt his own pulse in his aching head and he could keep time with its beat. One…two… three seconds.
Then another string of words.
"Si ou manyen l ', mwen pral touye tout moun nan ou." (If you touch him I will kill you.)
This phrase seemed to strike a sort of fear in the people holding Dean firmly to the ground. One set of hands lifted off of Dean's body almost instantly. Then another. And another. Soon Dean was set free, and the gangly figures disappeared into the night as quickly and mysteriously as they had appeared.
"Humans, man…" Dean said bitterly to himself as he scraped himself off of the pavement and righted his pants. His mouth still trickled with blood. His wallet was gone, as was his jacket.
"You alright, mon cher?"
Dean froze. He knew he had recognized the voice. His hero; Benny. Just his goddamn luck…
"Did they hurt you?" The stocky fisherman was much closer now, and genuine concern flooded his features. It looked good on him. But Dean didn't want pity. He just wanted to be rid of this guy.
"I've had worse. I'll be fine."
"Looks like you might need a few stitches." Benny indicated a large gash on Dean's cheek, caused by a sharp ring on the street rat's finger, no doubt.
"I'll be fine. I know how to take care of it." Dean tried to nip this thing in the bud, wherever it was going. He knew Benny would offer to help him out; to nurse him back to health.
"Suit yourself." The man said again, completely passively.
Dean was taken aback by Benny's resigned, non-pushy behavior and attitude. It kind of made him like the guy. A lot. It made him feel like he actually could take the guy up on his unspoken offer for help. Because it was always the insistent ones you had to watch out for. People who were too eager to help usually had an ulterior motive. This guy though… he almost seemed to not give a fuck either way. No, that was an incorrect assessment. Benny actually seemed like the kind of guy who wanted to help, but he was okay with whatever Dean wanted; Dean could make any decision he wanted. He had all the free will in the world.
Dean liked that idea. He liked it a lot. His family had almost always been about manipulation and meddling; free will and personal decisions were misnomers where he came from.
"Hey, you know…" Dean couldn't even believe the words as they came out of his mouth. "I guess I could use some help with this." He indicated his bloody and not yet swollen face.
"Do you… do you have a suture kit?"
Benny nodded and turned to walk away.
He didn't say another word, and Dean followed him home.
