Chapter 10

Repressing a yawn, Dean knuckled his cheek and pretended he was working his jaw. It was silly to posture for these assholes but he couldn't help. He'd watched them throw their weight around in the underground gambling rooms that John Winchester had frequented, watched them bully John, watched them beat the shit out of debtors who didn't fall in line with their wishes. If Dean didn't act brave, he might show how intimidated he was and render his situation even more tenuous. He wouldn't put it past Douche Bag to demand more money now that Dean had finally coughed up the extortionate final payment.

Not extortion. Fucking dad actually ran all this debt up, a quarter million dollars of it, and agreed to the ludicrous interest rates. They haven't extorted from me, they extorted from him, and the worst part is he was fucking grateful for it, I bet he fucking begged for this loan and thanked Douche Bag for it when the money came through. He was a fucking idiot. Never again. I will never make the same mistakes he made.

"How many times do you have to count it?" asked Dean grouchily. "It's all there." The only answer he got was a steely, narrowed-eyed glare from a man with a pocked face wearing a suit that made him look like a Rat Pack reject.

It's almost done. I'm almost done. After this I can go home, go to sleep, and I'll never have to think about this again.

Dean couldn't imagine what that would feel like. Douche Bag had come knocking the day after John's funeral. For a decade, Dean had worked for them more than for himself. They'd never breathed down his neck but Dean had always been prompt with payments. He didn't want to think what might have happened if he hadn't been able to pay. His kneecaps were the least of what they'd threatened to damage and, with how much pain he'd been in the last week, he was keenly aware of how much he needed those. Dean's phone pinged, interrupting his train of thought, and he checked it against his better judgment, too desperate for the distraction to care how he might look to Douche Bag and his goons as they diligently counted bills for at least the fourth time.

Sam (9:32 PM): Are we still on for drinks at 10?

Dean (9:34 PM): Sure thing Sammy see you then.

"Alright, it's all here," said Douche Bag in his smarmy accent, adjusting his bowler hat. Who the fuck wears one of those fucking things, anyway? He's such a freaking douche canoe.

Soon, I'll never have to see him again.

"Have I ever short-changed you?" Dean snapped. For fuckssake Winchester, hold your temper for ten years and now that it's almost over you're gonna blow it? Need my fucking kneecaps...

"No, you're nothing like your father." Douche Bag broke into a crooked, humorless smile. "That's a compliment."

"I took it as one," Dean replied. About the highest compliment someone like him could pay me. "We're done, right?"

"Yes, we're done." Douche Bag nodded. Reaching into his pocket, Douche Bag withdrew a worn sheet of paper and a lighter. The paper was familiar, listing every payment Dean had made over the years and how much he'd still owed. Douche Bag set flame to the corner of the crinkled sheet and it was so old and dry that it went up in smoky red instantly. A weight Dean never remembered lifting eased off his shoulders, his chest loosened, and he took a deep, strengthening breath. "It's been a pleasure doing business with you, Mr. Winchester. If you ever need anything, you know where to find us." Tersely, Dean nodded and started to turn away. "Oh, and Winchester?" He stopped, heart pounding. This could all still go so wrong. Something flew through the air towards him and Dean reached out and caught it instinctually even as his thoughts screamed to let whatever it was sail by. His fears were unfounded, though. It was a baseball. Douche Bag held out a sharpie. "For my kids?"

Laughing wryly, Dean signed the ball with a flourish. "Anyone else?" he asked. Sheepishly, one of the goons stepped forward, offering Dean a souvenir program from the Giants game two nights ago. The guy should have been pretty satisfied with the game, assuming he was a Giants fan; Cas had pitched well but the Giants had gotten to the bullpen, Reznick got utterly destroyed and Alfie allowed more runs in one game than he had in his past ten games combined. Poor Reznick had been demoted to the minors immediately after. Dean flipped through until he found the picture of himself and signed it. When neither of the other two stepped forward, Dean gave the gangsters a wave and retreated to his rental car.

The engine started with a rumble, the car door slammed shut, his knees protested as he shifted into a more comfortable position, Dean set his hands on the wheel and looked out the windshield, but his vision blurred the night so badly he could scarce see the road for the tears in his eyes.

I'm free. John Winchester is finally fucking dead. What would he say if he knew I'd paid off all his old mistakes? Good job, son? No. I bet that's why this hurts so fucking much. If he were here he'd tell me what an idiot I am, how I should have tried to negotiate Douche Bag to a lower rate or pretended that I didn't have the full amount. He'd tell me what a shit player I am. He'd tell me that I swing too much from the hip and that's why I'll never make it in the big leagues. He'd say that if I'd been half the player I should have been I'd have been making millions and the debt would have been paid off years ago. Somehow it'd still be my fault.

I've done my best.

And no matter what he said, my best is good enough.

A honk pulled him from his thoughts, the loan sharks driving by him and giving him broad smiles. They should fucking smile, he'd just handed them two hundred thousand dollars in cash. Son of a bitch.

