A/N: Thank you for all the kind reviews, and, as ever, to those of you who've been reading this. Something of an interlude, I suppose you'd say. It's a little stream-of-conscious and rambly. Blame Dean. I just wanted to write straight-up smut. He had other ideas. Jerk. We'll call this the calm before the storm. Enjoy.
V. Inside-Out
What. The fuck. Is wrong with you?
Where Regal was concerned, it was a question Dean had been asking himself since, like, day fucking one.
Like, he always fucking hated the way his - fuckin' slut - mother threw herself at guys, desperate to hold onto the assholes who pimped her out and beat her and just out-and-out used her because she'd take being treated like garbage over being alone.
He hated her for that.
Most especially he hated the way she kept running after the guys who didn't want her.
In his less guarded moments (mostly when he was drunk), Dean could see similarities and he hated that, too.
Even down to that sick fuckin' thing he sometimes heard her say: "He wants me. I know he does."
But Dean couldn't get away from it.
Regal was just a fucking fishhook in Dean's brain, and had been from the start - something that just lodged in and wouldn't fucking let go.
Kept reeling him in just when he thought he'd gotten past it.
And it was fucking stupid.
Okay, at first, it was kinda funny - hilarious, actually - how Regal seemed to blow his load every time Dean came out to wrestle, and how Regal got off on the fucked up shit Dean said or did.
Dean kinda liked that.
Most people tended to look at him like Dusty Rhodes did: mingled distrust and dislike and kind of grudging respect.
Not Regal, though; guy always half looked like he wanted to jump in and join the fun, the so-called villain in him itching for a chance to get out and be bad again.
And, yeah, there was the other half, that looked and sounded like it just wanted to jump Dean period.
Either of which Dean was cool with, because, hey, why not, right?
But instead of just fucking doing it, the asshole had to get weird about it and start with all the mind-fucking and acting like he suddenly didn't approve - bull fucking shit, if Dean ever saw it - and that was when Regal became this bad fucking song Dean absolutely could not get out of his head no matter what he did.
That fucking fishhook set deep, reeling and reeling.
Because they were the fucking same in some ways - not every way, but in a lot of ways Dean had never really had in common with many people, like how they both kinda got off on twisting people around - and they wanted the same fucking thing and...and...
If...
If...
And, yeah, yeah, okay, Dean felt a little fucking disgusted with himself - The fucking fuck is wrong with you, throwing yourself at the guy like some slut? - sometimes down in Florida because he didn't fucking need people the way his fucking slut mother did, but Regal fucking wanted him, right? Didn't he? They had something, didn't they? Like Regal had something Dean wanted - needed? - and why did Regal have to be such a fucking dick about it?
Why did he have to make Dean feel like-
I'm not.
I'm not, dammit. He wants me, I know he does.
(What. The fuck. Is wrong with you?)
Regal fucking wanted him and maybe, yeah - no, definitely - Dean just wanted to hear the asshole admit it, just once, just fucking come out and admit that yes, yes, he did fucking too want it.
That he saw the same fucking thing Dean did.
Sick fucking obsession, and he knew it, but it was a stuck fucking fishhook and it mattered.
No matter how much he tried to tell himself otherwise, even after he tried to fucking get away from it by losing himself in Seth and something that was weirdly almost like normal, it still fucking mattered.
Because even when Regal was backing away from him, there was still something in his eyes that said he fucking got it, got what it was like when you were trying to be less fucked up than you were even though you knew deep down at some point you were going to fuck up because something in you wouldn't just bow down and accept anything like normal and nice - boring - for long.
The urge to get in there and tear shit apart and cause havoc and be hated was just too fucking strong sometimes.
For Dean, at least.
Because it was easier and more fun and who the fuck needed normal, anyway, right?
Normal was for guys like Seth and Roman, guys who, even if they had some edges like Seth's painslut exhibitonist self sometimes did, could get along and be happy being liked and not have those urged to just fuck shit up and not have to feel like they were just waiting for the fucking guillotine blade to drop and be-fucking-head whatever illusions they'd managed to build for themselves about how maybe - just maybe - maybe they weren't as fucked up as they thought they were; maybe they didn't need to fight all the time; and maybe, just maybe, a guy like Seth saw something in them that not even Regal did.
It was for guys who gave a shit about about things like love and that kinda heartsy-fartsy shit that didn't leave 'em feeling like something had been rip-
No, no.
No.
