Dean scanned around the gyrating, half naked male bodies under the multicolored flashing and strobing lights. It was a characteristic of Thursday nights, stereotypical even. He would've expected the constant partying in L.A., not New York, and yet the club thrummed with life and the air hung heavy with alcohol and sex appeal. He liked Thursdays because they weren't packed wall to wall, but they weren't dead either. Six years prior, he'd settled on Thursdays and stuck.

But Dean wasn't there to dance. He wasn't there to pick up a stranger and take him to a sleazy motel room where they would bang the headboard into the wall and piss off the other clientele. He was there for one reason, and one reason only.

Dean was a giver.

He made his way through the sweaty, excited bodies, the bass thumping and reverberating between his temples. He made a stop by the bar for a double whiskey before heading to the bathroom. It was fluid, it was repetition, but it was still exciting. Dean expertly navigated himself into the farthest stall and shut and locked the door behind himself. He sat on the toilet and removed his sunglasses, folding the arms and setting them on the back of the porcelain throne.

The bathroom wasn't as disgusting as he'd thought it would be that first night. There were some scribbled numbers and promises for a good time, but other than that it was clean. Dean gave a long winded sigh, the only sound in the bathroom, and leaned his back against the tile, taking a drink from his whiskey and hissing softly at the burn. On the divider, directly in front of him, was a hole, waist high with layer upon layer of duct tape surrounding the harsh edges to keep the bar patrons from hurting themselves.

When he'd first seen the glory hole, he'd been in the other stall, just using the restroom as one did, but he'd been curious. He hadn't wanted a blow job, he'd gotten plenty of them and Anna was… Quite practiced. He was a giver, and since he'd started growing curlies and getting pimples he'd been attracted to men as well as women. Then there had been John, with subtle comments and jokes as he watched TV or read the paper that weren't at Dean's expense, but still hurt as if they were.

"Lookit that fag run." "Nah, don' trust them little queers, they're liars." "Y'hear that Dean? Idiot says he likes boys and girls too. He just needs to pick a damn side." "Kid can' even stop crying to tell his damn story. Fuckin' fairy."

And so he'd kept quiet, never acting on his impulses. Then, when he'd turned thirty, he'd gone to Drachma with his brother while he was in town. Sam had insisted that he get in touch with the other side of his bisexuality, at least check out a few guys. That was, of course, before the younger Winchester had married Jessica. That's where it all started, a birthday excursion that led to six years of Thursday nights.

Thursday nights where he could slip into his own skin and feel like Dean Winchester again. Not CEO Dean, not husband Dean. He could feel like bachelor Dean, blasting music in his apartment and drinking Jack.

The door opened and Dean perked up, listening as heavy steps moved into the stall next to his. He took a drink of whiskey and sighed out, waiting and watching the hole. He heard the zipper followed by the shuffle of pants, biting his lip and shifting on the seat excitedly. Then he heard the wet tell-tale sound of a stream hitting the water in the bowl and he leaned against the wall with a sigh. Not this one it would seem. He took a drink of whiskey and pulled out his phone to do more work. He opened Google Docs and started typing when a deep, eerily familiar, voice sounded from the other stall.

"Uh… Hello?" The voice asked nervously, causing something to stir in Dean's stomach. He could have sworn he knew the owner, but the thought slipped away as soon as he'd thought he'd grabbed ahold of it. It was deep, sharp as lightning and rumbling low as thunder.

"Yeah," Dean responded, licking his lips and setting his phone down. "I'm here." A pause followed his words and he listened as the stranger shifted on his feet.

"How do I, uh…" The stranger cleared his throat and Dean could practically hear the blush on his cheeks. He smiled to himself, a quirk of knowing and understanding lips.

"Just get yourself hard and stick it through the hole."

The man shifted on his feet on the other side of the partition and soon, Dean heard the familiar soft repetitive sound of stroking. Dean smirked and readied himself, moving to kneel on the cool linoleum, chest a few inches from the gray divider. As he moved, he caught a glance of black work boots and dark jeans. It wasn't exactly unusual, and he wasn't going to run through the club, searching the shoes, it was just something he noticed. Something he'd always noticed. He looked up and sat back on his heels as a hard member slowly pushed through the hole, almost timidly.