Wiping his eyes, Dean gathered his thoughts. It did feel good. For once in his life he'd accomplished something difficult entirely on his own, something his father had never managed. He was free and clear and he hadn't relied on old contacts or under-the-table favors.

The next check he got would be all his.

Alone in a shady corner of the Presidio, Dean burst out a laugh, unable to stop himself, and then another, another, laughing so hard he could scarcely breathe, laughing so hard he cried in happiness and relief at the sheer bliss of being free.

Meeting Sam highlighted the contrast between Dean's life and his brother's. For all of John's big league success, he'd stuck to his blue collar roots. He had no idea what to do with money other than waste it and he was always more comfortable in a seedy bar than in the posh surroundings of a martini joint like the one where Sam had made them reservations. Sam had made them reservations to get drinks. The valet parking out front took the rental from Dean and scowled when he only tipped them five dollars, the maître d' smiled at him unctuously and called him by name as if they were old friends, and Sam had beaten him there, gesturing with his drink for Dean to take a seat and quirking an eyebrow at Dean's ratty jeans and the unbuttoned shirt he wore over a fresh undershirt. Dean shrugged. There was no official dress code and he'd always be John Winchester's kid first and foremost, and didn't that just fucking suck.

No, not even that could drag him down today.

"What, no Gabe?" Dean asked, taking a seat.

"Thought we could use some brother time," said Sam. A waiter appeared as from nowhere and took Dean's order for a Michelob with a distasteful frown. "You know I'm paying, right?"

"Why would you do a stupid thing like that?" Dean frowned. "You know how much I'm making this year."

"I know how much you've made every year, which is why it worries me so damn much that you're always so broke," Sam laughed but there was nothing joking to his expression, eyes keen. It wasn't the first time Sam had insinuated about Dean's fiscal situation. Damn it, Sam, let it go for another week and you'll never notice funds missing again. "You know you're not dad, right? You don't have to play like him and you sure don't have to make the same mistakes he made." It wasn't the first time that Sam had assumed that the problem was that Dean shared John's vices and Dean always seethed at the accusation but he couldn't answer it. If he did, he'd have to explain, and if he explained, Sam would grow even more disillusioned with John, and Sam would insist on paying. Would have insisted on paying. There's nothing left to pay. I don't need Sam's help – didn't need Sam's help for this. He doesn't need to know how bad it really was – he never needs to know how bad it really was. Let him think that dad's mistakes died with dad. Let him think whatever he wants about me. I know the truth, that's good enough.

"Been here two minutes and you're already picking a fight? Might be a new record," said Dean, grateful that the waiter came promptly with his beer and he could hide his disgruntled look by taking a sip. "Then you'll be happy to know I was thinking of moving after this season."

"You're not coming back to San Francisco?" Sam's annoyance fell away and every negative thought Dean had harbored about his brother vanished in at the hang-dog look on Sammy's face as he considered the prospect of Dean not staying with him any longer.

"Nothing's set but I was thinking of spending the winter in Atlanta," Dean explained, making a show of drinking his beer while he carefully eyed Sam over the lip of the bottle. Sam quirked his head, eyes narrowed with consideration, and broke into a broad grin.

"This is about whoever you were texting when we got dinner last night, isn't it," he said sagely. "The same person Gabe caught you smiling over when we met up last month in LA? The same one you stayed with during the All Star game? You've been holding out on me all season, but it's time to spill the beans – what's his name?"

Spluttering, Dean spat bad beer over his hand and the bottle. "What?"

"Come on Dean, you think I didn't know?" Sam laughed. "I caught you making out with the ball boy when you were 14!"

"That was a girl, you idiot!" Her name had been Hurley and damn had Dean dug how her uniform accented how tall and slim and flat-chested she was, hair cut in an adorable pixie cut. His preference for boyish girls should have clued him in to his orientation; instead it had taken him another five years to figure out the truth.

"Really?" Sam spluttered.

"Yes, really, I can show you her Facebook page if you want," he huffed.

"And yet you're denying nothing," Sam said smugly. Dean grimaced and tried to hide behind his bottle. Judging by the gleam in Sam's eye and his growing grin, Dean wasn't succeeding.

"Would you shut it, you bitch? Someone might hear you," muttered Dean, chugging the rest of his drink.

He usually stopped himself after one but he might make an exception if the conversation continued in the direction he feared it was going.

Eh, what's wrong with getting tipsy? I deserve to celebrate a little, especially if Sammy's paying. He can afford to get me a second beer.

"So who is it?" asked Sam, leaning close and lowering his voice conspiratorially. "When do I get to meet him? You know your invitation to the wedding includes a Plus One, right?"

"Can't do that," Dean shook his head. "If anyone found out I'd be toast. No team in the league will sign a gay has-been." Would that be so bad? It doesn't matter. I can't out Jimmy.

"Dean, you're going to be 38 before next season starts, and you've been flirting with the Mendoza line for a month and a half," said Sam. "Not to put you down...but do you really think you'll be playing next season regardless?"

