Chapter Text
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“Can I buy you a drink?”
Castiel startles, having been too caught up in his most recent struggles to have heard the man approach. Turning, he’s greeted by impossibly green eyes, artfully tousled, sandy brown hair, and the prettiest lips he’s ever seen on a grown man. He finds his eyes darting to the man’s exposed forearm, trying to tamp down the flare of disappointment when all he finds is a strip of black fabric tape.
“KT tape,” the beautiful stranger supplies, clearly having tracked Castiel’s gaze.
Castiel feels his cheeks heat in embarrassment at being caught – especially here of all places.
“Stays better, doesn’t usually come off with sweat the way normal medical tape does. Plus it means no bulky gauze pad.” Castiel’s mind goes to his own arm, clumsily covered with exactly that. He can feel the way the gauze catches on the inside of his dress shirt, and suppresses a shudder. “Makes it perfect for this place.”
Castiel’s companion waggles his eyebrows as if Castiel didn’t know the sole purpose of The Banked Flame. People came here for anonymous sex only – all soulmarks had to be covered. Rolling his eyes, Castiel turns back to the bar top and the soggy coaster that he’s been slowly pulling apart. The man is certainly pretty enough for Castiel, but he prefers a little more…substance in his hookups.
“So, what about that drink?” Green Eyes asks, nudging Castiel with his elbow.
Out of the corner of his eye, Castiel can tell that the persistent gentleman isn’t looking at him anymore; he sees the way his jaw tics as if he’s bracing himself for rejection. Involuntarily, Castiel finds himself turning to get a better look, eyes following the jut of that jawline to the corded muscles of the man’s neck. Peeking out from the collar of his henley is the suggestion of a tattoo. Suddenly, he’s a little more interesting.
“Whiskey, on the rocks,” Castiel tells the bartender that’s just walked up. He doesn’t look away to see who it is. If it’s Charlie, she’ll scold him, but he thinks he’ll be forgiven. He nods in the green-eyed god’s direction. “On him.”
Castiel’s blatant staring is rewarded when he gets to see the crinkles forming in the corners of his prospect’s eyes as his lips curve. The full wattage of that smile gets set upon Castiel, and he’s blinded momentarily by how beautiful it makes his new friend. Attraction has never been something Castiel has struggled with; he’s turned on by any number of different people and bodies, but there’s something about this one – something Castiel can’t put his finger on.
He’s relieved of trying when their drinks arrive. His companion downs more than half of his in one go, while Castiel savors his. All the ‘tenders here know Castiel will only drink top shelf, and that’s clearly what they’ve given him. He wonders if that’s what is in both glasses, and finds himself feeling slightly guilty about how much this is going to cost. When Charlie tells them the total, however, bills exchange hands with no fuss. Then one of those hands is being thrust in his direction.
“I’m Kurt,” decidedly not Kurt introduces himself. As he leans further into Castiel’s personal space to take his hand and shake it, ‘Kurt’s’ shirt rides down towards his collarbone. The words “So It Goes” are inked in a surprisingly delicate script, given the rather rogue and rakish look ‘Kurt’ has curated with his ripped jeans, heavy boots, and a buffalo plaid flannel wrapped around his waist. A sleek leather jacket hangs from the back of his chair.
Castiel’s eyes are instantly drawn to the ink in his skin, and it’s Kurt’s turn to flush, hand still holding Castiel’s, as he realizes he’s been caught out.
Castiel raises one eyebrow at him in question, and receives a well groomed brow arched in return. His eyes flick to the tattoo, then back to Kurt’s face, where he finds a small, shy smile is forming. Kurt raises both his eyebrows, his shoulders moving minutely in his attempt to shrug only with his face. Both men find themselves suppressing very un-manly giggles in the middle of the bar.
If this were another world, or they were other people, this is where Castiel would say he started falling in love. Falling in love is something that he is decidedly not trying to do, something he doesn’t even believe himself capable of. Still, the man before him is very attractive, and it’s been a while since Castiel got laid, so…
“I’m Jimmy,” Castiel offers, finally.
Kurt turns to him with that devastating smile again, and Castiel wonders if he’ll ever be able to have sex with anyone else after this without being disappointed.
“Well, Jim,” Kurt says, raising his mostly-empty glass slightly between them, “to us.”
They gently clink their glasses together before they both down the last dregs.
“So, you wanna get out of here?”
