What is Writing Prompt Wednesday?

Writing Prompt Wednesday is a feature I run on my Tumblr. Followers, readers and friends suggest themes for AUs, and I come up with a list of prompts based on the suggested them. Then, based on those prompts, anyone who wants to join in writes up a short story (or a long story, I guess) and posts it to Tumblr (or AO3, or , or wherever) and tags it Writing Prompt Wednesday! If you cross post to AO3, make sure you add the story to the Writing Prompt Wednesday Collection.

This story is for Week 16: Lifeguard AUs.

You can read more about Writing Prompt Wednesday and see this week's prompts at archiveofourown dot org slash works/7056115/chapters/16201415 or on my Tumblr, unforth-ninawaters dot tumblr dot com, search for the tag Writing Prompt Wednesday.

I chose this prompt:

That time I arrived for the first day of work in my bathing suit with my gear in the car and discovered that due to a language barrier there'd been a mix up and you thought that "lifeguard" was another term for "body guard" and there are these people trying to fricken kill you and DUDE I KNOW HOW TO SWIM GOOD HOW AM I SUPPOSED TO SAVE YOUR LIFE FROM ASSHOLES WITH GUNS?

Relationship: Castiel/Dean Winchester

Characters: Dean Winchester; Castiel; Uriel

Additional Tags: Alternate Universe – Mob; Russian Mafia; Mobster Castiel; Lifeguard Dean; Top Castiel; Bottom Dean; basically crack; Assassination Attempt(s); Writing Prompt Wednesday; Rough Sex; Barebacking

The two men seated before Dean chattered away in foreign gibberish – Russian, maybe? Ukranian? Latvian? Did Latvia even have a language? – and he did his best to maintain a smile, ill at ease in his suit. The best part about being a lifeguard was impossible to say, there were so many things about it that were fricken awesome: he loved the exercise, the people, being outdoor, saving lives, the whole shebang rocked. The worst part, on the other hand, was easy to identify. The worst part was winter. There weren't enough jobs for the off-season, and for the fourth year running Dean had found himself unemployed for almost half the year. Lifeguarding did not come close to paying enough to support that, and since Lisa and he had gone their separate ways last summer, this year Dean was stuck living with his pain-in-the-ass younger brother. Sam thought Dean needed a real job. Sam thought that Dean should channel his altruistic impulses and beefy physique into being an EMT or a nurse or a cop or something. Sam so didn't get it. It wasn't just about saving people, it was also about athleticism and getting out of the house, and – and – and…Dean needed to stop complaining about Sam, even silently in his head. Sam meant well, he truly did, and he'd gotten Dean the suit he wore to this job interview. Dean needed this job. If he could find a year round gig…

He tuned back in and realized that both men were staring at him expectantly. One, dark skinned, tall, broad shouldered, and wearing a blocky suit, was glaring; the other, seated, handsome face tanned and shadowed with hard plains and dark stubble, wore a perfectly tailored jacket, a vest beneath it, and a tie tucked in. Not a strand of his deep brown hair was out of place.

"Uh, sorry, what was that?" Dean asked, feeling like an idiot.

"You are lifeguard, yes?" The seated one said, giving Dean an assessing look. His accent was thick, his words nearly unintelligible, but definitely English. It was the first thing either man had said to him directly since he'd been shown into the room.

Well, the second thing. He'd obviously missed the first thing like the oblivious moron that he was.

"Yup," Dean nodded. "Got my certification almost 10 years ago, re-upped it in October. It's all on my resume…" He gestured at the sheet, which he could see before them on the desk.

"Yes, yes. Uriel says you are…ebat…how you say…" The man made a gesture, circling his hand as he fished for the right word.

"Mr. Winchester is extremely very well qualified for this position," the tall man – Uriel, presumably – said.

"Yes, that," the pretty one nodded. Pretty one?! Don't be an idiot, Winchester, he's your fricken boss. Hopefully. "You're hired."

Easiest. Job Interview. Ever. Maybe he thinks I'm pretty, too? Or am I imagining that hungry look in his eyes?

"Awesome," said Dean with a pleased grin, pushing aside his inappropriate thoughts. "When do I start?"

"Tomorrow is good?"