Dean raised a brow and lifted a hand, gently gripping around the shaft. This guy was thick and around average length, bushy black hair poked from around the edges of the hole. He heard a soft sigh from the other side as he slowly started to move his hand, back and forth, just to get him a little harder, a little more excited. With no other reason to keep waiting, Dean dipped his head forward and caught the tip between his lips, continuing to stroke the shaft as he swirled his tongue around the head and licked underneath. He glanced up to watch nimble fingers curl around the top of the divider, another soft breath sounding through the bathroom.

Dean smiled around the length and removed his hand, slowly moving his head forward until his lips were buried at the base, the tip at the back of his throat, making it impossible to breathe. The sound of wrecked delight the strange man made sent shivers up his spine and he pulsed in his own jeans. Dean pulled back, running his tongue up the slit as he undid his pants and slid his palm down his half hard length in his boxers. He couldn't help the soft sound of pleasure that crawled up his throat, mimicked by the stranger on the other side. That definitely caught his interest, and he pulled himself from his boxers, starting to stroke.

Dean wasn't sloppy, no dripping saliva or teeth. He expertly bobbed his head, moving faster as the stranger started breathing more roughly, more erratically. His hand matched his pace and he groaned softly around the member, flattening his tongue along the underside and drawing back to the tip before going all the way to the base again. He kept himself there, swallowing around the head and pulling a low groan from the stranger that sent him hurtling toward release. The man bucked forward on impulse and Dean's eyes watered as it hit his tonsils. It wasn't his fault he got really turned on by a guy's cock shoved so far down his throat he couldn't breathe. He pulled back and resumed the faster pace, dangerously close to the edge.

Fortunately, he didn't beat the stranger to climax. The bathroom rang with a long groan as the man pulsed in Dean's mouth, spitting hot liquid into the back of his throat. He didn't usually swallow it. Usually, he spat it in the toilet and washed out the taste with whiskey. But he couldn't think as his own hips bucked forward and he spilled onto his hand as the tight coil in his lower stomach suddenly released.

Honey.

Dean lazily bobbed his head over the member, licking up the remnants of the strangely honey flavored come.

The man shook on the other side, ragged, choked moans escaping his lips, and still, Dean repeatedly took him in, running his tongue over the thick vein along the bottom and around the over sensitive head until the man gave a soft cry.

Finally, Dean pulled back from the softening member and stood. He turned around and grabbed a fistful of toilet paper, scrubbing down his pants and hand to get the viscous white liquid from his clothes. The back of his throat felt sticky and his tongue felt coated in the thick, yoke-y liquid. He swallowed several times as he cleaned himself, but the feeling of swallowing marshmallows didn't fade. So, as he turned back to the, now empty, glory hole, he picked up his whiskey and took a drink.

Honey flavored spunk whiskey.

"Um... Thank you." The stranger said. He sounded wrecked, voice impossibly deeper, as though he had swallowed broken glass and gargled with salt water.

Dean raised a curious brow and chuckled, the sound low and warm in his throat, reverberating through the echoey bathroom. "You're welcome."

The stranger with the dark jeans, work boots, and honey come slipped a fifty dollar note through the hole then, and Dean shook his head, although the man couldn't see it. "I don't take money, man." He reached forward and placed the pads of his fingers on the paper, pushing back through the hole until it retracted. He wasn't a whore and he didn't need the money, he just did it for fun.

"What will you accept in return? As a token of my gratitude."

Dean snorted and shook his head. Who talked like that anymore? "You don't have anything I want, but thanks. Now get the hell outta here, huh?" Dean took a long drink of whiskey and looked back.

The feet didn't move.

Instead, he heard a shuffling, followed by a scratching against the partition. He frowned as a receipt was slipped through the hole, and plucked it from the man's hand. It was a receipt for two beers, writing scrawled along the back.

'I know it's supposed to be anonymous, but it feels wrong. If you think of a way I can show my gratitude, text me.
555-9576'

Dean glanced at the seven digits before looking back up at the foot or so between the bottom of the divider and the floor, mouth open to speak. But the man was gone, and Dean was alone. He re-read the note and shook his head, crumpling it in his fist, about to toss it in the toilet.

But he didn't...

After a moment's hesitation, he slipped it in his pocket and sighed. Maybe he was desperate for companionship after all. He and Lisa had been married for fifteen years, and ten had been cold. He'd never had to go looking for companionship, because it was something he'd always had.
It took a stranger giving Dean his number for a blow job to make Dean think he really was lonely.

Dean was pulled to reality as the door opened. Not long after, another hard member poked through the hole and Dean got to work.