***
“Oh fuck, Jimmy, fuck that’s good,”
Kurt has been writhing in his bed for some time now, subjected to the pleasant tortures that Castiel has been inflicting. Just now Kurt is rolling his hips, trying to get Castiel’s tongue deeper inside of him. The scent of sweat and Kurt’s own musk surround Castiel as he swirls his tongue around the furled rosebud in front of him. Spreading Kurt’s cheeks, he swipes across it once, twice, three times, before once more plunging as deep as he can get. Castiel loves this, loves how raw and intimate it can be, loves the eroticism. Loves the way Kurt’s thighs clench around his head.
Above him on the bed, Kurt makes such beautiful noises for Castiel that he doesn’t want to stop. The sounds of his pleasure only serve to make Castiel harder and harder where he tries not to rut against the mattress. Giving pleasure is what gives him pleasure, and Kurt’s very vocal appreciation is ratcheting up Castiel’s heart rate. When Kurt is worked up so much his cries begin to resemble sobs, Castiel finally grants him reprieve and pulls back from between his legs with one more lick from taint to tip.
“You don’t have to look so fucking smug, you know.”
It’s hard not to be just a little cocky when the evidence of Kurt’s first orgasm has pearled on his abdomen, seeping down into the wiry thatch of hair below – none of it detracting from the way Kurt is already achingly hard again. Castiel just smirks as Kurt rolls his eyes and his hips, aim true enough that his cock brushes Castiel’s own.
“C’mon, Jimmy, just fuck me already.”
Normally Castiel wouldn’t give in to such bratty taunts, but they’ve been naked in Kurt’s bed for over an hour, and Castiel is starting to get thirsty – literally. Grabbing the lube, Castiel squeezes some out, not bothering to even try and warm it up. Consider it Kurt’s penance. With sure fingers he works his index, followed shortly by his middle, into the warm heat of Kurt’s body. Those gorgeous, green eyes are clenched shut against the onslaught of ecstasy, and those pretty, pink lips hang open as Kurt pants and curses.
Castiel basks for a moment, proud of himself not only for landing the hottest person he’s ever seen, but for how well he plays this stranger’s body. If he were a more sentimental person, he would wonder at how easily the two of them seem to work together. Unlike most encounters Castiel has, there’s no awkwardness, no needing to find how to touch and where.
When Kurt is taking three fingers easily, Castiel brushes the hair off of his forehead to gain his attention. It feels fond and familiar in a way that’s frightening to Castiel, but also exhilarating. Those otherworldly eyes catch on Castiel’s own, and it feels as if his world is shifting, something slotting into place that was missing before. Shoving the feeling aside, Castiel focuses solely on the body in front of him, pressing himself deep inside at Kurt’s frantic nod.
It isn’t hard not to meet Kurt’s eyes again. The man throws his head back when Castiel nudges his prostate, pressing his crown into the pillow as he arches off the bed in his bliss. It stays there, elongating the muscles in Kurt’s shoulder and neck in a way that invites Castiel to bite. Selecting a tattoo (there are several, and all are tempting), he adjusts his angle so that he can nip at it before pressing his canine teeth in. He’s rewarded by a sharp cry, and the clench of Kurt’s ass around his dick. This is what he’s here for, not some fucking…profound bond or something.
Only a few more thrusts have Kurt coming loudly, hot, sticky come spreading between their bodies. As Castiel fucks him through the last waves of his orgasm, Kurt’s body becomes pliant beneath him, and his chin tips down. His eyes are closed at first, but it’s not long before they’re open, and gazing at Castiel in something like awe. Not wanting to acknowledge whatever is happening here, Castiel tries to avoid them as long as possible. Soon enough, green locks on blue, and Castiel finds himself filling the condom, lazily thrusting through the tail end of his own climax until he’s cogent enough to pull out.
There’s quiet in the aftermath, neither man knowing what to say. Castiel strips the condom, tossing it into a nearby wastebasket. There’s an undercurrent of shame, now that the heat of the moment has passed, but Castiel works to rise above it. Both of them knew what this was when they started, knew what would happen when they walked through the doors of The Banked Flame. He clears his throat, loud in the silence of the room.
“I’m, uh– I’m gonna head out,” Castiel tells Kurt as he starts looking for his clothes.
Kurt reclines in the bed, blatantly watching Castiel’s nude form move about the room. It’s almost impossible not to look at him there, debauched and beautiful as he is. In his efforts to avoid eye contact, Castiel’s gaze roams the rest of Kurt’s body. When he gets to the arms arranged lazily above Kurt’s head, his heart stops.
