Chapter Text
“Gentlemen! And you naughty ladies! Give it up for Michael!”
Dean hated this part the most. The energy, the screams, the palpable lust in the air, the cash—all that was great. What he hated was that after the number was over—and the crowd of horny businessmen and tipsy bachelorette partiers screamed and screeched so loudly that he was thankful he’d started wearing earplugs during his performances—he had to scamper around the stage and catwalk with his junk flinging about in a scrap of lime green fabric, a glorified piece of floss up his ass, and scoop up all the loose bills before the next act could start. It was embarrassing to think that these revelers thought that he was that desperate for money when in actuality it was company policy to remove the slipping hazards for the next dancer. If they sweated profusely they were also expected to wipe up any wet spots with a towel. Dean had suggested at a staff meeting that they hire someone to clean the stages in between performances. He’d had support right up until the owner had said that whomever they hired would keep anything he picked up off the stage.
Dean counted the bills that either hadn’t stayed in his G-string or never made it into it: thirteen dollars. He didn’t think thirteen dollars was worth bending over and scrabbling money off the stage. He pushed through the door to the changing room just as the music for Christian’s (aka Daniel) bad biker boy routine started. Dean snorted in disdain again as he remembered when Sam had inadvertently discovered through a genealogy project for school that they were distantly (very distantly) related to the guy on their mother’s side. He’d have thought that if they were going to be related to an asshole it would be on their father’s side. Dean had considered telling Christian about the discovery for all of three nanoseconds before he realized that would mean he’d have to talk to the guy.
As he walked by his coworkers who were in various states of dress—or undress as it were—he carefully pulled the bills out of the waistband of his G-string. There were even a couple bills tucked alongside his dick and one that was low enough down the back it was practically in his crack. He didn’t think there was anything shameful about stripping, but there certainly wasn’t anything glamorous about it either. He started sorting the bills. Generally he got the same number of bills every time he danced (depending on the night of the week of course), but the denomination was always a surprise. His G-string would usually get stuffed with forty to fifty bills in the space of a three minute song. That meant he could make anywhere from forty bucks if he got all singles to the far-fetched possibility of five thousand dollars if they were all Benjamins.
Tonight he hadn’t gotten so lucky: forty-seven bucks. On average he made about seventy or eighty dollars in dancing tips with mostly ones and a few fives and tens. He’d get a twenty on occasion and one time a one hundred dollar bill had appeared. He would have thought maybe it had been an accident, but the bill had been mostly wrapped around his cock by the time he pulled it out. He remembered the guy who had held his ankle so he could put it there. Gordon and Henriksen had bounced his creeper ass right out of the club.
Money wise that had been a good night; why-am-I-still-doing-this wise he’d been at about a four. He only scored high on the maybe-I-should-quit scale when he gave private lap dances and he had to focus on faking it for one person for ten minutes. The worst were the guys who wanted to maintain eye contact. Not even the guys who broke the rules and tried to feel him up made him too uncomfortable. He was a man, he understood the desire to touch, but eye contact? Dean shuddered and threw his Stetson on top of the lockers.
He swirled the combination into the lock on his locker and got the stubborn door to open with a solid check from his elbow. The crinkly stack of bills in his hand went into a large envelope that had his tips from the meager lunch crowd and the serving tips he’d gotten playing waiter in between dancing shifts. He wondered if he’d be better off finding a club that allowed employees to be fulltime wait staff instead of pulling double duty, but even with only a “bad night” of forty-seven dollars in tips for his last dance, he couldn’t deny it was good pay for three minutes of work.
He used the shoehorn he kept in his locker to pull off the cowboy boots. A couple of guys had worked with him on a way to try to get them off gracefully during the show or somehow rigging them into tear-away shoes, but Cole (his stage name was Ariel and who knew why the fuck he’d picked a name that reminded people of a ginger mermaid) pointed out that it was kinda hot for him to leave them on just like female strippers did with their heels. Dean had had to glue rubber pieces onto the soles to keep them from sliding all over the stage, but it was nice not to have to worry about stepping barefoot on errant peanuts that always made it onto the stage every night. Dean really wished Crowley would stop serving the damn things altogether. People had peanut allergies—why possibly lose business over a legume?
Dean slipped off his G-string and tossed it along with his cowboy costume into the laundry bin. He felt sorry for whoever’s job it was at the Laundromat who had to come to the club on Thursdays and Sundays and pick up the strippers’ dirty laundry. Assless chaps, neon colored thongs, mesh shirts, and the occasional pair of thigh highs and panties (Thursday night was “ladies” night) had to make for an interesting sort job.
Slinging a clean towel over his shoulder, Dean walked stark naked through the room toward the bathroom in the back to take a shower. Alfie (who must have chosen the stage name Samandriel just to skeeve Dean out since all the other guys called him Sami which just made Dean think of his brother while looking at a bunch of dongs) appeared by his side with a pleading look. Dean raised an eyebrow at him. The kid was twenty-five, two years older than Dean, but he looked about ten years younger and totally drew in the twink aficionados.