It's fucking fine.
You knew. You knew it was coming.
Because normal and not-normal could only play together for so long in the sandbox before shit went sideways. He knew that. He'd always known it was coming. Like oil and water, and he knew - he fucking knew - because even if Roman pretended like he wanted both Seth and Dean, he'd only ever really wanted Seth. Like he put up with Dean out of respect for what Seth wanted, but yeah, old Rome was definitely just biding his fucking time.
Which that - no, nope. Nope.
Didn't even matter anyway - not a bit 'cuz Dean only ever cared about getting his rocks off, anyway.
Just that.
So what if he never fucked around on Seth - or Seth and Roman? He totally could've. Just - why would he when they were right fucking there and Seth especially was already ready to go? He wasn't, like, trying to be good like that; it just kinda worked out that way.
Not that it really counted for anything.
Not that it-
It didn't matter.
Who fucking cared?
Over and fucking done.
And that was maybe the biggest difference between him and his mother: he wouldn't fucking beg those two for another chance.
Over and done and back to banging sluts, and he was fine with that - totally.
Besides which, even in the middle of all that, even when he was having fun with Seth (and Roman, sometimes, 'cuz he could be fun when he wasn't being, like, fucking territorial about Seth), that fucking fishhook was still fucking there.
Regal.
Even after the dust had settled, even with Seth and Roman there to kinda fill up the void spot where all that so-called obsession or whatever used to live, that goddamn fishhook still - still - had Dean reeling around to look at the guy backstage every fucking time.
Always brought the old shit back, too - the shit he swore to Christ he was done thinking about.
But.
Buuuut:
Regal never fucking said it.
Never fucking owned up to fucking anything about anything where Dean was concerned.
And even though Dean beat him in their match - and he had, no matter what the official decision was - there was that fucking little fact and the other fact Dean still, after fucking everything, not only wanted to hear the bastard admit it, but still fucking wanted it himself - What the fuck is wrong with you? - which...
But he didn't fucking say it this time, was the thing.
Okay, in the first place, it was weird as fuck, waking up in Regal's bed, especially now, after all the shit they'd put each other through, and, like, yeah, Dean was super glad Regal had been asleep when Dean woke up because how fucking awkward would it have been to get caught, like, half laying on Regal like he had been?
Must've moved in his sleep or something 'cuz he sure as fuck hadn't been that close when he'd fallen asleep.
But there'd been a bad dream or two in there - fucking Wyatt - or something.
Like the one that fucking woke him up in the first place, which-
Fuck fucking Wyatt in his fucking ass. See how he fuckin' likes it.
By the time Regal got up, Dean had moved back over to his own side of the bed.
Tired of chasing his thoughts in fucking circles - tended be a thing when he didn't drink the night before - Dean had opened his eyes so Regal'd be able to see he was awake.
It was still pretty early, but the sun was up now.
He waited.
When Regal got back into bed, Dean just - he reached over.
Last night, he'd been too fucking exhausted and sore after the near-miss with Wyatt and...all that other shit to want to put up with another rejection, but it was a new day now, right?
No time like the fucking present to get the door slammed in his face again.
Why fucking not?
What was left to lose at this point?
Regal in the morning was a puffy-eyed, bed-headed shadow of his normally well-dressed self, especially wearing a baggy old blue tee shirt and shorts and with a bright red blanket seam across his cheek, but even with Regal like half asleep, the way he looked at Dean made him feel he was a frog pinned to a dissecting tray.
You don't fucking know me, part of him wanted to snap, just as the rest of him was thinking, You still fucking want me and you fucking know it.
But he didn't say it this time.
He just dragged the backs of his ragged, bitten fingernails along Regal's forearm - slowly, not hard enough to scratch, but not soft.
Just, like, enough to get Regal's attention.
And he waited.
It was quiet for a while, real quiet, and too warm under the covers, but Dean stayed put - kept his hand moving.
That fucking fishhook again, and, yep, fucking thing had him reeled all the way in again.
He waited for the 'no' to drop like a wall between them, for Regal's expression - really fucking thoughtful all of a sudden - to close down, for Regal to push his hand away.
Because he would.
He always did.
Even though-
The mattress dipped suddenly as Regal sat up, springs squeaking quietly under him, and reached down to-
...huh.
Regal's shirt hit the floor somewhere, but Dean was too busy being surprised by the implications or whatever of Regal actually taking the fucking shirt off in the first place to really pay attention to where.