Despite what ‘Kurt’ had told Castiel about the tape on his arm, it didn’t completely survive their vigorous activities. The black strip has bunched up, allowing Castiel to view part of the name there – a name that looks suspiciously like his own. For a moment, his vision narrows to that scrap of skin that very likely marks ‘Kurt’ – or rather, Dean Winchester, if Castiel’s arm is anything to go by – as Castiel’s soulmate.
Fuck.
Castiel tears his eyes away, hoping it’s not too late, and that he wasn’t caught blatantly breaking one of The Banked Flame’s most important rules. He checks his own arm, finding the ends of the medical tape beginning to peel up, but still holding strong. Nonetheless, Castiel quickly shrugs on his shirt, making quick work of buttoning it up before slipping back into his boxers. If he’s going to survive the rest of this encounter, he needs to get out of there – quickly.
As long as Dean doesn’t know, he isn’t Castiel’s soulmate yet. Can’t be Castiel’s soulmate, not ever. There’s no ‘yet’ about it. Even if Castiel were capable of being someone’s soulmate, he’s definitely not looking for one. Castiel is happy living a life that’s free of burdens, free of accountability to anyone but himself. No, it’s better that he can’t do this. It will save Dean a lot of heartache.
“Where’s the fire?” Dean asks, sitting up to get a better look at Castiel.
“There’s no…fire?” Castiel replies, squinting at Dean like he can figure out what the man is talking about.
Dean, for his part, bursts out into a beautiful, full body laugh. He bends nearly in half over his crossed legs as he tries to get ahold of himself.
“Really though, what’s your hurry, man?” Dean prods, pulling the sheets over his lower half, looking anywhere but at Castiel. “I know you can’t stay, but you don’t have to fly out of here like a bat outta hell. Wait,” Dean finally looks at Castiel, “you don’t have, like, a secret soulmate at home who’s waiting on you, do you?”
Castiel can’t help the inelegant snort that bursts out of him at Dean’s question. Not only is his soulmate right in front of him, Castiel is definitely not the type of person to be leaving a partner at home…or having a partner at all. Still, there’s a part of Castiel that wonders what his life would be like with Dean in it. There’s a brightness in Dean’s soul that Castiel could use more of in his life. Shaking his head, however, he dispels the thought before reassuring Dean that no, he is completely single, and likes it that way. If Dean’s light seems to dim just a little, Castiel pretends not to see.
“It is very late, however, and I need to be up early in the morning.” It’s not a lie. Castiel wakes up at 7am every day, whether he wants to or not. Too many years working a nine to five job with a forty minute commute. Dean doesn’t need to know that all Castiel plans to do is stay in his bed doom scrolling and ordering off of DoorDash.
Dean doesn’t need to know anything about Castiel, because they’ll likely never see each other again. Castiel considers switching to Saturday nights at the bar, but he feels like each trip there is a reward for surviving the week as a fucking AM radio ad salesman in the year twenty-goddamn-twenty-five. He’ll just go earlier in the evening and avoid anything messy.
“Got it,” Dean replies, his face shuttering so that no emotion shows at all. “You good to get yourself home?” he asks, casual and light. Neutral, like it doesn’t make a difference, really.
Castiel feels kind of like a dick, now. It probably wouldn’t kill him to spend five more minutes here. He reconsiders for half a minute before deciding that it really is best to leave. There needs to be a clear boundary here.
“Yes, I don’t live very far from here, and there’s streetlights all the way there. Besides,” Cas says, reaching into the pocket of the trenchcoat he holds, “I’m armed.” He pulls out a can of pepper spray, flipping it neatly before catching it and slipping it back in his pocket.
A wry smile appears on Dean’s face, one that Castiel is helpless to mirror. He considers even the smallest grin a triumph.
No. No, he doesn’t think that.
Clearing his throat, Castiel pulls his gaze away from where he’d somehow locked eyes with Dean again. Fully dressed, except for the coat he’ll put on in the elevator, Castiel moves toward the bedroom door. Grasping the handle, he can’t decide if he wants Dean to call him back, or to let him go. While he will never be in love with Dean, he could grow to love him deeply as a friend, he’s certain of it. It won’t be enough for Dean though. It’s never enough.
Castiel opens the door and steps through, switching his hand to the outer handle. He chances one more look behind him as he does so, catching a look of indecision on Dean’s face that is probably mirrored on his own. He knows that if he waits too long, Dean will come to one conclusion or the other, and being kicked out is never a fun experience. With a nod towards Dean, he begins to close the door.