"A guy can hope," Dean replied, surprised by how much Sam's words stung. "Julio Franco played 'til he was 49." He'd have thought, with how often he castigated himself, he'd let go any hope of having a chance to play for another season.

"He was a DH." Sam rolled his eyes. "David Ross and AJ Pierzynski are the oldest catchers in the game. They've not got a year on you."

"Hate that asshole," Dean murmured darkly. "You don't know I won't be the next Carlton Fisk..."

Sam snorted. "You're a good player Dean but you've never been a Fisk; even dad wasn't Fisk. You've already played longer than dad managed to, you should be proud of that."

Christ, that's true, dad stopped playing in the Majors at 36, switched to ruining his liver as quickly as he could manage, attaching himself to any team that'd keep him around, and pretending to be my coach.

"I might play next season," said Dean, defiant, even as his hip gave a pointed and ill-timed twinge. Fucking uncomfortable prissy-ass bar stools... "I mean, come on Sammy, what would I do instead?"

For the first time in his life, that question resounded in his head and an answer came to the front. Despite his moodiness, Dean no longer doubted that Cas liked and believed in him. Of late, Cas had been working with Lafitte more in the bullpen, much to Dean's annoyance, but despite that Cas had sought out Dean's input, had Lafitte talk to Dean about strategies, and clearly wanted to work with Dean on the diamond. Going forward, maybe that camaraderie could be leveraged in a way that kept Dean employed off the field? Even if it couldn't, Dean might be able to get a job with the Braves organization, which would put him close to Jimmy – assuming Jimmy wanted to continue whatever it was they were doing past this season. Dating, Dean, the word you're looking for is dating. It didn't seem impossible. Dean couldn't speak for either twin, but he knew that given the chance he'd be happy to keep working with Cas and he'd be happy to keep seeing Jimmy. He'd be happy to have them both in his life.

"That," Sammy's amused voice cut through Dean's reflection. "Whatever you just thought of? That's what you'd do. Knowing you, it's still in baseball, right?" Dean nodded. "You think being out of the closet will mess that up?"

"Remember what happened to Burke?" countered Dean.

"Dean, that was thirty years ago," Sam gave him a petulant look. "Things are different now."

"Right, that's why there's exactly one out player in the entire league," Dean rolled his eyes. "And he's young enough to be my kid – it might yet screw up his career, and kudos to him for taking the chance anyway."

If I came out – if more of us older folks came out – wouldn't it help a young guy like that?

Fuck, no, just stop, life got easier tonight, no reason to complicate it again by becoming MLB's gay poster child.

"You know, Gabe and my engagement isn't exactly a secret," said Sam, his tone growing positively bitchy. "And get this – no one gives a shit. But if your masculinity can't handle everyone knowing you like dick, that's your problem. If your masculinity can't handle your own damn brother knowing who your boyfriend is..."

"I call bullshit," Dean snapped. Catching the waiter's eye, he gestured with his empty bottle, hoping the message was clear that he wanted another. "You expect me to out someone you've never even met?" Except Sam has met Jimmy. Sam's his agent. Would Sam treat him differently if he knew? I can't risk Jimmy's career to satisfy Sam's curiosity.

"Wait, it's another player?" That, at least, brought Sam up short. The waiter returned with Dean's second drink, effectively covering the awkward pause as Sam's jaw worked and his brow furrowed as he considered how to reply. Dean murmured thanks, the waiter left them alone, the room was filled with the sounds of clinking glasses and muffled conversation, and Dean sipped at his drink and waited for Sam to continue. Finally, Sam's expression relaxed and he asked calmly, "Is it Castiel Novak?"

Dean choked on a mouthful of beer.

"Woah, woah, breathe." Sam leapt to his feet, circled the table and slapped Dean on the back as he fizzy liquid burned at Dean's throat. Carbonation did not belong in his lungs.

"No," Dean croaked.

"Because there were always weird rumors about him and his brother…they were close, very close," Sam continued as he rubbed up and down Dean's back. "And how they've both acted since hasn't convinced anyone to think differently. Have you watched the footage of either Novak answering questions about the other? Their facial expressions are straight out of daytime soap operas." Sam paused and added thoughtfully, "Gabe ships it."

"What the hell does that mean?" asked Dean, voice rough. Maybe no more beer tonight, apparently I can't drink and have this conversation without making a fucking mess. His hand shaking a little, he grabbed a napkin to wipe up the mess he'd made.

"Gabe thinks they were in a relationship with each other," Sam clarified.

Jimmy's recent break up, all the things he said about Cas, fuck that would be hot, no, no, that'd be wrong, like if I were in a relationship with Sam, that's disgusting, that's…Sam's hand felt damn good trailing up and down his back; Dean was no longer hacking but Sam hadn't stopped, and Dean hadn't suggested he stop. …don't lie to yourself, Winchester, it's crossed your mind a time or two…if Sammy hadn't been four years younger? If he'd been a twin? Is it really incest if there's no danger of having some busted genetic freak of a kid?