“Hi, Dean,” he began with a nervous smile.
“Alfie.”
The kid followed him into the bathroom; there was no such thing as modesty at Heavenly Host. There were three shower heads against the back wall, and Dean stepped under the far left one and turned on the water to a warm spray. He turned his back to the water so that he could face Alfie. He ran his hands back through his hair.
“You know, I usually charge for this,” Dean said.
“Oh, sorry.” Alfie blushed even though he had been looking at Dean’s face and didn’t seem remotely interested in his body. Dean wasn’t certain he was even into guys at all. Maybe he just stripped at Heavenly Host because the money was better at a gay club than one aimed at straight women. Also, he doubted Alfie’s body type would be much of a draw at a straight club.
“So, I’ve asked everybody around and I’m really in a bind. I need to take Thursday off for a study session, but since it’s not an emergency or for a test, Crowley says he won’t let me go unless I can find a replacement. No one else can help. Could you take my Thursday shift? I’ll do anything. Split tips for a week, give you any of my weekend hours, work a day that you want off...”
Alfie was directing some seriously pitiful eyes at him, and Dean liked him and wanted to help, but Thursdays…he’d worked a Thursday when he’d first started. Exactly once. Crowley made them work all the nights in the beginning to see what theme nights they fit into best and what their strengths were. That one Thursday had found Dean trussed up in white thigh highs and pink panties and vowing to Crowley that he would quit before he ever worked another Thursday. Crowley had agreed that his body type was a little too butch for it anyway.
Dean considered the possibility of working a Thursday night again—he had made more money that one night than he had all week on the other theme nights. The problem though wasn’t that he hated the lingerie and the filthy things the patrons would say to him, but that maybe he’d liked it a little too much. He’d gotten so lost in one private dance he hadn’t realized the customer had gotten a hand on his cock until he was about to come all over both of them. Luckily Crowley hadn’t installed cameras in the private rooms yet, otherwise he might have been fired on the spot for allowing a customer to break so many rules. He’d only been twenty then though and still reveling in the thrill of being able to openly (more or less) express his interest in men. He didn’t have to hide it in the club and the liberating feeling had gone to his head.
“Please, Dean, can you help me out?”
“I don’t know, Alfie,” Dean hedged, “you know feminization isn’t really my thing.”
Alfie deflated. “I know. Would you at least be willing to come in to cover my tables so I can study between dance shifts?”
“I still have to wear the—stuff—though, right?”
Alfie’s shoulders slumped lower. “Yeah.”
“Is there any way your study session can be moved to Friday or Wednesday?”
“The test is Friday and Crowley said I couldn’t pull off ‘Hunks of the Ancient World’ in order to work on Wednesday,” he griped.
Dean considered; Alfie would look pretty funny with a Spartan style loin cloth and cape slipping off his skinny frame.
“Hey,” Trey aka Uriel (and Dean didn’t understand why he had chosen a stage name that sounded so similar to urinal even if it was an archangel or whatever) said as he got under the showerhead next to Dean and turned on the water. “You need someone to cover Ancient World Wednesday?”
“No,” Alfie sighed, “Ladies Night Thursday.”
“Oh. This Thursday?”
Alfie nodded. Trey thought about it as he soaped up his lithe body, hands running over his dark, perfect skin—not that Dean was noticing.
“I can do it.”
Alfie lit up. “Really? You don’t mind?”
Trey shrugged. “It’s not really my scene, but it does pay well.”
Alfie nodded. “Yes, it does. So does being a minority. Hard to find a black guy in panties in Nebraska.”
Trey shot him a look, but didn’t seem offended. He finished rinsing off and glanced at Dean.
“You know, I usually charge for this,” he said, imitating Dean’s exact tone as he turned off the water.
Dean’s eyes snapped up from Trey’s groin and he blushed.
“Sorry.”
Trey just smiled and began toweling off. “Guy as hot as you? I’m actually flattered.” He winked at Dean and tossed his towel onto Alfie’s head as he walked out of the bathroom. Alfie pulled the white terrycloth off his head and looked back and forth between Dean and the now empty doorway. He raised an eyebrow.
“You two ever…?” he trailed off.
Dean shook his head and rinsed the two in one shampoo/conditioner out of his hair. “Nah. He wishes though.”
“In your dreams, Winchester,” the man called back through the door.
Dean chuckled and Alfie twisted the towel in his hands. Dean turned off the water and used his fresh towel to swipe the water from his body.
“Alfie, any particular reason you’re still hanging out watching me?”
“It’s not that bad, you know. If you ever need to make some quick cash. Ladies Night I mean. It’s really no worse than a thong. In some ways, better because they cover more.”
“It’s not the clothes.”
“The comments then? What’s really the difference between some guy telling you to shake your cock in his face and one telling you to bend over and show him your cunt?”