“Hey, uh, Jimmy?”
Castiel barely contains a wince. He’d almost gotten away scot-free. “Hmm?” he hums in response, hoping he’s simply forgotten something.
“I uh – I just, I mean,” Dean trips over his words trying to get them out, a trait Castiel shouldn’t find adorable, and is horrified to discover he does.
“Just, I guess…goodnight, Jimmy.”
There’s definitely something else that Dean’s holding back, something Castiel is dying of curiosity to know. Steeling his resolve against his own desires, Castiel continues to close the door. He gives a final nod, sharing one more brief second of eye contact.
The dull thud of the door closing, and the click of the latch as it catches, sound thunderous in the silence. For a moment, Castiel holds his breath, giving Dean one more chance. Then his logical brain kicks in, and he leaps away from the door, closing the distance to the front door quickly. Barely sparing a moment to close it behind him, Castiel darts down the hallway towards the elevator bank.
He can’t believe himself. For years Castiel has been going to The Banked Flame, finding his release in body after body, never wondering if any of them could be his soulmate, never wondering what a future with them could look like. He spent only a short time with Dean, and now Castiel is trying not to rethink everything.
At least the clanking of the old elevator is loud enough that Castiel can’t hear his own thoughts. He’s got a short reprieve before the fifteen minute walk home, alone with nothing but his own brain. He slumps against the wall, letting it hold him up for just a little while, hoping Dean isn’t close behind. Castiel needs to get out of here, and around a corner, just in case his fucking soulmate is following him.
God, he’s made such a terrible mistake.
💚💚
The door closes with a soft thunk. The silence in the room feels palpable after the vigorous activities he’d just been engaged in. Running a hand through his shaggy hair in some attempt at taming it, Dean lets out a sigh, wondering what exactly he’d done this time to make his hookup split so quickly. He was really sure that Jimmy would stick around for at least a couple of minutes, make some small talk, but…
“Fuck.”
Swinging his feet over the side of the bed, Dean braces his elbows on his knees, cradling his face in his palms. “Fuck!” he yells into the quiet of the room. He may not be looking for love, but he’d certainly like it if someone – anyone – stuck around for more than the time it takes to have an orgasm. He knows casual sex is the main focus of The Banked Flame, and that he could go to a regular bar, or hell, maybe the library or something would be better for finding friends. There’s just a sense of safety in going somewhere that you don’t have to show your soulmark.
A complete lack of romantic interest in other people isn’t something Dean asked for, yet here he is anyway, with a name on his arm, and no capability of fulfilling a soulmate’s duties. Sure, sex is on the table, but most people want more than that out of their relationships. Hell, Dean does, too, even if he’s not looking for love, necessarily. The chances, though, that Dean both meets his soulmate, and his soulmate is okay with how Dean is, are very, very slim.
Trying not to let it get to him, Dean wraps himself up in the old, grey, flannel robe he’d picked up at an estate sale. Too tired to actually shower, he cleans the come out of his pubes and off of his chest. He gives his ass a cursory wipe, too, before tossing the washcloth on the floor to deal with in the morning. He needs to get to sleep. Frank had texted him not long ago to say the night crew had all called off work. The hall can’t afford to pay multiple people the overtime, so it’s fallen on Dean to get up at the asscrack of dawn and do take-down.
Dean strips the damp towel off of the bed, balling it up and tossing it towards the hamper. It hits the wall with a soggy splat, then slides down and into the tall wicker basket. He’s still too amped up from some of the best sex he’s ever had, so Dean dips into the top drawer of the bedside table this time, grabbing a small, singly-packaged cookie out. After checking the label, he tosses the whole thing in his mouth. He spends the next forty-five minutes obsessively going over his budget in his head, finally passing out when the weed creeps up on him, lulling him to sleep.
***
Dean should have said ‘no’ when Frank sent that message. His thirty year old body has a multitude of aches and pains that his younger self wouldn’t have after a night like last night. Still, as long as he stops the reel from showing the ending, Dean’s only got good memories to go with those aches. He nearly trips, and barely saves the stack of chairs in his arms, when that memory reel plays, causing him to not see an overturned chair. Momentarily grateful that no one else is around, Dean can still feel a flush creeping up the back of his ears from the unnecessary embarrassment.
