Warnings: Slash (Ambrose/Punk), AU, Homelessness, Profanity, Smut.
There is no such thing as perfection. It's a fallacy spread by the media of the world of the scurriers. Perfection is like satisfaction, utterly unobtainable. As soon as something is perfect, it becomes imperfect. By being attained, it immediately becomes tainted, and so no longer perfection. Perfection isn't real, but then the world of scurriers is illusory, nothing is real in it, even their reality TV is scripted. For scurriers there is no need for reality to rudely intrude on the lives they're cultivating. They're comfortable with illusions, and self-deception. Truth terrifies scurriers, they can't face it, can't take criticism, can't take being disagreed with. They live in their worlds where they're right, where their delusions are the truth. Dean lives in a world of realities, cold hard facts that you can't argue with.
That morning Punk had slinked out of the shelter, leaving Dean with nothing more than a slight smile, and a promise to return, but there's a chance that promise is nothing more than illusion. Prostitution is a dangerous profession for the homeless. They have nothing but themselves, and there are those who would seek to take even that from them. All day Dean drifts from place to place, never really settling anywhere, feeling unnerved. It had been easier when Punk was just gone, but now Dean knows what he's gone to do, and he wants to stop him, wants to find something that's safer for him, for them both. His mental declaration that Punk is his has made this nearly impossible to bear.
The scurriers don't see him. They note a person shaped lump, and those with the need to feel better about themselves drop him a few coins, but on the whole, they don't pay him any mind. They're too busy caught in their own lives, in their own illusions, delusions really, to see someone else. On the walls and billboards around him there's advertising for a myriad of things Dean will never own or use, all being sold with illusions. Photoshop was a terrible invention, it lets scurriers delude themselves even more, it whitewashes the flaws of humanity into the grey mulch of their cities. Cookie cutter people, with cookie cutter lives, living in cookie cutter homes, on cookie cutter streets, in cookie cutter cities. None of them have ever experienced the dread and fear of not knowing what will happen in the way that Dean has. On the streets, life is a gamble. One day you could roll a good hand and meet your needs with relative ease, the next you might be unlucky and find yourself going hungry once more.
Delusion might be a pleasant way to live. It affords you the ability to see sunshine and rainbows in the place of horrors and plights. It's something Dean's almost envious of scurriers for. Going through life deluded would make things so much easier. If Dean held delusions, he could make-believe that Punk was somewhere safe, doing something safe, not being fucked by some unknown for money. That's a cold hard fact that Dean's struggling with. Punk should be somewhere safe, but he's not. The unknown is intrinsically unsafe, dangers lurk in the unknown, and Punk being there worries him, keeps him from sleeping even though he retreats to the little lean-to that night.
"Hey, move over. Lemme in." Punk's voice jars Dean out of his contemplative daze, and he unwinds the blankets from around him enough to catch Punk and pull him into his arms.
"This isn't the morning, nor is it where you were supposed to meet me." Dean mumbles, his arms squeezing Punk tightly, half convinced that this is nothing more than a dangerous delusion of his own. He wouldn't put it past his sleeping mind to conjure up Punk to fill his arms.
"Wally's a sweet guy... Said I seemed too distracted to stay the night." Punk mutters, kissing the underside of Dean's jaw.
"Wally?" Dean doesn't really want to know anything about the man who fucked Punk, but it seems like Punk remembers this guy's name, which is a surprise. If he's remembered, he must be important to Punk.
"Uh... He looks like a walrus... I couldn't exactly tell him that, so Wally stuck." Punk mutters, and Dean laughs, kissing Punk's head. "Still, he's a nice guy... He's gentle with me."
"Good." Dean doesn't add that anyone who touches Punk should be gentle with him, beneath the tough looking exterior, Punk's a fragile creature of spun sugar, and should always be handled with care.
"Yeah... So, you miss me?" Punk sounds softly sleepy, and Dean kisses his head once more, squeezing him tightly for good measure.
"More than you realise." Dean murmurs, but Punk doesn't reply. His breathing is soft and regular, clearly fast asleep.
