Dean is ascending the stairs, all nervous shuffles as he the weight of the small silver key in his pocket seems to drag down his feet. He's palming and rubbing that costly leather collar with the hand that isn't clutching the railing for dear fucking life.
"C'mon, Ambrose…get it together." He mutters to himself, taking in shivering breathes as he snaps the collar on, zipping his hoodie up fully to obscure it. Dean stops after the first flight of winding steps, greeting by a massive cherry wood door with a small lock on it. "Better get your goddamn money's worth." He huffs out, before fumbling with the lock a bit, the tiny key a perfect fit.
The room is hazy, nearly smoky, despite the fact no cigars or cigarettes are allowed in main rooms. Maybe it's just the essence of pure sweat and sex that's thrumming through the massive hall. It's like a ballroom, with high ceilings and chandeliers, black walls with elegant silver paintings, black leather furniture and black tiled floor with silver speckled in. Dean supposes that's fitting and matches the silver outlines gracing the walls.
He's so lost in taking in the long, open hallway that he nearly jumps out of his skin when two massive assistants, one with tan skin and long brown hair and another with an orange Mohawk. The stout one with brown hair smiles at him.
"Enjoy your stay, Prince." A heavy accent informs him.
There's another door at the end of this hallway and as he creeps down it, there's a thumping beat the slowly grows and grows until he can practically make out the lyrics of a sinfully sexual song and he's pretty sure his heart is in his throat and his stomach is in his ass.
This door isn't locked and Dean hesitantly lays his hand against it, feeling the vibration of music and the murmur of voices. It's now or never and he puffs his chest up, sliding the dark oak open.
There's bodies, everywhere. Men. Women. Androgynous. Unknown. Clad in anything from lace to leather to latex and it takes the Ohioan a staggering breath to move forward. Everyone is dressed to the nines, for sure, clearly having experience and prepared for their own fun.
No one is really fucking, he supposes that's what the private rooms are for, but they sure as fuck are mingling. A guy in his mid-40s that reminds Dean vaguely of Gordon Ramsay but cooler hands the leash of a Billy Rae Cyrus kinda guy to a woman with brown, curling locks and a skintight black latex dress, flashing a black wristband that says 'Stephanie' in gold. She's snickering at something the Ramsay lookalike says before she catches Dean's gaze, shooting him a small look that causes him to stare down, trying to rush towards the bar.
A petite blond bumps into Dean on the way there, a collar with 'Renee' in red on it as her eyes bulge and sparkle in it. "Well, uh, hi there…" She says rather nervously and Dean licks his bottom lip nervously, noticing the glint in her eye before he unzips his hoodie a couple inches, revealing his own collar. "…oh, uh…nevermind." The blond scampers off, waving to a tall male off in the distance and Dean sighs. The guy shoots him a look back, similar to what 'Stephanie' gave him and it screamed loud and clear…'you don't belong here'.
"What AM I even doin' here?" He huffs as he slides onto a stool in front of the bar. It's slick and cool, the counter some type of marble and there's a black light against the back of it, illuminating the array of expensive liquor and drinks, some shit Dean couldn't pronounce even if he wanted to try.
"What can I get you, hombre?" Another thick accent, this one Hispanic as a man with a devilish grin, fitting button down with sleeved rolled up to his elbows turns around, and gelled back hair is cleaning out a long glass.
"Uh, whiskey…"
"What brand?"
"Cheapest-…er…the strongest shit you got?" It's more of a question than a statement, but the bartender swings around in understanding to complete the order. "At least the booze is included…" He mutter to himself, rubbing at his floppy mess of sandy brown locks, before gawking at the sight of a monster of a man. Guy had to be over 300 lbs., looked like a UFC fighter or something but here he is, kissing and sucking the neck of a heavier, balding man like his life depended on it.
Yeah, at least the booze was included, cause there was no way Dean would get what he wanted. He just didn't belong. These people around him, the writhing and chuckling and flirting and expensive sexy gear…all taking and giving in equal measures as Dean nurses a bottle of whiskey that costs more than his entire outfit. He could honest to god die right now. What had he been thinking? "The Kingdom has no place for a pauper." Dean mutters to himself bitterly.