'Cuz, yeah, shirt off - just like Dean, who'd never put one on for bed in the first place.
Regal flicked his hair off his face and tossed the blanket back off him, and then moved across the bed to straddle Dean's hips, effectively pinning Dean down.
Dean swallowed. Licked his lips. Smiled, just a little, even though throat felt fucking dry as a bone.
He could feel his pulse pounding all the way down in his fucking fingertips as Regal looked down at him.
This - okay, this didn't really seem very much like 'no.'
In fact it looked like kind of the opposite of 'no,' and Dean...
...really didn't know what he thought about that.
No fucking clue what Regal was thinking - not that was a huge surprise - until he leaned over, hands going to Dean's shoulders, mouth hovering an inch from Dean's ear.
"I want you, too," Regal said.
But of course he didn't give Dean much of a chance to savor that fucking victory, because Dean'd no more than started to smile when Regal kissed him, hard and fast.
Like he was trying to wipe the smirk off Dean's face or something.
Probably was.
It was a bad angle at first and they managed to clack teeth, but one of them - Regal, probably - moved and things lined up and, yeah, oh yeah, yeah, it was happening.
Regal's hands settled on Dean's shoulders.
Dean's own hands wandered away and he kinda lost track of them but he completely didn't care because, well, kissing, and, like, yeah, they both fucking knew what they were doing on that score, and then Regal fucking moved, and there was some really good friction on Dean's dick, which was still trapped inside his shorts, and Dean might've made some kind of sound that was, like, totally just a choked-off "fuck" and so not like a moan or anything.
Regal laughed quietly against Dean's mouth and pulled back enough to murmur, "Really are an eager young thing, aren't you?"
Which hit Dean just the wrong way - I'm not, dammit; I'm not - for some reason, and he fucking tensed, pulling away as much as he could given he was on his back with Regal pretty much pinning him down, reaching up to plant both hands in the middle of Regal's chest.
Without missing a fucking beat, Regal sat up and grabbed hold of both of Dean's wrists, tightly. Before Dean could even think about yanking himself free, his hands were fucking trapped on either side of his head - right on the pillow. Regal leaned forward over them, pushing down enough to keep them from moving.
He was a big dude, Regal - a little taller and broader and a fair bit heavier than Dean - but this was the first time Dean actually, like, felt that.
During their matches, He'd been too busy trying to fight his way out of those hugely painful holds to notice, but he sure did now.
If Dean'd fought back he probably could've gotten out, but, like, all the blood kinda seemed to rush out of his head all at once. Made him feel almost dizzy, like something fucking short-circuited in his brain.
But his dick, Jesus fuck, man, that thing jumped, and he shifted to get away, or at least to kinda hide that little development, because holy fuck no.
No way.
"Let go," he said.
"No," Regal said sharply. His face hovered above Dean's like some huge runaway moon, one with deep frown-lines carved into it. "Hold bloody still."
Dean stopped moving, all at once, just fucking froze either because of the words or the tone or...or...
Regal squeezed a little harder. Bone ground on bone, and Dean gasped because even though it fucking hurt, it made his fucking dick jump again.
He swore to God he saw Regal smile, but Regal sounded serious when he said, "You weren't wrong, you know. We want the same thing. We might not agree how to get there, but we'll manage. But we want the same thing. D'you remember that?"
We want the same fuckin' thing!
But this?
This was…this…was...wasn't...
Fuck, it was hard to think like this when all he really had in his head was how, like, good it felt having Regal kinda moving on him again right now, even with his wrists kind of hurting-
Oh.
Right. So - yeah. Okay. They did, didn't they?
Words weren't a thing he felt capable of making, so he just nodded.
"D'you want this, then, or not?" Regal asked.
Dean nodded again.
This. Yes. More.
"Then relax," Regal said. There was audible strain in his voice. Tendons stood out on both wrists. "Feel free to have any laugh at my expense you like. I'm sure you'll want to - a wee bit of one." He let go with one hand free and held his forefinger and thumb up about about an inch apart. "A very small laugh. D'you see?"
Snorting, Dean nodded once more.
Regal clamped down on Dean's wrist again. This time Dean had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep quiet, and shit he needed Regal to fucking move or something, but Regal just grinned and Dean really wanted to punch him in the face for that, for being such a smug fucking prick, but…
...but his hands were kinda tied - which, it was kinda weird how it didn't bother him, considering-
No, no, oh fuck no. Don't. Not now.