"Sure thing. I'm ready anytime," Dean couldn't contain his enthusiasm. "Where's the gig?"

"Here – here is my card, it has address and number," said his employer, taking a business card from a holder on the desk and passing it to Dean. "7 AM sharp."

Castiel Krushnic, the card identified his boss as, Director of Outreach and Sales, Angel Enterprises. 245 Santa Cruz Ave, Menlo Park, California.

"I'll be there."

Text From Unknown Number (9:05 PM): Please come at 6:30 instead.

Chaining his bicycle to a convenient stand, Dean looked at the card he held again, glanced at the tree-lined avenue of one- and two-story stores and businesses, and frowned. This early, nothing was open, and there definitely was not a swimming pool in sight. A brisk wind stirred the bare tree branches, drying the sweat of his long bike ride, and Dean regretted the fit of enthusiastic inspiration that meant he was wearing only a light t-shirt, swim trunks and tennis shoes beneath his jacket. Hefting his bicycle saddle bags, stuffed with everything he thought he'd need for his first day at a new job, Dean walked the half block to the address.

The Angel Enterprises building was a sleek, modern edifice fronted in glass and concrete. Nothing about it suggested what line of business Mr. Krushnic was in. Nothing about the exterior suggested that there was a pool inside. Wondering what the fuck kind of high-tech small-ass pool he might be working in – he'd heard some Silicon Valley start-ups built entire subterranean gyms, pool included – he went up to the door, found it locked, and tried the buzzer beside it. A security guard he hadn't noticed came up to the door and pulled it open.

"Name?"

"Dean Winchester."

"ID?"

Surprised, Dean fumbled to get his wallet out of the bike bags and finally handed the guard his wallet. He didn't think he'd ever seen the document scrutinized so carefully as the woman looked at it front and back, frowning all the while, then compared the picture on it to Dean's face for a solid minute.

"Very good, sir."

Leading Dean to the desk, the guard unceremoniously shoved a pile of paperwork at him. It was one of the strangest employment intake packages Dean had ever done, including extensive questioning on his background, what languages he spoke, all kinds of weird-ass shit that couldn't possibly be relevant. For the first time he began to feel genuinely nervous. All that Russian, and they'd hired him awful quick…was this some kind of bizarre human trafficking thing? Was he about to disappear? He'd told Sam all about his new job – what little he knew – but it wasn't like he'd shared his employers name or anything. If something happened to Dean, Sam would never know. That sickening thought firm in his mind, he reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone.

"No cell phones!" The security guard reprimanded harshly. "You will be issued a company-approved phone shortly."

"They're giving me a phone?" he said dumbly. "Why?"

"For security and monitoring, of course." She rolled her eyes as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. "If you'll step around the desk, I'll log your fingerprints in the system; you'll be able to use your index finger to enter the building after today." Ignoring Dean's dazed confusion, she grabbed each of his hands and pressed his fingers one by one onto a glass scanner, clicking something on a computer monitor each time. "Okay, you're all set. Mr. Krushnic is in his office, second floor, down the corridor to your left as you exit the elevator, go 'til you can't go further. And since you're new here – a word of advice? His English may not be good but don't let that fool you; he's dangerous."

What the actual fuck is going on?

"Right," Dean muttered. "Dangerous. Good to know. Thanks."

This feels like the wrong moment to ask her where the pool is.

Shaking his head, baffled and worried, Dean walked to the elevator and took it to the second floor. The interior of the building was as classy as the outside: thick carpet, clean white paint, decorative plants, attractive photographs of Bay Area landmarks, all combined to give the appearance of a well-to-do but generic organization. There wasn't a whiff of chlorine, but at least a group of guys didn't jump him, hand cuff him and sell him into slavery or some shit.

Wonder how much a nice, strong young white dude like me would fetch on the black market?

A shudder set Dean's teeth to chattering; despite the coolness of a California December, the air conditioner was running on overdrive and Dean was definitely under-dressed. The door at the end of the hallway was identical to every other door, without a name plate to identify the occupant, but Dean knocked and hoped for the best.