Dean laughed mirthlessly. “A lot, I’d say. But, I mostly don’t want Crowley yelling at me for stretching out his wardrobe.”
Alfie smiled. “You are rather large. In a good way,” he hastened to add.
“Thanks, Alfie,” Dean replied dryly. “Good luck on your test, okay?”
“Thanks, Dean, have a good night.”
Alfie rushed over to his locker to finish putting on his schoolboy uniform. He was probably due on the stage in less than two minutes. Dean changed into his street clothes and tucked the envelope with his money into the inner pocket of his leather jacket. It was almost too warm in mid-March to be wearing it, but it hid the bulk of the envelope the best. He was on his way out the door when Henriksen poked his head into the room and called out to him.
“Hey, what’s up, man?” Dean asked greeting him with a hand slap and fist bump. “We still on for a pickup game on Saturday?”
“Yep. Got a cousin bringing fresh blood.”
“Sounds good.”
“Yeah, I was checking if you were available for private dances tonight, but I see you’re on your way out.”
“Yeah, I pulled a double today. Worked lunch and did private dances before my waiting shift.”
“Ah. It’s just—Zachariah is here.”
Dean made a face. He didn’t like the guy. He really didn’t. He was condescending and smug and insulting and wouldn’t let Dean get off his lap until he’d come in his pants right against Dean’s ass. But he paid five hundred bucks for the twenty minutes it took to get him off.
Dean chewed on the inside of his cheek as he went over the monthly finances in his head. Rent for next month was already covered, but the utility bills were due soon, and while the clunker he drove was paid for, the six month insurance premium was due on the eighteenth. It was going to be almost a thousand dollars. He needed to buy a newer, safer car to get that payment down. He also bet that dropping his three DUI convictions father off the policy would bring that bill down. Sam was bound to have some sort of school expense—afterschool clubs were going to start going on spring trips. There were groceries to consider and gas money…
Dean cursed softly and let his bag slide from his shoulder to the floor. He looked at Victor who was giving him a commiserating look.
“Tell him five minutes.”
“Okay,” Victor said and backed out of the room.
He heard tsking behind him and didn’t even need to turn to know that it was Nick (aka Lucifer—pretentious dick).
“Shut up,” Dean muttered and went to the dresser that stood next to the wardrobe of costumes. In the second drawer were the size large thongs. He pulled out a gold sequined one and took it back to his locker. He quickly stripped and slid the gaudy thing on. Zachariah liked bling. He’d bought Dean a watch, cuff links, and a diamond encrusted cross necklace—all of which had gone to the pawn shop and paid for groceries for the Winchester family. He kind of regretted not keeping the watch, it had been really nice, but he was worried what message that might send if Zachariah somehow saw him wearing it.
When he arrived at the back entrance to the private rooms, Victor gave him a thumbs up and the number three: Zachariah was ready in room number three. Dean took in a deep breath, and then entered the room. The man’s eyebrows rose as soon as he saw him already stripped down to the G-string.
“Eager tonight?” Zachariah asked.
“Off the clock, Zach. We’re doing this fast and dirty tonight.”
The man smiled and Dean couldn’t believe how one look from this man could make him feel like the filthiest whore on the planet.
“Can’t say no to that. Climb on.” The man leaned back in the large leather chair, spread his legs, and then patted his thighs.
Dean crossed the room, his eyes flicking toward the iPad that stored a very large and eclectic collection of music. Zachariah always asked for silence and Dean knew it was because it made the whole thing that much more intimate if they had to listen to their bodies grinding together and their breathing as it inevitably quickened and became shallow. Dean straddled Zachariah’s legs and was about to sit on the bulge already tenting his dress slacks when Zach leaned forward to whisper in his ear.
“You want seven-fifty tonight?”
Dean hesitated. An extra two hundred and fifty dollars if he opened Zach’s fly and rode him with just his tightie-whities and Dean’s thong between them.
Zach leaned even closer nosing Dean’s ear. “We can do a thousand if you’d like.”
Skin to skin. Dean shook his head, but reached down and unbuttoned and unzipped Zach’s fly. His cock was about average size, but the white bulge against the dark pants made it look bigger. Dean scooted close and slid down his client’s body until he was seated on his crotch. Zachariah’s erection pressed between his ass cheeks and the man’s hands gripped the arms of the chair so tight his knuckles turned white. Dean put one hand on Zach’s shoulder, the other behind his neck, and started to move. He looked away, appearing coy, but really just wanting to avoid eye contact.
“One day,” Zach sighed. “You’ll go for the grand.”
Dean didn’t respond; he just circled his hips down hard and Zachariah gasped. Dean bit his lip as the clothed cock rubbed against his ass, pushed the cord of the thong against his rim, and nudged his balls with every movement. He didn’t try to fight his forming erection—it made Zachariah get off faster. He wasn’t attracted to the man, but friction was friction and he was young enough that his dick could almost perform on command.