It didn't bother him now, was the thing, and-
Fuck it.
"So you gonna, like, just sit there or what?" he finally managed. He sounded croaky and rough, like he'd smoked a few too many cigarettes, but it was better than laying there nodding. "Mean, like, it's cool and all to hear you tell me I was right - which I fuckin' knew all along, by the way - but, like, y'know, you could start, like, makin' little jokes with that little- mmph."
Regal'd shut him up by kissing him again, somehow managing to do it while still pinning Dean's wrists down.
And they both kinda laughed, Dean feeling weirdly relieved and suddenly kinda wild like something had just fucking let go in his head, and Regal just laughing because he was Regal and Regal was an asshole.
After that, everything just kinda fucking melted away into a meaningless smear of background static - Seth, Roman, Wyatt, everything, all of it just quiet for a change - and that was probably the best fucking part of all.
xXx
First time in his life he'd ever willingly let somebody fuck him.
Not that he said that, of course, because it really didn't matter.
But there was that.
He'd been close to doing it - right on the verge of telling Roman to do it more times than he could count - but never could bring himself to spit the words out, not even drunk, not the way he always could to Regal stone fucking sober.
Now, now it was Dean on his back with his knees wide and bent up against his chest, hands together and pinned down over his head at the wrist by one of Regal's. Regal's other hand was down on Dean's cock, working it over in earnest - not fucking around with him the way he had been for, like, at least half an hour.
Now it was Regal's not-so-small laugh buried in all the way - balls fuckin' deep, Seth would say - and Dean feeling stretched and fucking full.
Enough of both he was kinda glad Regal wasn't moving yet.
Regal'd spent what felt like a fucking week driving Dean absolutely nuts with just a couple fingers and a too-loose hand - which, in fairness, Dean probably had coming, considering he'd spent a good bit of time working Regal into a lather with the same slow-and-sloppy-as-fuck kind of blowjob he'd give Seth and Roman when he felt like winding them up.
Eventually, Regal'd pushed him off, gently, and panted, "Should've known you'd be good at that. That wicked mouth of yours…"
Dean had smirked as he'd wiped the snotty spit off his chin. "Told you two fuckin' years ago all you had to do was make a move."
"Oh, hush, you rotten bastard," Regal'd said lazily. His eyes were half-lidded, glazed over, and kind of hard to get a read on. Did kinda smile, though, as Dean moved over. "Effective way to stop you talking, at least. I'll have to keep that in mind. Now lie back and let's finish this properly, shall we?"
Which led them to this point, where Dean was completely fucking trapped - bent in fucking half (which made the bruise on his side kind of throb, but he ignored that), pinned down, and being fucking smashed into the bed - and absolutely not giving a shit because then Regal moved and it was too fucking much and not enough and he didn't even fucking know what to focus on: the smooth slide of Regal's cock, the tight-slick heat of Regal's hand around his own dick, or the pressure of everything holding him down.
At some point, he just closed his eyes and gave up.
Just flat fucking quit trying to make sense of it all and quit trying to pretend he didn't want it like this and quit trying to be fucking quiet about it.
Let it all go.
It was good, was what it was.
It felt good.
Really, really fucking good.
He came - finally - with his teeth grit tight against a string of f-bombs and what kind of like a bomb going off in his nuts right about the time Regal let go of Dean's hands and shifted to start pounding into him in earnest, the flat slap of skin on skin and the creak of the mattress and the near teeth-rattling rocking reaching a ridiculous fucking fever pitch there at the end.
About all Dean could do was, like, ride it out.
Didn't take long, though.
Regal came with his face buried against the side of Dean's neck, a sound that was mostly vowels muffled there.
For a few seconds, they kind of stayed like that, both of them sweating like hell and reeking like sex and sticky with Dean's come smeared between them and breathing like they'd run a fucking marathon.
Considering how long they'd been dancing around this shit, kinda felt like they had.
He swore to God he had a whole hive of bees buzzing under his skin - just this weird head-to-toe buzzy-tingly shit going on, which was as weird as it was good, and-
Yeah.
That.
Good.
Wrecked as he felt, Dean didn't have the energy to do much more than let his legs flop back out straight as Regal slid himself out and slumped off to one side and went, like, into an almost fetal position - looking every bit as fucking wrecked.
Which was a way more satisfying feeling than it should've been, probably.