"Come," said the familiar deep, accented voice. A very different shiver coursed through Dean. That voice was too fucking sexy. Opening the door, Dean stepped into the office. It was modest, small for someone with as high-falutin' a title as Director of Outreach and Sales, but there were floor-to-ceiling windows that washed the room in beautiful light and austere, modern furniture that looked simple and probably cost as much as Dean made in a year. Mr. Krushnic sat at his desk, staring out the window, hair sticking up in all directions.

He's pretty sexy with bed head.

Let's be real, I'd think he was sexy wearing a potato sack.

"This is hard," Krushnic said. "And you are…distracting." Dean blinked. "I ask you to be early because I think Uriel is traitor."

Huh?

There was a silence as Krushnic apparently waited for an answer and Dean tried to think of something more intelligent to say.

Nothing came to mind.

"Huh?" he said.

"He will kill me – he will try," Krushnic continued. "I hope you good. He said you are, but I no trust him."

"Kill…you…? …what?"

What the ever loving fuck is going on?

I could turn right around, walk back out, leave the building and never come back. That's an option right?

For the first time since Dean's arrival, Krushnic turned his head to look at Dean over his shoulder. He frowned. "What…what is…that?" Krushnic's chair swiveled and a gesture took in Dean's appearance: his jacket hanging open, his bright red t-shirt with the word LIFEGUARD written in large white letters, his swim shorts. "Do you need weapon? I thought…nothing. I give you gun."

"Uh…"

Before Dean could object or explain or say much of anything worthwhile, Krushnic was on his feet, a surging, powerful ball of energy. He strode across the small office in two large strides, threw open a cabinet and with a broad, toothy grin said, "I have nice ones, see?" in the tone of voice that most people reserved for showing off a new grill or their hot girlfriend. "Anything you like, you use."

Intrigued despite himself, Dean approached the array of weaponry. His father was ex-Marine, served in Operation Desert Storm, and when Dean was a teenager John had insisted on showing him the basics of how to use a weapon. They'd been hunting a few times, but Dean hadn't taken to it, not like Sam had. Dean's problem was his aim, or utter lack there off. It ruined him in Ultimate Frisbee and Beach Volleyball, too.

Krushnic stared at him expectantly, happy smile beginning to dim.

"They are good guns," Krushnic said. "Here, this one my favorite." He took a sleek handgun, dark polished and gleaming, and pulled back that thingy on top that Dean could never remember the name of. The weapon clicked and Krushnic held it out towards Dean. Taking it in bemused wonder, not sure how he could refuse – at this point he'll probably shoot me himself if he finds out I have no fucking clue what's going on – Dean took the gun, trying to pretend he had some idea what he was looking at. He'd never held a handgun before, he'd only used rifles, and the last time was more than five years back. Much like Sam, John thought Dean was wasting his potential as a lifeguard, though unlike Sam, John thought Dean should enlist.

You've got Navy Seal written all over you, boy!

No I don't, dad, I have "LIFEGUARD" written on my shirt and a tattoo over my ass that says "Lisa Forever" and the valuable lesson learned that I should get anyone's name permanently embedded in my skin until I'm sure it's actually forever.

"Not your taste?" Krushnic was frowning now. Dean shrugged sheepishly. He wished he had any fricken clue what to say to get himself out of this fucking situation.

Hey, sorry, not your guy, I swim, I don't shoot, please don't kill me?

Wait…wait…Uriel said I was perfect for this job. That son of a bitch set me up!

"What you like – Glock? Beretta? Colt?" At each suggestion, Krushnic gestured at a different weapon, but they all looked about the same to Dean's amateur eye.

"So, um, Mr. Krushnic," Dean began tentatively, fidgeting with the gun in his hands. Great idea, moron, I can accidentally shoot myself and spare him the trouble. "You should know, I—"

The snap of a car backfiring – no you fucking idiot that was a gun! – and the tinkle of breaking glass interrupted Dean. "Get down!" Dean snapped. Reacting instantly, on instinct, he threw himself at Krushnic, knocking them both to the ground. There was another rat-a-tat-tat as rapid fire shattered a second window, showering them both in shards of thick security glass. "Stay put, I…" Dean pushed himself to a knee, ignoring the pain as fragments of the window dug into his flesh, and looked outside, trying to spot their attacker. "I'm a lifeguard, not a bodyguard, you stupid son of a bitch!"