Zachariah let his head fall back against the chair, but kept his eyes trained on Dean. Dean spread his legs just a bit wider, pushing his shins down beside Zach’s thighs so that he could settle more completely on his cock. He worked his hips faster and could tell by his breathing that Zachariah was already close. He might be able to get this over with in less than five minutes.
“Why won’t you ever let us have these sessions in a more private location?” Zachariah wheezed as his hips swiveled up to meet Dean’s.
Dean knew he meant his house. Since the third time Zachariah had asked for him, the man had been asking him to go with him to his house. He’d offered an obscene amount of money, gifts, and favors, but Dean gave him the same answer every time.
“Because I’m not a whore.”
Zach grunted and let it go. The guy was an asshole, but he somehow escaped being creepy. He never pushed Dean or wheedled or made veiled threats. He just made his offer and accepted Dean’s answer. Even if the guy wasn’t a creep though, Dean would be way too nervous—scared—to go somewhere alone with the guy. Plus, he wasn’t a whore. Well…he supposed that was a matter of opinion considering what his other job was.
Dean allowed his mind to drift to his other job at Sweet Things. By day it was a mild mannered, anyone-welcome gay bar, by night it was a wild, anyone-welcome gay dance club. But downstairs…night or day…it was a matchmaking service for dominants and submissives. When the owner had work for him, which was a few times a month, Dean would make his way down there and sub for the kind of doms that got off pushing around a large, masculine man. He was tied up, gagged, spanked, flogged, commanded to touch himself, commanded not to come, commanded to use dildos on himself, commanded to come exactly when the dom wanted him to. But there was never any intercourse. He and the client may both get off during the scene, but there was no penetration, no blow jobs, not even handies. That was how Dean justified to himself that he wasn’t whoring himself out—he didn’t actually have sex with anyone. Sure there was an exchange of sexual favors for money, but that was no different than giving private lap dances at Heavenly Host. Most people would say there was a marked difference between stripping and prostitution.
There was one guy—Ezekiel (obviously an alias)—his favorite thing to do was tie Dean’s wrists together and hang him naked from a hook on the wall so that his feet just barely touched the ground. Then he’d blindfold him, slot their thighs together, and hump him until they both spilled their come over each other in a gently rolling wave of orgasm. That was about as close as it got to sex for cash and Dean could live with it.
He focused on his last time with Zeke now, using the fantasy to work himself up. Zachariah was cursing softly under him, praising him for getting so turned on. Dean’s eyes snapped open when he felt the hands grab his hips. He stopped moving immediately.
“Shit, sorry,” Zach moaned and put his hands back on the arm rests.
“S’okay,” Dean said and resumed his movement. Zachariah wasn’t a creep (he kept reminding himself). He very rarely broke the no touching rule and when he did he could tell it was due to losing himself in the moment and not trying to sneak a feel.
“I’ll give you the thousand anyway,” Zach panted, so close to the edge his whole body was locking up. “Just come, Michael. Come on me and I’ll give you the full grand.”
Dean gritted his teeth, knowing he shouldn’t, but he closed his eyes, increased his movement, and focused on the memory of the breathy noises Zeke had made in his ear as they’d humped against each other. He heard Zachariah make his “Oh oh oh!” orgasm sounds in increasing pitch and volume. The first time he’d heard it he’d almost laughed. Dean ignored it now and ground down against Zachariah’s throbbing member and remembered how Zeke had shoved his leg up hard behind Dean’s balls as he’d come—and only then given Dean permission to do so as well. Remembering Zeke’s roughened voice whispering that he was allowed to come tipped Dean over in the present. He bit his lip hard to keep in his soft grunts and rutted against Zachariah until he was spent. He opened his eyes and saw Zachariah gazing at him with glassy eyes.
“You’re beautiful, Michael,” the man said. He raised a hand and gently brushed his knuckles against Dean’s cheek.
Dean braced his hands on the arm rests and slid off Zachariah’s lap. He could see the fleshy outline of Zach’s dick through his wet briefs. He didn’t even want to look down at the state of the thong he wore. At least it had kept his jizz from getting onto Zachariah’s dress shirt. The man waved a hand toward his suit jacket, which was hanging on a coat rack by the door.
“Bring me my wallet. I gave Gordon—or Henricksen, can’t tell them apart in those dark halls—five hundred already. Other half is in there.”
“Feeling optimistic tonight?” Dean asked as he dug in the coat pockets until he found the leather wallet.
“Apparently with good reason.”
“I don’t know. You paid a thousand, but we didn’t go skin to skin. That means you’ll have to up your offer for that.”
“Like you would ever agree to it. It’s been a year, Michael. I’ve given up.”
“Have you?” Dean asked innocently handing over the wallet. “That’s sad.”
“Don’t get sassy with me. It doesn’t become you.” Zachariah dug out ten crisp fifty dollar bills and forked them over. “Next time I pay a thousand dollars, it had better last more than five minutes.”
Dean smirked and didn’t insult the man by counting the bills. “You’re saying you want me to be bad at my job?”