In the light of morning, Dean slips from under Punk, and goes to fetch something for breakfast with the little money he'd cobbled together yesterday from begging. He wants to provide for Punk in some strange primitive way, like an animal providing for its mate. When he gets back to the shack, Punk's still sleeping, and Dean takes the opportunity to study his face, checking for any new bruises.
"You're staring at me." Punk's eyes don't open as he talks, and Dean sits down by his head, letting Punk rest it on his thighs.
"You're interesting." Dean answers absently, stroking Punk's cheek. "I come bearing gifts."
"I can smell it." Punk finally opens his eyes, and smiles up at Dean. "Did you find somewhere to stay?" Punk sits up, and kisses Dean lightly on the cheek, taking the little paper bag of food, and a cup of cheap coffee.
"I did." In his wanderings, Dean had found a little motel that was as cheap as it was dingy. It won't be the best place to make love to Punk for the first time, but it'll be a lot better than it being in a cramped stall in a shelter, or even here in their improvised shack.
"So we eat, and then go? How much is it?" Punk takes a bite of food after he speaks, a little smile creeping over his lips at the taste.
"Forty for a night." Dean snags his own portion of food, starting to eat.
"Really? Hmm, we've got twenty to buy some food with then." Punk grins, and Dean smiles at him slightly.
"Food and some lube... Unless you've got some." Punk shakes his head, and Dean tenses up slightly. The idea of anyone taking Punk dry makes bile rise in his throat.
"Wally provides. It's like I said, he's gentle with me..." Punk sighs, and rests his chin in his palm, his elbow propped on his knee. "He treats me like a person. It's weird... Most other clients just want a hole to fuck, and that's it, but Wally... He talks about his kids, about his job, asks about me, how I'm doing, if I'm okay... He always gives me extra. He's a sweet guy... On the rotund side, but sweet, and gentle, and clever." Punk smiles, and Dean snorts. "He talks about interesting things." Punk's smile takes on a slight leer, and Dean rolls his eyes.
"He sounds great." It's an oddly bitter sounding tone that Dean delivers that comment in, and Punk chuckles at him.
"He pays me. You get me for free. There's a big difference, Dean." Punk touches Dean's cheek, stroking his thumb over Dean's lips. "You can have me whenever you like, he has to make appointments, and write them down on a little card for me."
"You're mine, Punk... I don't wanna sh-"
"You have to, even if you don't want to, you have to share me, just like I have to share you, because we don't get any choice. If things were different, I wouldn't do this... If I had the choice, I wouldn't sell myself, I wouldn't let you sell yourself either, but choices aren't things we get many of." Punk smiles miserably, and Dean rests his hand on the back of his neck, stroking over Punk's skin lightly.
"We get to choose some things, Punk. We get to choose each other." The misery bleeds from Punk's smile, and Dean draws him into a kiss. "C'mon, eat up, then we'll head to a store, and buy provisions."
It's a strange luxury actually buying things. When they venture into stores it's usually for the purposes of theft, but it's rare that they bother with that. Punk refuses to steal from Mom 'n' Pop stores, and the larger ones won't let them in. It's been so long Dean can't actually remember the last time he went shoplifting. Punk's curious moral compass is an odd thing to be guided by, it's counterproductive in many ways, but Dean feels as though through Punk's more altruistic choices, he's gaining a hint of white whale. They're careful with what they purchase, though Punk doesn't object when Dean adds a carton of ice cream to their basket. This whole thing is an indulgence. The money Punk made they should be saving, or using for some better purpose, a motel room for a night, maybe two if Dean can sweet talk the guy behind the desk, isn't what they need. It's nothing more than indulging Dean's curious desire to indulge Punk, or maybe himself. He wants to fuck Punk somewhere nice the first time, but Punk had pointed out that this isn't the first time for either of them. They've both had sex in unpleasant surroundings; both have had it for money, something he's sharply reminded of when Punk tosses a box of condoms into the basket. This isn't some fairytale romance, some prince bedding his princess of the first time. This is a man all but born on the streets, and never able to get off them, fucking a man with no past, a vague present, and a future shrouded in mystery. It's not the stuff of storybooks, but Dean doesn't want to let their first time together be as grubby as every other time he's had sex. There's something about Punk that makes him want to give him something soft, something nice, something better than they both have. Punk is a flame, and Dean is as helpless as moth before him, drawn to him, inexorably, inescapably, despite the danger he can't resist. There's almost no doubts in Dean's mind that this relationship with Punk is dangerous. It makes them both a target, it paints them both a human-sized bull's-eye on their backs, but resisting is like fighting gravity. Dean wants Punk, and Punk seems to want Dean. It's one of those cold hard truths, but unlike of many of those, this one is tinged with something less unpleasant.
