Title: All American Boy

Words: ~3k

Rating: NC-17

Pairings: Dean/OMC

Warnings: slash M/M, first times. Unbeta'd!

Summary: Outsider POV, Stanford era. A beautiful stranger walks into a gay bar, all swagger and poise - and clearly a little out of his depth.

A/N: Birthday ficlet for tifaching, almost completely based on All American Boy by Steve Grand, which is where the title is from.

Bush City is a fictional place.

Only the very young and the very beautiful can be so aloof
Hanging out with the boys, all swagger and poise
Tom Robinson – War Baby

Steve's bored. He nurses his glass, wrinkling his nose at the pink cocktail umbrella Marcus had asked the barman to add when his ex had sent the drink over. An apology of sorts, but one Steve's in no mood to accept, not after that last performance. Steve touches the barely healed scar on his chin, a little souvenir of their last fight, and watches Marcus' gaze turn guilty and slide away.

"Thanks Colin," Steve says to the barman, throwing a look down the counter where Marcus is seated, looking marginally abashed but mostly hopeful. "Tell Marcus - drink accepted, but he's going to have to do better than that if he thinks he's getting back in my apartment tonight. Or ever."

Colin shrugs and strolls across to deliver the message. Steve's grateful Colin doesn't tell him to fuck off and deliver his own messages. Nor does Colin point out that, surely as an experienced paramedic, Steve must have attended enough scenes of domestic violence to know better than entertain even the slightest inclination to give his abuser a chance to try again. Colin is a good friend. Colin doesn't need to say any of those things, because Steve knows it all already, and can read it in his expression, loud and clear.

Steve's distracted from seeing Marcus' reaction to his message, because at that moment a stranger walks into the bar.

In a larger city, or probably just about any other town in the US of A, this wouldn't be a remarkable event. In Steve's experience (which admittedly isn't vast) gay bars elsewhere tend to be places full of transients and tourists, either testing the waters, or simply out for a good time. But this is Bush City, which calls itself a city but has a population small enough that everyone knows everyone else in the LBGT community. Nobody ever comes to Bush City that didn't have some connection with the place; so a stranger, especially one venturing into the imaginatively named Colin's Bar under the tattered rainbow flag? He's always going to stand out like a drag queen in a Mormon temple.

Steve stares, and doesn't stop staring, even though he knows it's downright rude. He can't help himself, because this guy would stand out anywhere. Tall, slim-hipped and broad-shouldered, the stranger walks into the dimly lit bar all swagger and poise, neither of which attributes disguise a hint of bowlegs, the imperfection of which Steve finds instantly attractive. Stranger's nondescript brown hair is almost military-short at the sides, but the gelled spikes front and top hint at a less than regimental indulgence.

Then there's that face. It's a face that promises nothing but sin.

Steve can't tear his gaze away. He wants to reach out and touch those high cheekbones, rub the back of his hand over the lightly-stubbled cheeks, testing the rough with the smooth. He wants to get in close to see what colour those huge dark eyes are. The guy is masculine, sure, but also beautiful. He has the kind of sculptural lines that could have stepped off a plinth in the Metropolitan Museum of Art. Steve might never have gone to college, but he had been to New York, and he might have spent a lot longer in the Greco Roman galleries of the MMA than he'd anticipated. He's come to think he has an appreciation for the finer things in life that not many of his Bush City compatriots share.

Stranger hesitates for a fraction of a second, so briefly Steve doubts anyone else notices, even though the whole room is watching with a laser focus, then strides over to the bar, oozing confidence and bravura. Stranger leans on the counter and hooks one foot up on the brass rest, giving Steve a tantalising view of what promises to be a firm ass, where it's now pressed out against the well-worn leather of his jacket. A jacket which, though definitely James-Dean-cool, is, in Steve's humble opinion, a touch too long. The guy orders a beer with a whiskey chaser, and now he's closer, Steve revises his initial estimate of Stranger's age downwards from late to early twenties. From where Steve's sitting, within touching distance, he sees the slight nervous shake in the blunt, competent fingers that reach for the glistening neck of the bottle.