"These are not same thing?" said Krushnic, puzzled and unphased as another ringing patter of gunfire embedded in his desk, sending papers flying in all directions. Dean's heart raced, each moment seeming to last a lifetime as he scanned the street, the store fronts, until – there! Across the way, on the second floor facing them, he caught a glint of light on metal. Trying to remember everything John had taught him about weapons, Dean lifted the gun, took a deep breath in and out, and fired.

Nothing happened.

No, no, no, shit, no, what the fuck, now—

Another burst of gunfire interrupted his terrified, frantic thoughts. A hand seized his shoulder, his body froze and tensed so badly he couldn't draw breath as fear swamped out sense. He rounded on his assailant, ready to strike them with the gun, and barely stopped before slamming Krushnic in the face. "Safe!" Krushnic shouted unnecessarily loud in his ear, gesturing at the gun.

"You're damn right it's safe, I don't know how to use this fucking thing!" Dean snarled.

"No, no, the—" Krusnic looked skyward, clearly fishing for a word, as if he had all the time in the world. Shots embedded in the drywall over their heads. "The gun! Safe!"

"Switch back to Russian, I still won't have any clue what the fuck you're talking about!"

"Dear Moe!" said Krushnic, or some shit like that. He grabbed the gun, flicked a toggle near the back of it, and shoved it back at Dean. "Shoot him!"

"Oh you mean the fricken safety was on? Why didn't you fricken say so?" Using the desk to protect him from the next attack, Dean sought out the gleam of the gun barrel once more, found it, aimed, and pressed down on the trigger.

And missed, thoroughly.

"I knew Uriel was goon," Krushnic said as he scrambled on hands and knees to the cabinet. There were clatters and pings as Krushnic did something and shots continued to rain down on the room. Heart beat loud in his ears, Dean looked out again, found the target again, and pulled the trigger as fast as he could. Fuck precision, he swept the area across the street with gun fire and prayed luck fuck he hit something. The gun was hot and heavy in his hands, jerking his wrists painfully each time it went off. Then there was a click, another click, and Dean couldn't figure out why the fucking thing wasn't working any more.

"Here!" Something was shoved at Dean – a box of ammunition, he realized.

"I don't know how to load the damn thing!"

"You are useless, stupid, I kill you myself after this, I…" Krushnic trailed off.

"I AM NOT A BODYGUARD!" Dean shouted, leaping to his feet. His body felt electrified: the panicky, over-aware hyper-reality he'd experienced in the past during a true emergency. The last time he'd felt it, he'd nearly drowned while trying to save a woman's life. This time… "Your stupid-ass Uriel douche bag son of a bitch set us both up and I'm just an innocent moron and now I'm gonna fucking die because either he kills me or you kill me or you sell me into human trafficking or you—"

Krushic jumped up beside him, wrapped a strong arm around Dean's waist, leaned in, and kissed him hard on the lips.

"Are you out of your fucking mind?" spluttered Dean. The hand on his back tensed, held their bodies close, and Krushnic growled deep in his throat as he kissed Dean again, tongue swiping at Dean's lips, demanding entry.

"We are not dead." Krushnic's voice was pure fucking sex, and the adrenaline coursing through Dean, heightening his awareness, abruptly clued in that there was a body, literally and figuratively hot, pressed against his. Rough skin brushed on his, stubble rubbed at his cheek, chapped lips that were somehow still soft worked against his chin, and—

"We're going to be any fucking minute now if we don't get down!" Dean snapped in a futile attempt to deny his growing hard on.

"No, no, pride rock—" Wait, what? Must be something Russian… "—there is no more shooting. You shoot him. Good job. I thank you now."

"Oh."

Part of Dean was still terrified. There was no way he'd just shot someone – oh my God, did I kill someone? – and maybe they were still about to die. Even if that was done, the whole situation just made no fucking sense and shouldn't he be panicking and oohhh that was Krushnic's cock against his leg, and the crazy bastard was rutting against him and it felt good, it felt beyond good, it felt like nothing Dean had ever experienced before and he didn't want it to stop, he didn't want Krushnic to ever stop.

"Shouldn't we call the cops?" he managed to gasp as Krushnic's free hand rubbed roughly up his side. Two fingers found Dean's taut nipple through the thick plasticized lettering on his shirt, twisting it roughly, and he bit back a moan.