"This is the place?" Punk mutters as they approach the shabby motel, and Dean nods, almost wishing he'd found somewhere nicer, but knowing that would be out of their incredibly limited price range.
"Yeah... C'mon, you can work your charm on the manager." Dean laughs, touching Punk's fingers lightly, not quite taking his hand, but wanting a connection with him.
"I'll try... But my charm is dubious at best." Punk mumbles, and Dean shakes his head, not really sure how to reply.
The manager is as greasily unpleasant looking as he'd been yesterday, and he leers at them as they enter his office.
"Back again?" He smirks at Dean, and Dean can feel violence creeping up his spine. The man's eyes are lingering too long on Punk, too long on Dean as well, but Punk is Dean's priority.
"What's your rate?" Punk leans over the desk, and Dean hovers by his side, trying to keep a glare from his face.
"I get the feeling I could ask you the same thing, darlin'." The manager laughs, and Dean digs his nails into his palms, hoping to keep from punching the greasy bastard.
"Hmm... Maybe, but I'm not working right now." Punk's tone is odd, flirtatious, and Dean doesn't like hearing it directed at anyone who isn't him.
"Some other day, maybe?" The manger's hand reaches out to Punk's face, and Punk stands up straight, a coy smile on his lips. "How much money you got, sweetness?"
"A fifty." Punk sets the bill on the counter, his hand resting on top of it. The manager places a key down by Punk's hand, and then rests his own on top of Punk's.
"Two nights." The man smiles, and Dean's sure he's broken the skin of his palms with his short, jaggedly bitten nails. "Maybe we can renegotiate something later." Punk doesn't answer; he merely looks at the man thoughtfully.
"I'd like a receipt." He smiles, and the manager barks a laugh. Dean supposes that Punk wants the receipt as proof of the agreement, and he can't argue with Punk's pragmatism, he wouldn't put it past this greasy man to try and back out of the deal come tomorrow.
"I'll need a name for book, darlin'." The manager smirks. Dean steps closer, and takes the key, hovering close to Punk's side.
"Ambrose. Phil Ambrose." He snarls, and the manager laughs once more, but does write up a receipt for two nights, making a note of it in the logbook. He places the receipt in Punk's hand, his fingers lingering over Punk's, and Dean makes a point of wrapping his arm wound Punk's shoulders, staking his claim over him, as Punk hands over the fifty.
"Two nights for fifty's a pretty good deal, huh?" Punk smiles over at him once they've left the office, and Dean nods, squeezing his shoulder lightly. "You know... Getting jealous over me trying to get us a good deal is kinda hot." Punk's laughing at him, Dean can hear it in his tone, but he doesn't mind, not really.
"Yeah, well... Get in." Dean mutters, unlocking the door, and ushering Punk into the room, locking it behind him firmly. The outside world doesn't exist, not anymore. Dean intends to keep Punk sequestered from reality for the next two nights. It's going to be them, their food, and using all of the condoms they bought. Dean intends to revel in Punk's body, but first they're going to shower. At least that was Dean's plan, because Punk has other ideas. As soon as the door is locked, Punk grabs Dean's shoulders, and turns him around, then presses him back against the thin door with a fierce kiss. It's rough, with nipping, and suckling, hands in hair, or trying to force their way under many layers of clothing. "C'mon, lemme get undressed... I wanna take a shower before we get down to it." Dean murmurs between frenzied kisses. Punk steps away from him, and starts the complicated process of peeling his layers of clothing off, his gaze heavy on Dean as he watches Dean stripping his own clothing off.