“I’m saying I want you to act like you’re enjoying it rather than closing your eyes, gritting your teeth, and trying to get through it.”
Dean’s smirk disappeared. He dropped his eyes. “It’s not—”
“I don’t expect you to actually be attracted to me, Michael. I get it. I’m twice your age, balding, paunchy around the middle. All I’m asking is that for five hundred bucks, you fake it a little better.”
“I get hard,” Dean protested. “And I just came all over myself. How is that not good enough?”
“Because I can tell when you put yourself in a little fantasy world. What do you picture? Big, hairy bears? Young, slim twinks?” He made a face. “Women?”
Dean folded the bills and squashed them in his fist. “If you don’t like the services rendered, you don’t have to get serviced.”
Zachariah held up his hands. “Fair enough, fair enough. It was just a little…constructive criticism.”
“Unsolicited I might add,” Dean groused.
Zachariah just smiled and used a hand towel from the cabinet by the sink to clean out his underwear.
“I’m going to be out of town for the next month or so,” Zach said, zipping up. “When I come back I’d like to book you for a private party.”
“We don’t book private shows for anything less than five people.”
“There will be ten of us. Pick two other employees you like and are comfortable with. We’ll probably want to observe more than participate.”
Zachariah gave him a look and Dean nodded his understanding. A group of men would be paying the strippers to grind on each other while they ate dinner and watched. Private parties paid a fuck ton of money, but it was so much more awkward to hump some guy you worked with every day than a stranger. He’d only done a couple private parties and afterward it had been difficult to look those guys in the eye for a while.
“Just make the reservation with Crowley.”
“I already did. And Michael? Since it’s six weeks out, I expect that you won’t have a sudden conflict in your schedule.”
Dean shook his head. “I’ll put it on my calendar. In pen.”
Zachariah smiled at him and put on his suit coat. “Excellent. See you then.”
“Goodnight.”
Once the door was shut behind Zachariah, Dean rubbed his forehead with his fingers and sighed deeply. Why couldn’t he make good money flipping burgers? If he got the same pay, he’d have no problem cleaning out grease traps.
Dean used the small sink and another towel to clean himself up as best he could. He didn’t really want the other guys to know that he’d let himself come. It was technically against the rules, but most of the guys did it every now and then if they liked their client or knew it would get them a bigger tip. The problem was that everyone had known he’d gone to see Zachariah and he didn’t want them to think the guy had gotten Dean off. It had been via Zeke, but they wouldn’t know that. Though apparently Zach did. Dean scowled and threw the towel in the sink for the sanitizing staff to take care of. He thought he’d been so clever by fantasizing about someone else when he was with the man.
Back in the locker room he discarded the soiled gold thong into the laundry bin and took another quick shower to rinse the night off. When he was dressed and finally ready to leave, Henriksen popped back in and handed Dean two hundred and fifty dollars. The arrangement was that Crowley paid them jack squat, but they were allowed to keep all tips from dancing and waiting, and got half of the money from private dances. Dean was certain the strippers were getting the short end of the stick on the deal as there was a twenty dollar cover charge just to get in the door and the alcohol was outrageously overpriced. However, it was better than some of the other clubs he’d heard of where the dancers had to pool all the tips and money they’d made each night, give thirty percent to the owner, twenty to the bartenders and wait staff, and then split the rest evenly amongst themselves. At least Crowley’s way Dean knew he was getting what he had earned.
With a few more ‘goodbyes’ and ‘see yas’ to the guys still working—it was barely past midnight and on weeknights the club ran until two—Dean walked out the back door. On weekends the club actually offered a breakfast buffet for those who stayed overnight before they were kicked out. Dean remembered one night some German tourist had had him sit on his lap all night while he fed him bits of brownie, and then sausage links in the morning. His tab had been massive and Crowley had given Dean a ten percent cut of the bill in addition to the tip the guy had left behind.
Dean shook his head and smiled as he walked across the small backlot to his car. He had all kinds of “this one time” stories. Too bad he could never share them with anyone he knew outside of work. His family thought that he bartended at a regular bar and his friends didn’t even know he was—gay? Bisexual? Whatever the hell it was when you liked fucking girls but loved sucking cock. He dug in the front zippered pocket of his backpack for his car keys and saw his cell phone indicator blinking at him. He pulled the device out, wondering if he had forgotten to tell Sam his schedule and the spaz was freaking out that he wasn’t home yet. You get in one little car accident and undergo eighteen hours of surgery and all of a sudden everyone worried when you were fifteen minutes late to anything.
Dean swiped his thumb across the screen to pull down his list of notifications. There was a junk email from Old Navy (no wonder his father always insisted they shop at Goodwill, they didn’t spam you with emails for the rest of your natural life for buying a five dollar tank top), a text from Sam asking him to put bok choy and apples on the grocery list (organic Dean, it doesn’t cost that much more) since he wouldn’t see him before he left for school in the morning, and three missed calls and a text from Gabriel Milton, his boss at Sweet Things. He probably had a client for him, but Dean was too tired and not in the mood. Besides, he’d gotten enough money from Zachariah that he could pass on going to Sweet Things for a while.