How fucking hot would it be to watch Jimmy suck Cas off?

Shuddering, Dean shook Sam's hand off; his brother gave his shoulder one final pat before returning to his seat. " 's not Cas," muttered Dean. He risked a glance up at Sam's face; Sam was pensive, patient, maybe a little worried. Dean sighed. "Close but no cigar."

"Jimmy," Sam breathed. "You're such a jerk, Dean. Why'd you lie and say I don't know the guy? He's my client for fuck's sake. He got way more friendly a couple months ago, I didn't think anything of it, but…" He shook his head, shaggy hair swaying about his face. "Well, at least that makes the wedding easier. He's one of mine so I don't need to justify inviting him."

"That's it? That's your biggest concern?"

At least he's not asking about the money any longer.

"What, you'd rather I be upset? I could shout if you want, make a scene, I bet we could get the media involved if you really want." Sam rolled his eyes. "I'm not dad, Dean, I don't give a shit if you're gay."

Bet he'd give a shit if I hooked up with both of them.

"Say it a little louder," grumbled Dean.

"How're things going?" Sam said, ignoring Dean. "Must be pretty good if you're thinking about moving to Atlanta."

"Well, he's still talking to me, I'm taking that as a good sign," said Dean, staring at the bustle of people moving about the brightly-lit bar. "Of course, we've seen each other like four times in the past three months so I figure that's playing in my favor."

"Dean—"

"Seriously, I like him a lot," Dean hurried on quietly. Sam broke into a warm smile. "I've been thinking…I've been thinking a lot of things, honestly…I dunno, it just feels like maybe things aren't shit for once? And that's fucked, 'cause every time I've thought that before…" He shrugged. "I'm glad you're happy, Sammy."

"Stop calling me that, jerk," said Sam, laughter thick in his voice. "I'm fricken 33."

"I could call you 'Coleman' instead," joked Dean.

"Ugh, no, I'm not taking Gabe's name."

"Oh ho, so I should call him Winchester?"

"Neither of us is changing our names!"

"Coleman it is," said Dean with a grin. Sam threw a straw wrapper at him, Dean dodged and it hit a passing woman who started, took in their appearance and instead started flirting despite both Sam and Dean's attempts to deter her. A few minutes later her friend joined them, and – to Dean's amazement, given how far they were from Washington – she recognized him. The evening devolved into an autograph session over the strenuous objection of Sam, Dean and the restaurant staff. Though Dean maintained the appearance of being disgruntled throughout, as he headed back to his hotel he couldn't deny how good he felt. The debt was paid, he had honest-to-God fans, Sam was getting married, Sam knew about Jimmy and it hadn't changed a thing, and when he'd checked his phone he'd had a string of texts from Jimmy that promised Dean a pleasant phone call when he got back to his hotel room.

Life, for once, was pretty damn good.

Dean got the first question about his relationship status before his next home start with Castiel on August 5th. Dean was tired and achy and grumpy. West coast trips were always exhausting and a mild injury to Henriksen meant that Dean played two of three games against the Diamondbacks in Arizona. The same smarmy, grinning young woman who'd pestered Cas about having Dean as his catcher gave Dean a predatory smile as she asked him about the "rumors that he was involved in a relationship with another person involved in Major League Baseball?" She didn't ask outright him if he was in a relationship with a man but there were so few women involved in baseball, there was no doubt what conclusion everyone would draw if the question and answer were aired or published. Dean denied everything, of course, but the mere existence of the question worrisome. Someone must have overheard at the bar. There was no other possible explanation.

By game start Dean had psyched himself out about it. He played terribly, both behind the plate and at the plate. After two innings, Castiel chewed him out; after four, Singer chewed him out; and after six, with Castiel on track to throw a complete game victory, Turner pulled Dean and put in fucking Andrew Gallagher, brought up days before to be a third catcher on the bench since Henriksen and Dean were both hurting. Cas was angry enough to spit nails and the entire team picked up on the vibe. On some days, that would have led to better play but they were fucking jinxed that night. The only reason they held out and won was that Gallagher rocked his debut, hitting two homers in three at bats and driving in five runs single-handedly. The crowd went berserk and he was an instant fan-favorite. Watching Castiel grit his teeth and say nice things about Gallagher in the post-game interviews was actually painful, but Dean could hardly dwell on it since he got asked two more times whether he was seeing someone, four times how he could explain his shit play for the evening and once if he was nursing an injury. At least Cas still worked out the win. With only 50 games left in the season – less than a third to go – the Nationals were neck-and-neck with the Braves for the lead in the National League East and Castiel was at 14 wins, tied for the most in the majors. The pennant race was one and the Nationals were in the thick of it.