"First time?" Steve asks, keeping his voice pitched soft and low, barely loud enough to carry over the strains of Careless Whispers wafting from the juke box. Stranger starts and looks flustered for a moment before he turns towards Steve, plastering on a big smile. Steve takes pity on him, clarifies. "In Bush City," he says, waving a hand to encompass the bar and its wider environs. Stranger's smile relaxes a bit, becomes a touch more genuine, and Steve smiles back, holding out a hand to shake.

"Steve," he says, and Stranger takes his hand – nice firm grip, warm hands, Steve likes that in a man – and says "Dean." Stranger's – Dean's – voice is deeper than Steve expected, with a rough edge that speaks of cigarettes and booze. Vices of an older man. And there he is again, back to thinking about sin.

"So what brings you to Bush City, Dean?"

The smile fades a little, and Steve wonders what he said wrong. Dean's eyes slide away, tighten at the corners a fraction, and suddenly that beautiful face looks pained. Steve wants to smooth the sadness away, with a vehemence that takes him by surprise.

"Just passin' through," Dean says. Steve thinks there might be a hint of Kansas in his accent, though he can't be sure, given that most of his own travelling has been done courtesy of the Geographic channel on cable. Steve doesn't challenge the statement, even though nobody 'just passes through' Bush City. It's on the road to nowhere at all. Instead he nods and watches as Dean tosses the whiskey down in one long gulp, Adam's apple working round the burn as the liquid goes down. Steve would like to suck a mark in that pale skin, wonders what Dean would taste like.

That's when Marcus sidles over and butts in, ruining Steve's lazy fantasy. The slime ball starts chatting Dean up, and Steve bites his lip as the too-beautiful boy turns his back, and lets Marcus buy him another whiskey. Colin catches Steve's eye, raises a quizzical eyebrow but Steve shrugs, sits back to let things unfold. Maybe Marcus is doing him a favour. This Dean kid is way out of Steve's league. Someone who shines so bright is only going to burn if you get too close. Steve can almost see the trail of broken hearts in the kid's boot-prints on the bare wooden floor.

Marcus throws his head back, laughing too loud at some comment of Dean's, and Steve thinks how brittle the sound is. Dean still looks on edge, uncomfortable, but Marcus, the insensitive hick that he is, isn't picking up on it. Steve should leave but he can't seem to tear himself away. He tells himself he doesn't want to desert the kid in his hour of need, that nobody deserves to have Marcus' stupid jokes inflicted on them all night. But really it's because he can't stop staring at the sweep of those thick eyelashes, the sharp curve of that cheekbone, the delicate curl of Dean's slightly elven ear. Steve's never felt like this before. Never fallen so instantly, so completely.

It's not love, of course. How could it be, when he's barely spoken to the boy? It's more like a spell, or having suddenly found religion. Steve wants so badly to worship Dean's body it hurts.

"Another whiskey, Colin," Steve says, and ignores Colin's irritated expression. He knocks the drink back in one gulp, relishes the heat as it hits in both directions at once – fire in his belly and fumes in his head. Suddenly he can't stand to watch any more and he's on his feet, heading for the door. Fresh air, that's what he needs. He doesn't go far though. It's like there's an invisible thread tying him to the bar and he doesn't want to think about what that means. He leans up against the rough clapperboard wall of the bar letting the night air cool his overheated skin, and wishes he hadn't given up smoking. His fingers are itching for something to occupy them and he settles for running a hand through his too long hair. He should really get a haircut. Not that anyone's likely to find a six foot four guy like Steve girly, even with the ends of his thick shoulder-length locks reaching past his collar.

The air is sharp and smells of winter. The night skies are so clear Steve can see his way into a thousand universes. It's kind of scary, it's so vast, and he closes his eyes to shut it out. He lets the mundane traffic noise and exhaust fumes waft over him, grounding him. The bar is on Bush City's main drag, and this is the busiest night of the week, so Steve doesn't hear the bar door open and close. He isn't aware of another presence until a warm shoulder bumps his and a lazy drawl comes from beside him.