"You are beautiful man," Krushnic bit each word down the line of Dean's jaw, breath hot, sparks of pain pushing Dean higher. There was a trace of blood on Krushnic's face where the glass had cut him, Dean could feel more flowing down his leg where he'd cut open his knee. He felt drunk, he felt sick, he felt elated, he felt fucking fantastic, he felt alive. "You save my life today – you are lifeguard. Is good, good."

"I am, I mean, I—"

"No need cops," Krushnic continued, aggressively over-riding Dean's stumbling stammers. His knees felt weak under the onslaught. Something hard ground into his back – without him noticing, Krushnic had backed Dean into the open gun chest. He could feel the barrels of each pistol pressing in to his spine as Krushnic pushed into his front. "My people deal with this. You did hard part." Krushnic's thick erection thrust against Dean's hard-on to emphasize the word. "I would like to…hmm…what are words?" Krushnic broke off, nuzzled the collar of Dean's coat out of the way, latched on to Dean's neck and sucked painfully hard. Dean gasped. He'd never been one for pain play, never particularly enjoyed getting scratched or clawed or bruised, had hated getting hickeys, but somehow, at this time, in this place, it was fucking perfect.

What the hell is wrong with me?

What the hell is wrong with him?

"Ah, yes," Krushnic cooed roughly in Dean's ear. "I want to fuck you now."

"Uh…"

Dean used to think he had a way with words.

Today just made no fucking sense.

"Would that be alright, beautiful man?"

Oh, fuck it.

"Sure," Dean tried to sound nonchalant but his voice was breathy, his eyes fluttered open and shut until the room spun in bright flashes. A sharp, cold breeze gusted through the opening where the windows once were. "Why the fuck not? Here?"

"Oh no." Krushnic's laugh was a violation of international law. It had to be. Low and throaty, it was absolutely sinful, especially timed as it was to match the tempo with which Krushnic rutted against Dean's crotch. "Anna is away. We use her office."

This is a dream. This is a fucking nightmare or some shit. I don't even fucking know. My alarm is going to go off and I'm going to wake up hard and horny and I'm going to jerk off even as I forget all the damn details of this weird-ass shit my subconscious is spewing and then I'm going to show up at Menlo Park and there's gonna be a pool and I'm going to have a boring-ass day and I'm gonna pop wood every time I look at Krushnic and I'm not going to remember why.

"You will look more pretty with fat cock in your tight ass."

I have the weirdest fucking dreams.

"Like that, yes. Very pretty. I take picture, post on Instagram."

Dean choked on a laugh, interrupted as Krushnic slammed into his body. Dean's hips ground into the hard wood of the desk Krushnic had bent him over, his fingers scrambling for purchase. "Fuck," he breathed. His head spun, the high of their near-death experience crashing about his ears even as the new high of getting his brains fucked out took over. Krushnic's cock was as big as he'd implied. Dean hadn't been stretched since the last time Lisa had pegged him, and fuck if it didn't feel amazing.

He was beginning to wonder if maybe this wasn't a dream.

He couldn't make himself give a shit, though.

"Make beautiful sounds, beautiful man," Krushnic suggested, pulling out, thrusting back in hard. Despite the rough words, he sounded as winded as Dean felt. It was empowering to realize that the man ruthlessly fucking him, the man who'd barely bothered to take the time to finger-prep him with lube before stuffing his ass to the brim, was already that wrecked. "So brave," Krushnic continued breathily, working into a hard rhythm. One of Krushnic's arms was wrapped around Dean's hips, jerking him back into every thrust; the other hand smashed Dean's face against the desk, smudging sweat over the papers crumpling beneath him. "Not fear. Stand and shoot like bam—" There was a dull whump as Krushnic's clothed thighs slammed into Dean's naked ass. "—bam—" Dean groaned as mingled pain and pleasure fucking drowned him. "—bam—" He'd never been drilled like Krushnic was drilling him. "—bam—" He'd always like his anal slow and gentle, a prostate massage, some anal beads, that kind of thing. "—bam—" That had been fine, pleasant, and Dean had been damn aroused by it, rock hard by the time his finally came in Lisa's mouth or cunt. "—bam!"

Sex didn't feel like this, couldn't feel like this, except it could, and it was fucking amazing.