Tensions ran high leading up to the first post-All Star Break games against the Braves. The Nationals schedule was heavily skewed for in-division games in the last two months of the season; from April to the end of July, they had only nine games against the Braves but they had twelve in the last seven weeks of play. Before the press started asking about Dean's private life, he'd been excited about the prospect of the Braves coming to DC. Despite the continued friction between the brothers, Castiel had seemed less tetchy, Jimmy indicated that they were speaking again, and having the Braves around meant that Dean and Jimmy would have some time together. The vultures were swooping, though. The aches that had plagued Dean were slowly transitioning from minor annoyances to near-debilitating at times. The press was on his case before and after every game he played. The Nationals needed to win against the Braves to push ahead in the competition for the post-season. All of it combined to leave him an emotional wreck, the days crawling by.

Dean felt like the 11th would never come and, when it finally did, all he could think about was everything that might go wrong.

What if the plane crashes? What if the cabin depressurizes?

Dean and Castiel had done some work that morning to prepare for Castiel's start the next day but they'd cut out early.

What if those fucking mask things drop down? What if the crappy food gives Jimmy food poisoning?

At first Dean had thought to spend the morning hanging out at home, but when he'd returned he'd found Jo busily engaged, two passionate female voices easily audible through the front door.

What if some other passenger has Ebola? What if the pilot decides to dive-bomb the Potomac?

To escape, he returned to the stadium to review footage of Castiel pitching, to review information on all the players on the latest roster provided by the Braves, and to see what he could do with Gallagher should the young man have to catch for Castiel again.

What if there's a bomb in the luggage? What if something happens to the engine mid-flight?

Gallagher was a disaster behind the plate no matter how well he hit, but surely there must be something that could be done to render him less of a hazard to those attempting to work with him.

What if the landing gear jams? What if there's a fire in the cabin?

Dean's eyes were blurred, his concentration poor, and in frustration he reloaded the clip he'd been reviewing for the third time and tried to focus on it well enough to come up with constructive feedback.

Fucking anxiety.

Jimmy (3:21 PM): You can stop panicking we're at Dulles.

Dean (3:23 PM): How do you always know exactly the right thing to say?

Jimmy (3:24 PM): I don't you're easy to predict. Why do you think pitchers have your number?

Dean (3:24 PM): Ha ha ha thought I was dating a catcher turns out he's a comedian.

Jimmy (3:26 PM): So that's definitely a thing?

Jimmy (3:27 PM): We're dating?

Dean (3:29 PM): I sure as shit hope so. Not risking my career for the nonexistent sex.

Jimmy (3:30 PM): Gee I thought all the moaning I heard over the phone the other day sounded a hell of a lot like existent sex. But if you've got complaints...

Dean (3:33 PM): We need to be careful about dinner tonight which sucks. Our reservations are at 1789 but there's this bitch from NBC who keeps asking if I'm seeing someone and there was a thing with Walker on fucking ESPN last week all about what team I play for and I don't want to fuck your life up.

Jimmy (3:35 PM): Why don't we meet at the hotel we can talk and decide later if we want to get dinner.

Dean (3:36 PM): Sure ok what hotel and when should I get there?

Jimmy (3:38 PM): Courtyard Washington Navy Yard 4:30

Dean was punctual to the minute. The hotel was two blocks from Nationals Park but the traffic was light and parking was simple because there was no baseball game that night. In the lobby, there was no sign of the Braves players and Dean worried that he'd beaten them there and would have to risk exposing himself and Jimmy by hanging out in public to wait, but no sooner did he step into the sleek interior than he got a text from Jimmy with a room number. A few people shot Dean sidelong glances as he walked across the wide, tiled foyer towards the elevators – almost certainly spotters for the media. Despite the best efforts of the teams, the press always managed to find out where the teams were staying, but he pointedly ignored them and headed up to meet Jimmy. My boyfriend. The thought gave him pleasant butterflies the existence of which he'd never have admitted to anyone. For no reason he could put his finger on, his heart pounded with anticipation as he rode up to the 8th floor. The building was sizeable and it took him a moment to gain his bearings, but soon enough he was knocking on the door of Room 834, more breathless than could be justified by the rapid, broad strides that had brought him down the nondescript hallway to the plain entryway.

The door flew open, hands latched onto his shoulders and pulled him in, the door slammed shut behind him, lips met his, and fuck,Jimmy taking control and jerking him around was fricken hotter than hell. Jimmy kissed him like a fucking porn star, aggressive and urgent and so damn awesome. Caught up in the exquisite feeling, Dean wrapped an arm around Jimmy's shoulders and eagerly worked against Jimmy's lip, lapped at his tongue, kissed back for all he was worth. Even this was more than they'd done previously; sure, they'd kissed before, but it had been hesitant and cautious, had always stopped before things got too hot. With Jimmy's tongue tracing along Dean's palette, with Jimmy's saliva sweet in his mouth, with Jimmy's fingers digging into his flesh so hard he thought it might bruise, how much Dean had craved this flared scorching through him like flame devouring dry tinder. His back hit the wall hard, Jimmy peppering him with quick kisses like he was starved for the taste of Dean, and Dean slipped his arm around Jimmy's waist, traced the curve of his spine, urged him to press against Dean. A possessive growl rolled in the back of Jimmy's throat; he nipped at Dean's lips and lined their bodies up, sliding his hands down Dean's arms and to his sides while maintaining his powerful grip.