Dean started deleting all the notifications (repeating Sam’s grocery request in his head until he could get his grocery list app opened) as he fumbled with the keys to the crappy blue ’83 Dart he drove under protest and out of necessity only. Just after he cleared Gabriel’s missed calls (he hadn’t left any messages so it couldn’t be too important), he decided to go ahead and open the text. He fell gracelessly into the driver’s side seat, slinging his backpack into the passenger seat. He tapped Gabriel’s message open: R U free 2nite? We have 2 talk.
Dean rolled his eyes and started the car; Gabriel texted like a middle school kid. He was about to put the phone in the cup holder and drive home, but something about the phrasing, such as it was, caught his attention. Generally when Gabriel had work for him the messages were more along the lines of “B&D + U = $1000 4 2 hrs in or out?” He never asked if Dean wanted to talk, or implied that they had to talk. He got an unpleasant, twisting sensation in his stomach as he stared at the message. Was Gabriel trying to fire him? Or at least, tell him he wouldn’t need his services anymore? Or was it something worse?
Technically Gabriel’s business was a “matchmaking” service, which meant people paid him to connect them with other people with similar interests. It wouldn’t take much imagination to spin him as a pimp though, which wasn’t all that far from the truth since not only was there a finder’s fee, he also got fifteen percent of what the servicer earned. Perhaps he’d been arrested and part of the plea deal was to turn over as many of his “tricks” as possible. Dean grew cold at the thought of anyone he knew having to read the headline that he’d been arrested for kinky S&M prostitution. The people who used Sweet Things to find compatible sexual partners definitely didn’t view it that way, but the media would go nuts with it.
Dean scowled and clicked off the radio, which was playing some Top 40 hit from the last radio station Sam had left it on, and decided he better call Gabriel before he freaked himself out over the message. It was probably just Gabriel coming across a weird kink and seeing if Dean would be into it (or at least willing to participate) before making the match. He tapped the phone’s screen way more times than Sam ever had to in order to make the damn thing work, and then settled back in his seat to wait for Gabriel to pick up.
“Dean,” Gabriel greeted after one and a half rings. “You busy right now?”
“I just got off from a double at Heavenly Host. I’m way too tired for anything unless you got a guy who’s into som-sono—that thing where they like to fuck sleeping people.”
“Somnophilia.”
“Yeah, that.”
“No, I don’t have a match for you tonight. I…”
Dean waited, a little weirded out. He didn’t think he’d ever heard Gabriel speechless before.
“I have a favor to ask. And it’s a big one. And I can’t ask it over the phone.”
“You need a patsy or something?” Dean groused.
“What? No. Please, Dean. The first thing I did was find a police sergeant and an ADA with special proclivities and procured their loyal patronage. What kind of fool do you take me for?”
“Uh, I—”
“Anyway, can you swing by tonight? This is a personal favor for me, but it could be very lucrative for you.”
“Do I have to perform tonight at all?”
“No, no. Just you and me. Talking.”
Dean’s brow creased. “Gabriel…that’s really fucking weird for us.”
He heard the man sigh heavily. When he spoke again he sounded weary and…sad? “I know it is, Dean. Perhaps that will stress to you how important this is to me. Frankly, I need help.”
“You need…my help.”
“Maybe. Maybe it won’t work out. But, I have to ask. But again, not over the phone.”
Dean looked at the time: 12:27. He didn’t have to be back at Heavenly Host until five o’clock tomorrow evening, but he was working until closing. He also had to go grocery shopping and fix the knob on the bathroom door and pick up Sam from school after debate team practice.
“Please, Dean,” Gabriel said softly.
He wasn’t begging, but his tone struck a chord in Dean. Sweet Things was only a ten minute drive from Heavenly Host, and heading in the right direction. Dean straightened in the bucket seat.
“Okay. I can be there in like ten, fifteen minutes.”
“Thanks. Come around to the back entrance. Boris is working the door to the downstairs tonight and I told him you weren’t coming in.”
Dean grimaced. “Gotcha. See you in a few.”
Dean ended the call and began the short trek to Sweet Things. Boris was a crazy motherfucker who worked as a bouncer for Gabriel in exchange for his matchmaking services. He’d expressed interest in Dean to the point where Gabriel had had to inform him to back off or lose his job. Dean couldn’t put his finger on why he wasn’t willing to sub for him—the guy just rubbed him the wrong way. Maybe it was his vampire role play fetish. Or his massive amounts of curly hair. He was probably the only guy Dean knew who had worse hair than Sam.