A word leaked from Dean – he wasn't sure what it was, but it prompted Krushnic to laugh dangerously. "You sure, beautiful man?" He snapped his hips forward and Dean cried out as pressure on his prostate spiked unspeakable bliss through him. His knees trembled; only the desk kept him from collapsing. "You want harder?" Krushnic didn't give Dean the opportunity to answer. Releasing Dean's head, Krushnic wrapped both hands around Dean's hips and let loose. Dean wouldn't have thought he could get fucked any more thoroughly than Krushnic already had been, but he'd underestimated the Russian.

He'd never do that again.

Over his own desperate groans, he could scarce decipher what Kruschnic said, words broken by pants and fragmented around his accent. "You suck at guns. I teach you. I fuck you and train you and keep you. You like it, I promise. Make you forget about Lisa suka." Sound roared in Dean's ears, blood rushing or the table collapsing or his own groans or something, he didn't know, it was impossible to tell. His awareness had narrowed to the feel of thick hardness driving in and out of his body relentlessly, radiating pleasure outward with every thrust. A dribble of pre-come oozed cold and wet down his leg as, gasping, fingers working uselessly at the papers on the desk, he barreled like a fucking runaway train towards his orgasm.

"You come for me – now!" Krushnic accompanied the words with his deepest thrust yet, one of his hands wrapping around Dean's cock and squeezing, and that was it, that was all she fucking wrote, Dean fucking howled as he came, splattering the desk with streaks of white. "Dear Moe, dear Moe, dear Moe…" Krushnic jerked and stuttered against his body, words trailing off to nothing as he humped Dean through their paired climaxes. The same hands that had used him so roughly trailed soothingly down Dean's back, petting him until he slumped uselessly against the table, his mind an incoherent mishmash of muddled thoughts, most of which amounted to what the fuck and I thought I was going to wake up.

"You know my name's Dean, right?" It was hard to form thoughts but it bugged him, abstractly, that Krushnic kept calling him Moe.

"Yes," Krushnic replied, puzzled.

"Then why are you calling me Moe?" he asked.

"Moe…I do not…oh," Krushnic chuckled and drew his hips back. Come and lube oozed down Dean's thigh as limp cock dragged over his flesh. He whimpered and shuddered, knees collapsing from under him. "I teach you Russian, too, krazevy muchina. And get you new tattoo. Do not like this one. You come to work tomorrow at 7 AM sharp and we begin. Yes?"

This is my moment to say no, to tell him I'm a fucking lifeguard, not whatever the fuck he thinks I am. This is my chance to get out of this crazy situation. When I wake up I'll forget it all. Or if, somehow, this turns out not to all be some ridiculous fucking dream, well, I have a great story to tell – remember that time I got hired to be a bodyguard instead of a lifeguard and I shot some guy but the Russian mafia covered it up for me? Good times.

"If you no want…" Krushnic seemed to feel the need to fill the silence that dragged out as Dean tried to order his thoughts enough to answer. Wiggling enough to look over his shoulder, he looked Krushnic up and down. The man, so powerful, so intimidating, the dauntless son of a bitch who'd just gotten shot at and then fucked Dean senseless, gave Dean a sweet, vulnerable, hopeful smile.

Maybe he wants to learn to swim. He can teach me to shoot shit, and I can teach him not to drown.

"Sure." What the fuck am I getting myself into? "7 AM tomorrow." Krushnic beamed a smile at Dean. "See you then." He tugged Dean's shorts up. I did need a job for the winter… Krushnic gave him a gentle pat on his aching ass. "Thanks, Mr. Krushnic."

"Castiel, Dean. My name is Castiel." Without another word, he turned and left the office.

Weirdest. Dream. Ever.

Endnote:

Poor Dean. It wasn't a dream. He's in for quite a ride...(but this is a one-shot so y'all will have to make up whatever you want coming next...personally, I head canon that Dean ends up as a hitman and he and Cas murder folks together...)

Disclaimer: I know as much Russian as Dean does in this story. (read: basically none). I faked it with online resources. Sorry if it's all wrong.

As always, for the most up-to-date information on what I'm doing with my writing, or if you just want to get to be friends, follow me on my Tumblr – unforth-ninawaters.