Dean was maybe kind of an asshole, too, so yeah, maybe he laughed as he threw an arm over his eyes.
"What?" Regal slurred at him.
"Told you I'd blow your mind."
Regal reached over and twisted one of Dean's nipples hard enough to make Dean yelp. "Brat."
"C'mon, Regal," Dean wheeled, slapping the hand away. "Say it. Say I was right."
"Such a bloody child," Regal muttered. He rolled his eyes, but the corners of his mouth twitched. "I never said you were wrong about that in the first place. But if it'll shut you up, then yes, you were right." One hand stole out and traced around the edge of some of the come on Dean's stomach. "Made a right mess of you, didn't we?"
"Good kind of mess, though," Dean said through a yawn.
"Mm-hmm." Regal raised himself up on an elbow and bent down to kiss Dean again, slow and lazy, and, like, different from how it had been earlier - softer and no tongues or anything, just an easy kiss. The hand that had been down on Dean's stomach wandered up to his cheek and Dean heard the quiet rasp of fingertips on stubble, a touch as light as the kiss.
It was - it - yeah, it was good, but it almost felt like too much.
This slow and easy shit, it was what Seth and Roman liked, but it always made Dean feel weird as fuck - all flipped inside-out and shit and fucking squirmy and like he just wanted to get away and put some space between him and them 'cuz it was just too fucking much and he didn't want it - not that.
He didn't.
This was that times, like, ten, which - no, no, no, fuck no.
Not Regal.
Fishhook was deep enough as it was without adding that fucking barb.
But Dean didn't want to be an asshole and, like, ruin what had been a pretty good morning so far (fucking shit, he'd finally got Regal to admit he wanted this and they'd fucking done it - how crazy was that?), so he, like, just waited it out, moving with Regal but not, like, trying to encourage him or anything.
Regal finally moved off and stretched out on his back.
Dean sat up, mumbling, "I'm gonna go, uh, clean up. Go hit the gym for a while."
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Regal give him an odd look - frowning and shit, but all Regal said was, "Wouldn't have thought you'd need a workout after that, but off you go then."
"Huh, yeah," Dean said, standing.
Didn't disagree with that 'cuz a shower and a nap would've been nice, but a trip down to the gym would at least give him a chance to, like, get out of the fuckin' flippy-weird-buzzy place his head was in right now.
What the fuck is wrong with you?
xXx
As he stood under the shower's hot spray washing his own come off his chest, Dean just shook his head.
Despite all the gunk in his head, he felt like he'd just…
Yeah, like he'd just gotten fucking laid.
Ha.
Which, hey big shocker - he'd fucking told Regal it'd be good - but, yeah, it was good enough the part of him that wasn't cringing away from what just happened was already demanding another go 'round, and he swiped the soap bar across his chest, annoyed, because he'd half-hoped that once sex did happen all this would be out of his system.
What a fuckin' joke.
Ha fucking ha.
Like some fucking little kid running around screaming, "Again! Again!" after he'd gotten to ride a big kid's ride for the first time, and, yeah: What the fuck, man? What is wrong with you?
He couldn't decide which one would be worse:
If Regal didn't want to do it again.
Or if he did.
xXx
The workout mellowed him out.
By the time he finished that, and had another shower and a shave, it was about time to leave.
When Dean walked out of the bathroom fully dressed in a plain black tee shirt and jeans, Regal looked over from the bed, where he'd been laying back while he watched TV. Once again, Dean had no idea what Regal was thinking, but man, those eyes were fucking sharp - clear and pale like fucking scalpel blades, and Dean couldn't shake that frog-on-a-dissecting-tray feeling for the life of him.
He had to look away.
"When d'you fly out?" Regal asked.
Dean squatted down over his suitcase and shoved shit around inside it, mostly to give his hands something to do. "Uh, tomorrow," he said, giving himself a quick mental shake. "Like eight, I think."
They had SmackDown tonight, and then a couple days off - Dean flying back to Vegas, and Regal flying off to wherever the fuck he went when he wasn't with the main roster.
"My flight's at seven tomorrow," Regal finally said. "I've, ah, I've got the room for tonight, too. If you wanted to stay again, you could leave your things here."
Dean glanced over, hands freezing in the act of moving some shirts around.
"If you wanted," Regal reiterated, meeting and holding Dean's gaze.
That didn't sound like a 'no,' either - not that Dean had even asked the question.