Dean parked at the Wawa across the street from Sweet Things rather than fruitlessly circling the too small lot for the popular club looking for a space. Dean knew the guard at the back door by face only, and fortunately he recognized Dean enough to punch in the code to unlock the door without asking him any questions. Once inside the pounding bass from the club, though muted, vibrated in his bones. He couldn’t understand how people could listen to “music” that loud for that long. Sure he’d been topside a few times, danced and grinded with strangers on the dance floor, but after a couple hours of alcohol and noise that fell somewhere on the torture scale of loudness, it was time to move on.
Dean walked through the stripped down passageways the staff scurried around in and looked on with amusement as two of the undercover bouncers Gabriel used to police the dance floor escorted out a young man who looked like he’d hit his limit about five shots ago. If the person was rowdy they just got kicked out; if they were too drunk to function they were put in a cab and sent to Open Meadows. Open Meadows was an organization that gave the dangerously drunk and high a safe place to sober up and a ride to the hospital if necessary—and all they asked for in exchange was that you listen to them tell you how disappointed Jesus is with you while you’re nursing a massive hangover. Dean had heard the spiel a few times during his first couple of years in Huntsville. Fortunately his work schedule had broken him of the bad habit of drinking excessively to ease his boredom at living in a mid-sized city. Well, that and a growing fear that he would turn into his father.
Dean, and he was certain this applied to his father as well, never thought they would end up settling in Huntsville, Nebraska. It was a decently sized city with a Wal-Mart and a Costco; it had its own mall and two movie theaters; there was a bona fide “downtown” area as well as a good and bad side of the tracks. But it was generic and sleepy and boasted no major company headquarters or processing centers to bring in money or jobs. It was so Middle America and average that the wildest celebration all year was the annual Scarecrow Festival. Decently sized city or not, they couldn’t completely escape the country in Nebraska.
Nor could they completely escape their past, no matter how hard their father had tried to make it disappear. The reason they were in as random a place as Huntsville, Nebraska was because it was exactly halfway between Sioux Falls, South Dakota and Lawrence, Kansas. In Sioux Falls was the man who had been Sam’s and Dean’s foster father through their formative years, and in Sam’s case, his earliest memories of the person he called “Dad.” In Lawrence were their maternal grandparents, who had done their fair share of bringing up the Winchester boys too. Their grandparents had threatened to sue for custody if John tried to take the boys too far or didn’t settle down somewhere, and Sam and Dean had refused to be more than a long day’s drive away from Bobby. The compromise had been Nebraska. Sam had two years and two months left of high school, and as soon as he got his college ticket out of there, Dean was going to take off too. Probably to be a townie in whatever city Sam went to school in, but he was bound to pick some place better than Huntsville.
Dean’s musings were disturbed by raised voices coming from inside’s Gabriel’s office. The door was cracked open, but Dean didn’t think he should interrupt. It wasn’t common for a client to become unruly in the downstairs club, but Dean was thankful that Gabriel did not adopt a “the customer is always right” policy in regards to this kind of business. Safety of his employees was his number one priority and he backed up his promise.
“I paid a lot of money for this, Milton! The deal is you find me a submissive little bitch who likes to be tied up and I get to fuck her as hard as I want!”
“Are you demented?” Meg’s husky voice came through the door. Dean was confused. Meg was definitely a dom, not a submissive.
“I didn’t do anything that wasn’t in the agreed upon terms and this cunt barges in and—ah!”
Dean winced as he heard the sharp crack of something slapping skin. He had a feeling Meg let the guy know how she felt about being referred to as a cunt.
“He was using barbed wire to tie Ruby up,” Meg said, calm as could be like she hadn’t just made a grown man squeak like a rat in a trap. “That was not in the agreement.”
“It wasn’t not in the agreement! I said tied up, I didn’t say with what.”
“Well, unfortunately for you, bucko,” Gabriel finally joined the conversation, “that’s not how this works. You have the least amount of say in any of these proceedings. If you don’t stipulate something specifically in the prior agreement, the sub has the right to refuse anything she doesn’t want to do.”
“She has the right to refuse anything that is in the agreement,” Meg added.
“You really think you can do business if you treat your customers like shit, Milton?”
“To be quite frank, I don’t need your business. We don’t give out three strikes at this club, only one.”
“You can’t—!”
“You’re banned for life.”
“You can’t ban me for life! I would never come back here!”
“However you want to look at it, Tim-ster. Here’s a coupon for a free drink at the bar upstairs. Thank you for visiting Sweet Things.”
“But, what—don’t touch me—”
The door swung open and Dean stepped back so that two burly staff security could escort a balding man in a business suit out by holding onto an arm each. He was taken to the stairs that led back up to the ground level.
“Hey, Deano,” Meg said as she sauntered out of the room, Ruby following behind.
Ruby’s wrists were bandaged and there was an angry, red bite mark on the swell of her left breast. Meg slapped his ass as she passed and Dean shot her an unamused look. Ruby gave him a smile that was only a shadow of her usual smirk.
“Say hi to your little brother for me,” Ruby said.