"Jimmy…" Dean groaned, throwing his head back, breaking off the kiss so he could try to catch his breath and fight back the euphoria threatening to incinerate him. It'd been so long, so fucking long, since anyone had touched him with so much desire and passion.

Has anyone ever touched me like this?

"Been thinking about this for days," Jimmy breathed, each word huffed out between sucking kisses to Dean's jaw line. "Ever since you…" he trailed off, nuzzling the collar of Dean's shirt aside and biting at Dean's clavicle so hard he gasped and went rigid, pain mingling with his pleasure powerfully, his hard cock straining against the zipper of his jeans. "Remember last week when I told you that you had to wait and you were fucking sobbing into the phone and begging me to let you come, begging me to touch you as if I were in the damn room with you?" Licking gently at the abused spot on Dean's chest, Jimmy finally reached Dean's crotch. One hand dug into the thick back seam of Dean's pants, thumb tracing the line of his crack; the other he pressed hard against Dean's erection, palm rubbing along the length.

"Oh, fuck, Jimmy," Dean panted, straining against Jimmy's grip on him, desperate for more. "Please, fuck please…"

"Yeah, just like that," mouthed Jimmy against Dean's neck, licking at a sensitive spot behind his ear. Dean felt dizzy at the competing sensations, the teased spot on his shoulder still throbbing pain, Jimmy's grip so powerful against Dean's long-neglected cock that it hurt even as he yearned for more. "Never understood how hot begging was 'til you, Dean – that's when I realized I didn't want to wait any longer, wasn't going to wait any longer – come on, tell me what you want, tell me what you need…"

"Jimmy," Dean pleaded, unable to say which among the competing images in his head appealed to him most. He'd had so many fantasies about Jimmy he couldn't possibly pick which one he'd get to have, knowing he might not get another for days or weeks or ever. He wanted all of them, wanted everything, wanted to lavish attention on Jimmy…

…and Cas…

…wanted Jimmy…

…and Cas…

…to lavish attention on him, wanted Jimmy…

…and Cas…

…in every way that he could think of.

Oh, fuck.

With a gasp, Dean thrust against Jimmy's palm and came, climax hitting him like a blow to the head – wait, no, he'd actually hit his head, slamming it back against the door Jimmy pressed him against. Not realizing what had happened, or indifferent to it, Jimmy kept working at him, kept him pinned.

"You're lucky you're so hot," Jimmy whispered. "Or else I'd stop and make you tell me, I'd—"

"Jimmy," he managed.

"Yeah, Dean, yeah, seriously you're fucking gorgeous right now, you should see—"

"Stop," croaked Dean. Startled, Jimmy drew back instantly. The loss of contact was an immense relief and absolutely awful and Dean whimpered as his legs gave out and he crumpled painfully to the floor, grunting when his weight fell on his knees.

"Dean…" Concerned, Jimmy leaned over him and laid a hand on his cheek to tilt his head up. Dean tried to make his eyes focus through the after-glow but it was difficult, he felt so good, so relaxed. "Wait, did you come?" Dean barely nodded, but it was enough. Jimmy's eyes went wide as saucers, the ring of his blue irises nearly swallowed up by black. "You really want me that much?" Jimmy's hands fumbled at his fly. Dean wanted to help but all he could do was stare, desperate for his first glimpse of Jimmy's cock as Jimmy lowered the zipper, reached within his pants and pulled out his flushed length. Only a hard bite against his lip kept Dean from moaning; Jimmy gave himself a rough stroke and a low, broken noise escaped him. A bead of thin pre-come formed at the slit, inches from Dean's face as he knelt on the floor. Unable to resist base temptation, Dean half-lunged, half-fell forward, wrapped his lips around the head of Jimmy's cock and sucked hard. "Shit, Dean, shit, that's…" A salty, tangy taste diffused through Dean's mouth and he lapped at Jimmy's slit, trying to tease free more as Jimmy groaned and his hand came to rest on Dean's head as his other played and toyed with his foreskin. Letting his eyes slip shut, Dean worked over the head, Jimmy's fingers brushing his cheeks as he made soft, encouraging noises. Abruptly, Jimmy's grip locked around the back of Dean's head and he sank himself inside Dean until his cock bumped the back of Dean's throat. Eyes watering, Dean fought against his gag reflex and was relieved when Jimmy drew back out, eased back in.

"This okay, Dean?" Jimmy's voice had dropped a fucking octave from how he usually sounded. Dean hummed his approval. A burst of early release washed over Dean's tongue and he enthusiastically swallowed down every drop. Jimmy's groaning shattered around a gasp and he gave up trying to touch himself, instead cradling Dean's cheek in a tender contrast to his harsh hold on Dean's head. Thrusting desperately into the wet heat of Dean's mouth, his mouth flooding with saliva and watery pre-come, Jimmy fucking fell apart nearly as quickly as Dean had. Thick, bitter come spurted onto Dean's tongue, down his throat, leaked out the corners of Dean's mouth as Jimmy continued to thrust weakly through his orgasm. With a shudder and a sigh, Jimmy pulled free from Dean's mouth; Dean opened his eyes to see Jimmy sinking to his knees before Dean. Arms enfolded him, a hot tongue licked at the spit and come coating Dean's chin, and Jimmy rubbed their bodies together as if he was desperate for the contact.