Sounded a lot like an invitation, actually.
Maybe he should have said no - probably should have - but he found didn't really have it in him to, not even with the weird flippy-buzzy shit hovering in the background. He was on the line, reeled all the way the fuck in, and Regal was back the fuck in his head again.
He should have said no.
But what he did instead was smirk and dig up all the false cockiness he could muster. "So, guess you couldn't get enough of me, huh? Well, don't feel bad. A lot of people have that problem."
Regal tucked an arm behind his head, and matched him smirk for smirk. "Actually, I'm taking bets with myself how fast I can have you begging."
And oh holy shit, those words made that part of Dean that remember what it felt like being pinned down fucking shiver, but he scoffed anyway. "Yeah? What's the over-under on 'never in a million fucking years.'"
"Oh, I think I can do a bit better than that," Regal said. He sounded like he was about to laugh. "On that score, you're not as unpredictable as you might think. It'll happen."
Dean shook his head. "No fuckin' way."
No way he was gonna let Regal hear him beg.
"I suppose we'll see, sunshine."
"Guess we will, old man."
Game fucking on.
Regal actually did laugh, this low and delighted sound. "I think you'll find this old man still has a few tricks up his sleeve, dear boy. Didn't our matches teach you anything?"
Dean made a show of eyeing him doubtfully. "I just don't want you to, like, break a hip trying to impress me or something. 'Cuz, you know, at your age, you kinda gotta watch that..."
"Break a…! Did you just…?" Regal spluttered. Actually spluttered, which made Dean laugh so hard he nearly pissed himself. "Break a bloody hip. I still put a hitch in your step, didn't I? Feeling a bit sore, are you?"
"From my workout," Dean said, still snickering. He finished zipping up his suitcase "The gym workout."
Totally lying because he was sore in places that never got sore from gym workouts, but wild fucking horses weren't gonna get that one out of him.
"Right," Regal said. "Just the gym workout, then."
"It was," Dean insisted, standing. "Totally."
Regal stood, too, and stepped closer. "S'pose you're going to try to claim you never felt a thing, aren't you?"
"Well, I mean, it felt good but it, like, tickled more than anything," Dean said, shrugging. He backed up a couple steps, not realizing until he hit the wall behind him that he was kinda trapped between the two dressers on either side of him, the wall, and Regal in front of him.
Well, that was just dumb.
Regal - who somehow looked smaller in his suit than he had naked - moved in and settled a hand on the wall by Dean's head. The other hand found its way to Dean's chin, tipping it aside. "Looks like these are fading."
But of course Regal was Regal, and Regal was an asshole, so of fucking course he had to suck another hickey probably right over where an old one was.
He actually bit down and hard enough that Dean sucked a sharp breath and tried to pull away. "Ow. Jesus. Cut that out, ya fuckin' vampire."
"Bet that didn't tickle," Regal said quietly, the words a warm rush of air against the side of Dean's neck.
"Yeah, no fuckin' shit it-dmm."
Regal kissed him again, cutting off the rest of whatever Dean was going to say - same soft kiss as before, but just for a second, just to start, because Dean growled into it, and Regal huffed and then it got pretty hot and heavy, all tongues and teeth and some over-the-clothes groping going on at the same time.
Which was okay.
It was fine.
Dean could handle this.
As long as it was just sex and not - not that soft shit, he was okay.
He was all over it.
And - fuck, Regal was a good kisser - not sloppy about it, but like knew what he was fucking doing with his tongue and shit, and Dean suddenly wished they had another hour.
They didn't, though, and of course Regal would fucking remember that - such an asshole - and back off all at once, just bam - not-there when he'd fucking been there, a loss of sensation that was actually unexpected and kinda startling, and Dean opened his eyes to find Regal, like, halfway across the room already.
Looked kind of flushed, too, as he picked his duffel bag up off the bed, so there was that, at least.
Something real heated, too, in the look he shot Dean over his shoulder. "Ready?"
We want the same thing.
("Just taking bets with myself how fast I can make you beg.")
They did, didn't they?
So what was fucking wrong with that?
Not a fucking thing, that's what.
Dean hoisted his own bag, nodded, shoved his shades on, and said, "Rock and roll."
xXx
Reality, of course, would give him a real cold slap across the face soon enough, but for now - for now, anyway - yeah.
It was okay.
xXx
A/N: Rambly, like I said, and now plot will happen. Thanks for reading.