"Got a light?"

Steve opens his eyes and turns his head. "Nah, man," he says "gave up two years ago."

"I don't smoke that often myself. It was more an excuse to get out of there, to be honest," says Dean as he slips the cigarette back into the packet. Lucky Strikes, Steve sees. He'd been more a Marlboro man himself. He finds himself saying so, doesn't know why.

"And did you wear the cowboy hat too?' Dean grins, teeth gleaming white in the headlights of a passing car. "I'd've liked to have seen that."

Steve feels a rush of heat at the sudden roughness in Dean's voice. Gone is the hesitancy of earlier, and Dean's staring at Steve with unmistakeable interest. Dean raises an eyebrow, his grin never wavering.

"So, what about it, Steve. Have you got somewhere we can go?"

"What about Marcus?" Steve wants to be clear, before he takes the risk of flying too close to the sun. "Thought you were interested back there."

"Marcus? Oh. You mean douche-features with the greasy lips and desert disease?"

It's Steve's turn to raise an eyebrow – desert disease? Dean's smile takes on a feral quality for a second. "Yeah, man. You know – wandering palms…" and he does jazz-hands at Steve.

Steve snorts a laugh and the warmth spreads on right through his body, in spite of the winter cold.

Dean follows Steve's beat-up Ford pickup in a sweet cherry ride of an Impala, all black and shiny chrome. Dean's face lights up like a little kid when Steve takes a moment to admire her sleek lines when they park up outside Steve's place. And that's it - Steve can't resist the gravitational pull of Dean's star any longer. He leans in and kisses those perfect cupid's bow lips. He starts soft, a little tentative, but Dean puts his hand up, twists blunt fingers in Steve's shaggy hair and tugs him closer. Makes Steve glad he hadn't gotten round to visiting the barber after all. Lips part and tongues engage, and before long the two of them are so tangled up toe to toe that Steve has trouble freeing a hand to find his apartment key.

Gone is the slow, whiskey-smooth build up of earlier, and in its place a desperate urgency that has Steve's heart racing faster than the Kentucky Derby. He starts to wonder if he'd assessed the situation wrong, that maybe it isn't Dean's first time with a guy, because he's kissing like a pro. Steve can't breathe but he doesn't want to neither, so he's aware of nothing but disappointment when Dean disengages. However, it's only long enough to gasp out "bedroom?" before the kid's diving back in to rob Steve's lungs of air again.

Dean's fingers are working Steve's shirt buttons and Steve isn't slow to reciprocate. They are shedding clothing as fast as they can, while Steve steers Dean backwards into the bedroom. Steve has the presence of mind to flick the light switch on the way past. There is no way he's missing one moment of this. He wants it etched on his memory, because even now he's certain Dean was truthful about one thing – he's passing through, and will be gone tomorrow. Whatever brought Dean to Bush City in the first place, it was unlikely to happen twice.

Carpe diem, Stevie boy, carpe diem.

Dean's eyes are mostly green, Steve observes, now they're up close in the lamplight, though the iris is nearly swallowed up Dean's pupils are so wide. Dean's skin is pale gold except where his shirts normally cover him up, and there he fades to cream, dusted everywhere with a Milky Way of freckles that Steve aches to map with fingers and teeth and tongue.

They are both breathing heavily by the time Dean's legs hit the end of the bed and they pull apart again. Steve takes a half step back, drinks in the view like a thirsty man at an oasis. Dean flushes at the scrutiny, but he stares right back, doesn't break eye contact while he pulls down his ripped jeans and boxers. He sits on the edge of the bed, thighs wide, brazen.

"So beautiful," Steve says. The words punch out of him at the glorious sight – smooth skin, the freckles everywhere, and just a dusting of fine golden hair except where it trails down to where Dean's cock is standing proud in a bush of russet pubes. Dean has scars. Too many for a guy as young as he seems to be, and Steve wonders about them even while his eye traces their paths, marking their intersections. Thin lines score Dean's ribs like claw marks, and there's a thick twisted rope running the length of his oblique muscle, ending deep in his groin. Steve's seen enough serious injuries at work to know that this one must have come close to killing Dean.