When the tables and chairs set up for last night’s set of comedians have all been stored away, Dean grabs a broom and starts sweeping up the debris left behind by careless people. Paper napkins, straw wrappers, fruit garnishes, and even a condom wrapper litter the floor. Hey, at least they were being safe.
Once the main part of the hall is cleared and swept, Dean sets up a temporary second, smaller bar at the side of the large room, away from the main bar. There’s a band of some sort playing tonight; Dean can’t keep track of them, but their fans must be heavy drinkers. Not that he’s in a place to judge, he self-medicates one way or another nearly every day.
Dean’s been working for eight hours already when the roadies for the band, apparently named Werepire, show up. Though his muscles protest loudly, Dean helps them out. There’s a guy named Ash whose mullet the ’80s are desperately trying to get back, and Jo, a freaky-strong chick armed with a knife in her boot. Dean’s not entirely positive that’s the only knife on her person.
Together, they get the band’s equipment set up, putting the final crash cymbal on the drum kit when the band themselves, two men and a woman, roll in. They introduce themselves as husbands and wife like it’s an everyday occurrence, so Dean just goes with it. He’s not going to shit on the way someone loves. Besides, if there’s people like him who can’t fall in love, it stands to reason there would be people who can fall in love with more than one person.
Their bass player, Benny, is a big, burly guy – the one Dean was surprised to find wasn’t the “werewolf” in the apparent cross with a “vampire” that makes up Werepire. Ash and Jo had been more than willing to explain when Dean asked what it meant. Supposedly their fans believe that they really are these supernatural creatures, and Jo figures at least three girls, maybe a guy or two as well, will try to throw themselves up on stage, begging to be bitten.
As Dean discovers, though, Benny is the vamp. When he speaks or smiles, his elongated, pointed canine teeth are visible.
“So who’s the werewolf, then?” Dean asks, hanging in the green room with the band after their soundcheck. Dean’s coworkers Max and Alicia have already clocked in, so he could technically go home, but he’s drawn in by this little family, enjoying their anecdotes about gigs in the surrounding area.
“That’d be these two,” Benny says in his drawling Cajun accent, pointing at both Garth and Bess.
Bess had shocked Dean a little when she turned out to be the drummer, with Garth on guitar and vocals with Benny. He sees bands all the time, but Dean rarely sees drummers that aren’t dudes. Dean’s sure it has something to do with misogyny and/or the patriarchy, but he doesn’t have enough brain cells at the moment to divert any from the current conversation. Stifling a yawn, he listens to the three bandmates talk over each other as they try to tell their origin story.
Eventually, Bess notices Dean’s exhaustion, chastising him for letting them keep him awake, and making him promise that he’ll go straight home and sleep. “A mother always knows, Dean, and I fully expect to see you again.” She says it like it’s a promise and a threat. Phones get passed around to input numbers as Bess tells Dean a silly story from when they still toured nationally.
“It was one thing when it was just Gertie, you know,” she says to him. “Then the twins came, so we’re staying closer to home now.”
Dean nods, knowing just how hard it was to travel with Sam growing up. He couldn’t imagine doing it with three.
“Anyhoo, we’ve kept you long enough. You go home and rest, Dean,” Bess tells him with a warm hug.
Dean does his best to hide just how affected he is by a mother’s touch, even if it’s someone else’s mother. He readily agrees with her instructions, heading straight to the back door so he can get the fuck home.
On the drive back to his shoebox of an apartment, Dean wonders if he can get away with having a nap, then going back to see the show. Ultimately he decides it’s not worth the wrath of Bess, should she see him there. Smiling at the thought of his new friends, Dean pulls into one of the few parking spots he can see from his window. Now if only he could let go of Jimmy.
***
Dean wakes up to darkness. The alarm clock on his nightstand shows that it’s 10pm, so he’s had his requisite four hours of sleep. For half a second Dean considers just going back to sleep, but he’s desperate to see Jimmy again, to try and just talk to him. He needs to explain that he’s not trying to rope Jimmy into a relationship, he just wants to be friends, for fuck’s sake.
At least he made a handful more today. He hopes Werepire’s gig is going well.
As he’d neglected to shower when he got home from work, Dean hops in now, scrubbing the funk of sweat off. He quickly dries, then dresses, hoping he can get to the bar in time. Jimmy had shown up around 10:30 last night, and had simply perused the bar casually until Dean came over. If Dean is lucky, Castiel will be there again tonight. If not…well, there’s always next week.