"You're perfect," Jimmy whispered in his ear, "God, you're amazing. I'm sorry I made you wait so long, made us both wait so long." A hand slipped under Dean's shirt, skin against skin glorious on his overheated flesh. "I never thought I'd..." Jimmy shook his head, swallowing whatever he'd been about to say. "I'm glad I met you, so fucking happy."

"Hey, Jimmy," mumbled Dean. Thoughts were hard to come by; Dean was dizzy on the afterglow of his orgasm and light-headed due to the challenges of breathing while Jimmy had fucked his face. He chuckled at nothing and Jimmy nuzzled his cheek affectionately. "Welcome to Washington. We're gonna kick your ass tomorrow, you know." Jimmy laughed, a low sound that bubbled from his chest to grow and grow until they were both draped over each other and the room rang with peals of joy. It was a long time before they managed to stop; each time one of them started to fall quiet, the other would find something new to keep the laughter going and they were lost again. It felt good, as good as coming had, as good as sucking his boyfriend down had. In that room, in that moment, there was no media, no game pressure, nothing to distract them from each other, no one else to think about.

Except Cas.

I'm going to have to talk to him about that sometime.

The thought finally killed the lingering glow of humor. Jimmy fell quiet and slumped against him, chest still fluttering with silent giggles.

"What time are the reservations for?" asked Jimmy.

"Eight," said Dean, "but going is a shit idea. If anyone sees us…" Dean shrugged and let the sentence hang. He didn't need to explain what would happen if they were outed.

"Yeah?"

"Huh?"

"What if someone sees us together?" Jimmy said.

Ok, maybe Dean did need to explain. First Sam, now Jimmy; what was it with the people around him not understanding the consequences of being openly gay in professional sports? "We'll be fucked," Dean supplied. "Not in the fun way." His knee twinged agony in a white-hot line up his thigh and he shifted seeking a more comfortable position. A burning sensation spread through his feet and calves, pins and needles set in and he bit back a curse.

"Are you alright?" Jimmy drew away, concerned. Nodding, Dean tried to stand but his legs wouldn't support him; he got a foot under him and pitched forward. Pain lanced from his toes to his lower back and despite himself he groaned. "Dean!" Catching him, Jimmy grunted under Dean's weight and Dean struggled to carry enough of his weight that he wouldn't put untoward pressure on the slighter man.

"I'm good," Dean lied, struggling to keep his tension and discomfort from his face. Jimmy knew he was hurting, but not how badly. Pulling back, Dean settled back on his heels and was greeted by a comically skeptical look on Jimmy's face: brows raised up to his fucking hair line, lips pursed, eyes judging. "It's no big deal. Leg's asleep."

"Right," Jimmy said firmly. "Here's what's going to happen. We're getting you on your feet and onto my bed and I'm going to give you a massage, see if we can't do something about those aches of yours. That done, I'm going to put on a damn suit, and so are you, and we're going to get a fricken delicious dinner, and if anyone sees then fuck 'em cause you better believe they're not having as nice an evening as we are. And after, we're coming back here, and I'm unwrapping you like the fricken gift you are and we're finishing the conversation that your premature ejaculation interrupted." Dean blinked at him uncertainly. "You're going to tell me exactly what you were begging for, in detail, and I'm going to consider carefully what I want to do with that information before I decide on and execute a game plan."

Protests rose to Dean's lips, offended that Jimmy thought he needed help to stand, unsure if he should resist Jimmy's appealingly possessive talk, brimming with objections to the risks of exposure, the dangers of being found out as a couple. With effort, he held every word back and found that, when he shut his anxieties up and repressed the instincts that advised him towards caution, there was no part of that plan that didn't appeal to him.

The evening was…well, Dean was loathe to call anything in his life perfect but it was pretty damn close. Jimmy didn't tease Dean for needing help getting into bed and the massage was even more glorious than the ones that Jo gave as part of Dean's personal training routine. Over an hour, Jimmy massaged Dean from head to toe, smoothing the way with hotel body lotion, leaving Dean so replete and supple that he was practically melting into the bedding. When he'd reduced Dean to a limp, warm, satisfied ball of easy happiness, Jimmy rolled him onto his side and lay down with his bare chest – Dean had no clue when he'd stripped – pressed to Dean's back. There was a spurt of lotion and a slick hand wrapped around Dean's cock, a smooth dick thrust into the tight space between Dean's thighs, and Dean whimpered and moaned and basked in the glorious knowledge that Jimmy didn't expect anything from him beyond that he relax and enjoy how good he felt and how good he could make Jimmy feel. He'd never felt so taken care of before. A small part of him balked at the feeling but it was impossible to credit that he was being selfish when Jimmy trembled against him and moaned in his ear and came between his legs. Dean followed moments later, Jimmy catching the release in his hand to keep from soiling the blankets. Completely sated, Dean rolled to face Jimmy and with a lidded gaze he tried to put everything he felt into his expression as he met Jimmy's smiling, bright-eyed face.