"C'mere." Punk reaches out of him once they're both naked, and Dean steps closer, letting Punk wrap his arms around him, kissing him once more. Unlike the first round of kissing this kiss is slow, careful, sensual. Hands that had been harsh and demanding are now gentle in their explorations, caressing uncovered skin with almost reverence. "You think there's shampoo in the bathroom? Your mop needs washing." Punk laughs, running his fingers through Dean's greasy hair.
"In a place like this? There's probably one of those dispensers on the wall with all in one stuff." Dean mutters, nipping at Punk's throat lightly.
"I guess we'll find out, right?" Punk steps away, taking Dean's hand, leading him to the little bathroom. In the room, there's little more than a toilet, sink, and a small shower cubicle, thankfully above the sink there's a shelf with some towels, and affixed to the wall is a dispenser. Punk flicks the shower on, and hangs back, waiting for the water to heat up. Once it's heated up, he drags Dean into the cramped stall with him, wrapping himself around Dean's body, kissing him once more.
"Washing? We gonna be doing any of that?" Dena laughs, squirting a handful of the gel from the dispenser into his hand, and rubbing it into Punk's short hair. Punk snorts, and takes a handful of his own, starting to work it through Dean's tangled, greasy mess of hair. Once they've washed, Punk sinks to his knees in front of Dean, and smirks up at him, taking a hold of his cock. "Punk?"
"What?" He smiles innocently, and laps at Dean's balls, sucking one into his mouth, his hand still slowly jerking Dean's cock.
"I'm not looking to come so soon..." Dean mutters, his hands coming to rest on Punk's head. Punk moves on to Dean's other ball, suckling on it, drawing it down, bathing the sack with his tongue. He's always enjoyed attention to his nuts, but it's not something Dean gets to experience all that often, and whilst there's part of him that wants to draw Punk up, and relocate to the bed, there's a bigger part that's moaning softly as Punk's clever little tongue laps at his sack, and his thin fingers stroke his cock. "Enough." Dean steps as far from Punk as he can, he really will come long before he wants to if he lets this continue.
"Hmm... Later? Later, I'm gonna make you come like that." Punk gets to his feet gracelessly, and kisses Dean. "So, bed?" He smirks. Dean shuts the water off, and opens the cubicle door, snagging a towel from the shelf. He hands it to Punk, and then takes one for himself.
"Yeah, later." Dean dries off quickly, and leads Punk to the bed. Punk flops down on to his back, his legs parting slightly. Dean grabs the lube, and condoms from the bag on the floor, and gets on the bed between Punk's legs, stroking up his shins against the grain of the hair growing there. "You're pretty all laid out like this." Dean mutters, trailing his fingers over Punk's thighs.
"You're really gonna do this all slow?" Punk rolls his eyes as he talks, and arches his back slightly. The ugly floral bedspread's garish colours look jarringly unattractive when compared to the pale skin, and brightly coloured tattoos on Punk's body, but Punk is a far more interesting sight than the linen. His smile is soft and sweet, his eyes hazy and mellow, his cock half-hard, the hair of his groin thick and dark, and Dean runs his fingers through it, tugging lightly on the strands, hearing Punk almost whine.
"Uh-huh... Gonna do this proper." Dean mutters, leaning over Punk, and claiming his mouth with a slow, deep kiss. Punk moans into the kiss, his fingers tangled in Dean's hair, carding through the strands slowly as his hips buck up, rubbing their cocks together.
"Proper? I'm more for getting down and dirty." Punk laughs, as Dean starts nibbling at the skin over his collarbone, his hands still in Dean's hair, nails scratching at his scalp.
"We got two days, Punk... Slow and steady to start." Dean murmurs, worrying a little mark on the side of Punk's neck, lapping over it, and moaning when Punk's hands trail down to his shoulders.