There's no self-consciousness in that dark-eyed gaze. Dean knows his naked body is worth looking at, scars and all – though Steve sees that flicker again, the same thing he'd seen when Dean first walked into Colin's Bar – an apprehension and uncertainty that isn't about how he looks. Steve's sure that he's right, this is about being Dean's first. Dean's bravura is gone and in its place is a contrary determination.

"I want you to fuck me, " Dean says, matter of fact, blunt, pushing through the doubt. The mere thought of that body submitting to him steals Steve's breath away and seals his fate.

"Are you sure?"

Steve has to be certain. This has to be right, even though his whole body is vibrating with lust and something else, something more - though he isn't going to analyse that, not now. He can't afford the distraction. Dean might be nodding, the surge of attraction between them might have Dean's dick clearly saying yes, but there is tension in the muscles of those beautifully bowed legs, and Steve can see Dean is poised on the edge of flight. One wrong word, wrong move, and this moment will be lost forever.

Steve sinks to his knees between those spread legs, gently grips Dean's hips and looks up.

"Please," he says. "Let me take care of you first."

Dean's eyes are heavy-lidded with lust and he just has time to give Steve a brief nod before Steve takes the tip of that gorgeous cock into his mouth. He watches Dean's face slacken and those thick lashes flutter against Dean's flushed cheeks as his eyes close.

"Oh god, yeah," Dean gasps.

Steve doesn't hold back any longer. He runs his tongue around the head of Dean's cock, lapping up the pre-come, spreading salvia down the shaft and relishing every moan his actions elicit from Dean. He's painfully hard himself now, his cock still constrained in his jeans, but he doesn't want to take even a second away from this heady pleasure to do anything about it. Steve wants this to be perfect, wants this night to be the best Dean's ever had. Steve already knows Dean is going to take his heart away with him in the morning, that he was doomed from the moment the boy decided to walk through that door, but that's okay.

Steve needs this like music, like rain, like air. He swallows Dean down, sucks without mercy, drinks every drop of his essence, takes everything he can.

Dean shudders and quivers as he comes down, and Steve pulls off gently. He encourages the kid to shuffle up the bed, still nestled between those firm muscled thighs. Dean's looking down the expanse of his chest, grinning, so Steve wipes that cockiness away with his tongue, sliding it down Dean's balls and chasing sensation down between the buttocks. Dean's legs fall farther apart, inviting Steve in.

"Oh!"

Steve grins, certain Dean's never been rimmed before, and settles in to show the kid how it's done. He wants to spoil him for anyone else. He wants Dean to remember him, remember this – to know he's got a piece of Steve with him always, wherever he goes. He wants Dean to be his tonight.

He wants.

Dean gives. Spread out and so beautiful, he allows everything, offers back touch for touch, kiss for kiss, Steve's all American boy, just for one night.

One finger, two, slick with lube. Dean's so tight, so accommodating.

"No condom, wanna feel you," Dean says, green eyes dark, bottom lip caught between white teeth when Steve fits a third finger inside him. "I'm clean," he insists, when Steve hesitates. "Are you?"

"Yeah," Steve nods, "fuck, yeah," then he's fumbling at his jeans, never been so eager to get naked in his life. He thinks he's going to explode at the first touch on his aching dick, but somehow he manages to hold on while he slicks himself up.

Dean stays on his back, lifts his legs up to pull Steve in. Steve yanks Dean's calves up, drapes them over his shoulders and lines up before he pushes into perfect tight heat, buries himself completely and is lost forever.

Steve doesn't care that Dean whispers someone else's name when Dean comes for the second time, Steve's cock pulsing deep in Dean's ass.

Dean stays, after. They fall asleep in a tangle of limbs that feels more intimate than the sex. It's more than Steve expected, or hoped for.

One night. One perfect night will have to make up for the fact that when Dean leaves in the morning, he takes the best part of Steve's soul with him.