Naked, Jimmy was beautiful: lean yet muscular, every line of his body strong and defined, his hip bones formed so perfectly that they cast damn shadows over the flesh beneath.

"It's time to get ready," said Jimmy, coloring under Dean's scrutiny as if he wasn't fricken perfection incarnate. A small voice in Dean's head urged him to tell Jimmy exactly how gorgeous he was. Instead, he contented himself with watching Jimmy go to his closet and get dressed for the evening, letting all his appreciation show on his face.

Once Jimmy was dressed, Dean was faced with the amazing prospect that Jimmy in a formal jacket, ironed dress pants, a button-down shirt and a tie might be even more spectacular than Jimmy naked. No, I could never pick, he's sinful either way. Looking at Jimmy, cheeks fresh shaved and smooth, dark hair pulled back into a classy ponytail, Dean could hardly believe the young man was genuinely interested in him. For his age, Dean supposed he looked alright but even in his prime his stomach and abs had never done that whole "six pack" shit and now he had a distinct ring of paunch. He'd never been and never would be chiseled. Granted, his legs and ass were fucking amazing, an inevitable side effect of being a catcher. Maybe that was what Jimmy liked about him? Dean wasn't sure, but even his mediocre self-image couldn't argue with the glazed look that came over Jimmy's face when Dean hurried back to the car after quickly changing at Jo's. He was only wearing slacks, a dark button down shirt and a plain tie, but as he slid into the driver's seat Jimmy looked like he'd decided exactly what he wanted for dinner and it definitely wasn't on the menu at the restaurant they were headed to. Jimmy didn't suggest they cancel, instead making small talk that distracted Dean from his concerns that they might get caught.

Dinner was delicious. The atmosphere at the restaurant was low-key despite the fancy ingredients, top-notch wine list and excellent food. The other patrons ignored Jimmy and Dean as completely as Jimmy and Dean ignored them. It was the most date-like date Dean had ever been on. He suspected the same might be true of Jimmy given how abashed he kept acting over the simplest shit, like when Dean offered his fork for Jimmy to taste from or when the wait staff casually assumed they were a couple. Jimmy's flushes helped Dean feel less ridiculous about his own, the wine helped relax them, and conversation flowed easily as it always did when they were together. Near the end of the meal, Jimmy regaled Dean with a story about the first time he met Singer, when he'd gushed about what an idol of his and Cas' Singer had been. As he spoke, Jimmy's dark eyes sparkled in the dimly lit dining room and his features were animated with happiness, his tone guileless, his body language open and trusting. Watching him, struggling to remain attentive in the face of how absurdly happy he felt when he saw that Jimmy was happy, Dean wondered if the hot, tender feeling growing in his chest was love. If it wasn't, he suspected it was very like. Regardless of what name belonged to that swelling emotion, by the time Jimmy had concluded with a hilarious imitation of Singer saying what an idiot Jimmy was, Dean was sure that no matter what he named the feeling, he wanted to feel it more, wanted it to envelop him, wanted to share it with Jimmy as long as he could – not just for the night, or the series, or the season. For as long as that warmth lingered and grew, Dean wanted to indulge it; for as long as he felt that way, and fuck did he hope that it would be a long time. Dean wanted Jimmy in his life.

When I talk to him about the Cas thing, it'll all change.

It'll wait. It'll keep. Maybe we'll talk about it next time.

Dean didn't bother to examine if "next time" meant their next date, the next time they spoke, or the next time their teams played against each other, and he pushed the whole thing from his mind. There was no need to focus on that when he had a fucking lifetime of awesome stories about Bobby Singer that he could share over port and dessert.

Not that Dean was looking at the clock, but by his best guess it took Jimmy all of ten minutes to reduce Dean to a begging, weeping, achingly hard lump of pure, helpless desire tied to the hotel bed. The night and early morning blurred together but he was sure that Jimmy got off at least twice before he finally took pity on Dean and sucked Dean's cock like it was his fucking job, drinking down every drop of release when Dean finally came with a howl. They didn't bother cleaning up after. Skin gross with sweat and spit and drying come, they held each other close, pulled the blanket over both their cooling bodies and fell asleep.

Maybe it wasn't perfect but it was the best date, the best sex, the best night that Dean had ever had.

The glorious afterglow lasted until the next morning when Dean was awoken by his phone vibrating and beeping an hour before his alarm was set for. Fumbling for it, he found he'd gotten an MMS from Jo: a grainy photograph of the sports section of the morning edition the Washington Times, an image of himself and Jimmy laughing over dinner topped by the headline Lose-chester Finally Gets a Hit.