It’s a short walk to The Banked Flame, one Dean spends thinking about what he’ll say if – no, when – he sees Jimmy again. Does he open with a Vonnegut quote, considering how quickly Jimmy saw his tattoo and clocked his alias? Does he buy the guy another drink? Everything he comes up with all seems to be things you’d say to a romantic prospect, and Dean absolutely does not want to give that idea.
He still hasn’t come up with anything good by the time he reaches the doors, so Dean just figures he’ll wing it, and hope. He hauls open the heavy wooden door of the bar with some trepidation, not knowing what the night will bring him.
Immediately, Dean sees that Charlie is working again tonight. The girl has a sweet job making bank in the tech sector but, to hear her tell it, there’s just something about being behind the bar that calls to her. She’s certainly in her element now, whirling around back there, flirting and laughing with the customers she serves.
Dean chuckles when he sees her boop the nose of a twitterpated patron with the tip of her finger. The poor guy has no idea he’s got absolutely zero chance, but the look on his face says he thinks Charlie hung the moon and stars. Unfortunately, so do Gilda and Dorothy, and they also happen to have the right equipment. Either the guy has no idea what the lesbian flag looks like, or he’s being purposely obtuse, as Charlie wears those colours, and a bright neon rainbow around her wrist.
At least Charlie looks like she’s having fun, and the guy doesn’t appear to be anything but love-drunk and real-drunk, so Dean steers clear of that section of the bar. Grimacing when he sees who’s working with Charlie tonight, Dean prepares himself for an onslaught of bitchiness. Maybe if he plays nice, Meg will be able to tell him more about Jimmy. The only way Dean can figure that he’s never seen Jimmy is that he must go to Meg more often for his drinks than the others. She’s the only one Dean actively avoids, and he’s not looking forward to this interaction.
“Well, well, well, what have we here?”
Dean firms his resolve at the sound of Meg’s voice cutting through the music and the chatter of the crowd. He can do this.
“Speak of the devil, and she shall appear,” Dean quips. “Although this time all I had to do was think, and your odious presence was in front of me.”
“Ooh, that’s a five-dollar word there, Bucko. You been spending time with Little Brother again?” Meg props her hip against the bar directly in front of Dean. Her red lips are curled into an arrogant smirk, long nails painted to match tapping on the wood between them.
Dean should probably just go home and let Jimmy go, but he’s already here, and Meg’s bite can’t be worse than her bark, can it?
“Hey, I read,” Dean fires back, unable to keep the offended look off of his face.
“Sure, sure,” Meg placates. “I just assumed it was Male Model Weekly that you were reading, not anything of substance.” That damned smirk curls just a little more, and then Meg’s called away to fill someone else’s order.
Shaking his head, Dean figures he might as well do a quick sweep of the bar while he waits for the group of businessmen drinking shitty lite beer to be served.
The bar isn’t huge, but it’s a decent size and there are hidden nooks all around for those who want to test-drive before they take someone home. Dean tries not to be a perv as he peeks into each one, hoping to see disheveled black hair and a killer five o’clock shadow. Jimmy isn’t in any of them – isn’t in the bar tonight at all as far as Dean can tell. Which means facing Meg after all. Someone kill him.
“Look who came crawling back,” Meg greets Dean as he approaches the bar once more. The temporary rush has died down, so she can devote all of her interest to him.
It’s actually a little disconcerting to have her attention solely on him, and Dean finds himself struggling to come up with the right words.
“Last night I –” he starts, cutting himself off. “That is to say –” He can’t understand why it’s so hard to articulate. It’s not like he’s got a crush on the guy.
“So you read, do you?” Meg taunts, pouring Dean his usual whiskey on the rocks.
“Shut up,” Dean responds automatically, kicking himself mentally. He needs Meg, and needs her to have sympathy for him. This isn’t helping. “Wait, no,” Dean stops Meg before she can disappear to the other end of the bar where Charlie is. “I actually was hoping you knew something about a patron.”
“You know I won’t tell you anything, right?” Meg asks. She’s got an incredulous look on her face that tells Dean he’s an idiot for even asking. Still, he’s got to try.
“I was just hoping you knew a guy, about yea high,” Dean indicates somewhere near his shoulder with his hand. “Goes by Jimmy and has the bluest eyes you’ll ever see.”
At that last sentence, Meg narrows her eyes. Her fingers curl, making it seem like she truly has claws, and the smirk drops into a moue of distaste. She glares at him as she asks, “What do you want with Clarence?”
Clarence??