"I could argue the other way... We've got time for your tortoise bullshit later... Be a hare for me?" Punk laughs, and Dean moves down his body, suckling at one of his nipples.
"Aesop's fables do not make for good conversation during sex, Punk." Dean laughs softly, blowing at Punk's peaked nipple.
"Then pick it up." Punk squirms beneath him, and Dean moves up him once more, kissing Punk again, then rolls them over, letting Punk settle on his hips.
"You're an impatient man." Dean rests his hands on Punk's hips, smirking when Punk stares down at him in slight confusion. "You wanna be in charge? Well, here you go, set your own pace."
"My own pace you will object to, and I can be plenty slow when I like." Punk leans down, and nips at one of Dean's nipples. He slowly works his way down Dean's chest, trailing nipping kisses down his stomach, then further to once more start laving at his balls. Dean groans softly, cursing his decision to let Punk control this, because it seems he intends to do nothing but torment Dean.
"You're a monster." Dean moans, his hands on Punk's head, not sure if he wants to pull him up, or guide him to take Dean's cock in his mouth.
"Hmm?" Punk hums with Dean's ball still in his mouth, the vibrations feeling incredibly good.
"Stop... Stop..." Punk hums once more at Dean's words, and Dean flicks his ear, making Punk stop teasing his balls to glare up at Dean. "You're a monster." Dean repeats with smile.
"Don't mess with my ears." Punk rubs the offended flesh lightly, and Dean smirks at him.
"Weak spot?" Dean runs a finger along the shell of Punk's ear, and he ducks away from Dean's touch.
"I don't like it." He frowns, and Dean nods, silently promising to not touch Punk's ears again. If he doesn't like it, there's no point in it, Dean wants this to be a pleasant experience for both of them, he doesn't want something so small to taint it for Punk.
"Alright." Dean reaches out to Punk, a flood of relief filling his gut when Punk rests his cheek against Dean's palm. "You like this though, don't you?" Dean strokes his thumb over Punk's eyebrow, then ghosts it over the bottom of the scar. Punk nods slightly, his eyes falling closed. "Can you feel it when I touch it?" This time Dean traces a finger along the scar, feeling the difference in texture between it and the rest of Punk's forehead.
"A little... It's more like I can feel around it." Punk doesn't open his eyes, and Dean leans up, placing a barely there kiss to the scar. "I can feel it when it hurts, and that's about it."
"Like Harry Potter." Dean laughs, and Punk looks at him a little blankly. Pop culture must have been something Punk had forgotten, and not had time to reclaim. Dean knows of Harry Potter thanks to advertising, and then reading the books in the library. In the winter, Chicago is cold, and libraries are warm with plenty to do, Dean's a big fan of them. "You can read the books." Dean smiles, and Punk shrugs, his expression stating that he has no interest in reading any of them. "Come up here, lemme kiss you." Dean guides Punk to lie over him, kissing him languidly, stroking his hands down Punk's back to cup his ass.
"C'mon, enough stalling." Punk slips from Dean's arms, and lies on his back once more. His hands make a grab for the lube, and he presses the bottle into Dean's hand. Dean takes it, and settles between Punk's thighs. He coats a finger, then meets Punk's eyes.
"You ready?" Dean knows that asking is pointless, but it feels like the right thing to do, and Punk nods at him, his legs spreading a little more. Punk's ass offers little resistance, but it clings to Dean's finger, though that's clearly through experience, rather than lack of use. Punk knows how to work his ass to make it feel good, knows how to tighten his muscles to make himself tighter, that's the lesson he's trying to teach Dean. He's learned how to be a good fuck, and as the muscles of his ass tighten and relax around Dean's finger rhythmically, Dean can't help but envision the feeling around his cock.
"Turn round?" Punk's wearing a slight smirk when Dean looks up at him, and Dean does as he asks, moving to straddle him, his cock in Punk's face. He slips two fingers inside Punk this time, and bites back a moan as Punk's tongue laps tentatively at the head of his cock. The long, spidery fingers that wrap around the shaft rob Dean of his focus, and he has to still his ministrations to Punk's hole whilst he thrusts into the tight grip on his cock. By the end of these two days, Dean's certain he's going to make use of Punk's mouth more than once. He seems to have slight oral fixation, and Dean intends to indulge him, but not now, because now Dean wants to be inside Punk's ass.
"Hey, condom?" Dean look over his shoulder towards Punk. There's a low moan, and Punk lets Dean's cock slip from his mouth.
"You're intent on not letting me suck you off, aren't you?" Punk snaps, but there's a laugh in his voice, and Dean smiles at him, thrusting his fingers against Punk's prostate, wiping the mild annoyance from his expression. Punk grabs the box of condoms from beside him, takes one out, opens it, and slides it down Dean's dick. His moans are quietly breathy as Dean pulls his fingers from inside of him. Dean's sure that Punk would have been ready with half as much prep, but he wants this to feel good, he wants this to be nothing like being fucked by a client. As much as he hates delusions, he wants this to be like being taken for the first time for Punk. He moves, settling between Punk's spread legs, and coats his sheathed cock in lube.
"Hey, Punk..." Dean mutters, drawing Punk's attention to him. Punk's eyes are soft, the green of his irises almost swallowed up by the black of his pupils. "Do you remember your first time?"
"My first time, or my first time?" He asks softly, his eyes half-closed as Dean penetrates him. Even with the time rubber separating them, Punk's heat, the feeling of his tight body is almost too much, and Dean stills with just the tip of his cock inside.
"Your first time." Dean stresses the your, he already knows that Phil's first time will be a mystery, everything of who Punk was is. "Was it good? Did they look after you?"
"No." Punk shakes his head, his eyes fully closing. "It... It wasn't good." His voice is soft, and Dean kisses his temple easing a little deeper into him.
"Neither was mine." Dean whispers into his ear, and sinks into Punk fully. Punk moans beneath him, and Dean lifts his face from where it was pressed against the side of Punk's neck.
"I'm sorry." Punk sounds so earnest, and Dean laughs softly. He'd long ago accepted his introduction to sex. In his childhood, he'd watched his mother sell it, and even then, even at an age so low he could count it on his fingers, Dena had known that one day he'd be like his mother. He'd always know that one day he'd be negotiating with the one thing he'd always be able to barter with, his body. The first time though, he'd received no monetary compensation for his pain, his mother had gotten a fix for the next few days, but all Dean had gotten was a sore ass and a limp. "I..."
"I'll tell you the story, but not today." Dean withdraws a little, rocking back in slowly, repeating the shallow movements, unwilling to draw out of Punk too far. It's a delusion, but joined like this, Dean feels connected to Punk, more than just physically, but emotionally too. "Today is about us, who we are. What happened isn't important, right now all that matters is what's happening." Dean smiles, and Punk nods, his back arching, his hips moving with Dean's.
"Hmm..." Punk smiles at him, and draws Dean down for a slow kiss, one that matches the gentle rhythm of their hips, a kiss that builds as the speed of Dean's thrusts do. The kiss lasts until Dean pulls back, shifting slightly to put more power and speed behind his hips, taking Punk more forcefully, claiming him. Each movement is a declaration of ownership in Dean's mind, and the way Punk moves and arches into each thrust is an acceptance of Dean's stake of claiming. "Out." Punk says suddenly, and Dean withdraws from his body, watching as Punk turns to rest on his knees and elbows. He turns to look at Dean over his shoulder, a coy little smirk on his lips. "Fuck me." Dean slides back into Punk, and takes a firm grasp of his hips, fucking him as he had ordered, pounding down into Punk's clenching hole, drawing gasping moans from him.
"Don't wanna come like this." Dean mutters, against Punk's shoulder, nipping at the skin. "Wanna see your face." Punk huffs slightly, his hand has been working his cock for a good long while, and Dean thinks he's close.
"Alright... "Dean withdraws once more, and Punk turns to lie on his back again. Dean's quickly between his legs once more, but this time Punk rests them on Dean's shoulders, letting Dean all but fold him in half, his cock trapped between their stomachs.
"You gonna be able to get off like this?" Dean asks, but Punk doesn't answer. His pupils are blown wide, his mouth hanging open, panting breathy moans are all he seems capable of offering Dean as a response. "I'll take that as a yes." Dean smirks, and presses closer, fucking Punk harder, deeper, driving his cock into Punk's ass with practiced skill. Punk's hand squirms between them, stroking his cock in time with Dean's unruly thrusts. The rhythm Dean had once had is lost to the need to come; the need for completion outweighs finesse. Punk comes first, with a sharp little moan. If he articulated anything in particular Dean isn't sure, because all he can focus on is the churning need in his balls, and the tight warmth of Punk's body. When he comes Dean's quiet out of habit, his face pressed against Punk's neck, hearing his breath still panted as he comes down from his orgasm. A lazy smile finds its way to Dean's lips as he pulls out of Punk, carefully removing the condom, and tossing it into the trash. Dean lies on his back regarding the ceiling, feeling Punk's presence beside him, not entirely sure what to do, but enjoying the pleasant silence between them.
"You think the TV works?" Punk's voice jars Dean from his daze, and he turns to look at him. Punk looks sweaty and tired, his cheeks flushed, his lips twisted in a content smile.
"No idea." Dean offers, sitting up against the pillows, and reaching for the remote. Punk slips off the bed on weak legs, and plugs the set in, switching the power on. He snags the bag of food on the way past, and picks out the melted ice cream. He tosses two spoons from beside the kettle and free packet coffee to Dean, then curls up beside him. "Hey... Look at that." Dean laughs, and Punk looks up from carefully opening the ice cream. "Harry Potter's on." Dean wraps an arm around Punk's shoulders, and they settle down to watch the movie.
The rest of the day, they watch TV, and make love again. It's more, and more like love making, slower, more sensuous, not something Dean's ever experienced, and if Punk ever has it doesn't show. He's sweetly clingy when he's just come, and Dean finds he enjoys petting Punk's hair in a post-orgasmic bliss far more than he'd expected. That night when they fall asleep, it's in just that the comfortable bliss of having come with someone you love, their bodies tired but satisfied, and the scent of sex clinging to the air.
"Hey." Punk's voice is the first thing Dean hears in the morning. He's sitting on the flimsy wooden chair near the window, sipping at the contents of a cup. The curtains are closed, but they merely tint the light streaming through a sickly shade of yellow, letting shadows cling to Punk's face.
"Morning." Dean sits up, and runs a hand back through his hair. He looks Punk over carefully, trying to work out his mood based on his appearance. One of the blankets from the bed is wrapped around him like a shambolic toga; his bare toes are lazily wriggling every so often. He looks relaxed, tranquil, and Dean's happy about that. Yesterday had been good, something he wants again, something he wants far more often than he can have it, but they've this room for today as well, and whilst it might be lazy to take another day out of their reality to live in this little delusion, Dean intends to indulge in it fully.
"Yeah, morning." Punk slips off the chair, and clambers on to the bed with Dean, his hand curving around his face, resting their foreheads together. "You sleep okay?"
"Like the dead." Dean murmurs, his eyes drifting closed. This moment isn't real. Once they leave this little room they'll be back on the streets, back in the world of the homeless, back to reality, but in this moment Dean can pretend that this is his scurrier home, that the hot water supply is his, that slightly too soft mattress beneath him is his, that the ugly curtains are drawn over his window.
"Hmm... Good." Punk kisses him softly, letting Dean take control of it easily. Everything in this dingy motel room is only pretend, none of the things in it are Dean's, he knows that. Any concept of ownership over anything but Punk is illusory, because Punk is his, because he is Punk's, and that the one thing he doesn't need to pretend, that is a cold hard fact.
All done here. Thank you very much for the kind words ladies and gentlemen:
Lucien Raven Jacobs, AshJovillette, VKxXx92, littleone1389, and Moiself.
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