“No way in hell,” Dean replied out of habit as he entered Gabriel’s office. Ruby had seen a picture of Sam on his cell phone once and had been pestering him to introduce them for two months. She was only five years older than Sam, but there was a huge difference between fifteen and twenty.
“Dean, hi. Thank you so much for coming out on such short notice. Shut the door, please.”
Dean shut the door and sat down in one of the chairs in front of his boss’ desk. The man surprised him by walking around the desk and taking the chair next to him. Gabriel sat back and twisted his hands over the armrests. Dean decided he was going to let Gabriel be in charge of how this conversation went since he had no idea what it was about. He looked around the office, noticing for the first time that it looked a bit like a public elementary school vice principal’s office with cheap furniture, cheap filing cabinets, and a jar of cheap candy on the desk.
Dean let his eyes wander back to Gabriel; he looked constipated.
“Sorry, freckles (Dean glared at the nickname), I’m not stalling on purpose here. I’m just not sure how to broach the topic. Do I tell you about my dilemma or entice you with money first?”
Dean shrugged. “Whatever you decide, do it fast. I need to be home as close to one as I can.”
Gabriel checked his watch and then twisted the extravagant piece of jewelry around his wrist.
“That doesn’t give me much time.”
“Does this require a long explanation?”
“Yes and no.”
“What’s the short version?”
“The short version? Well, I guess it’s that I want to pay you to sub for someone full time.”
Dean took a few minutes to process that. As far as he was aware, a full time sub generally meant a live-in sub. Or at least one who spent anywhere from forty to eighty hours each week living at his dom’s home. The arrangement was a rare one as people who agreed to a long-term dom/sub relationship were usually, well, in a relationship. It also required people who were experienced and comfortable with the lifestyle. Dean had been doing this for about a year, but had probably done no more than thirty sessions, the longest of which had only lasted four hours. Dean was not the guy you went to when you were looking to hire a full time sub. Dean didn’t get it, so he stated as much.
“I don’t get it.”
“Well, that’s probably because you only got the short version.”
Dean sighed loudly and dramatically. Gabriel quirked a smile.
“So what’s the long version?”
“Well, the long version is that my little brother—is not himself.”
Dean waited. And then, “I appreciate brevity at the moment, but I hope that’s not the entirety of the long version.”
Gabriel chuckled. “No, it’s only the beginning. You want a drink? I want a drink.”
“Gabriel—”
“It’ll only be a moment.” He picked up the receiver from the phone on his desk and pushed a series of three buttons. “Kali, my fiery samosa.” Dean heard shouting on the other end of the line. “Can you make up one of those watermelon martinis with the sugar-cucumber rim? Double the Midori. Have one of the boys bring it down to my office. Dean, you want anything?”
“Water.”
“And some water. The good stuff. None of that bottled tap water crap. Thanks, babe.”
Gabriel hung up and settled back in the chair. He started to chew on a fingernail.
“Gabriel, can you talk while we wait?”
“I don’t know. I just—I’m really debating what to do and how much to tell you. I mean, experience tells me that by being vague about the details, the end result is less than ideal. If not outright disastrous. But then, I don’t know you. Or really any of the other guys who work here, so I don’t particularly feel like airing out all my dirty laundry. Especially since it’s not even mine, it’s my brother’s.”
“Am I not the first person you’ve asked for help?” Dean asked, feeling oddly miffed.
“Not the first, not the second, not the tenth. You’re kind of a last ditch effort here. A last resort. A Hail Mary. Scraping the bottom of the—”
“I got it,” Dean interrupted. “And I think I understand. I’m certainly not ready to be a full time sub for someone, so you wouldn’t ask me.”
“Exactly. Plus, there’s also the fact that you’re not even a real sub.”
Dean blinked in confusion. Then he shook his head. “What?”
Before Gabriel could answer, someone knocked on the door. The man jumped from his seat and opened the door to retrieve his hot pink concoction. It was full to the brim and he took a careful sip from it as he shut the door with his foot and handed Dean a bottle of Vox water. Gabriel settled back in his seat, taking a longer draught from the oversized martini glass and Dean forgot the bottle in his hand.
“What do you mean I’m not a real sub? Because I won’t have sex with clients?”
“No, not that at all. Although, that’s another issue.”
“Dude, I’m tired. Start making sense soon or I’m outta here.”
“Look, Dean, I’m not implying that there’s anything wrong with what you do or that you’re bad at it. It’s just that, when I look for clients for you, I look for the guys who get off on bossing around someone larger than they are. People who enjoy seeing defiance in your eyes and like to see you struggle a bit and fight it at first. Quite frankly, I have to be very careful with you. You straddle the line of rape fantasy.”
The bottle crinkled as he tightened his hands into fists. He sat up straight and opened his mouth to protest.
“Not you,” Gabriel said. “The client. That’s why I’m careful to make sure I don’t pair you with someone who has that kind of fantasy. I already have a couple people who specialize in that.”
Dean shuddered and unconsciously shifted away. He couldn’t imagine why people would have those kinds of desires.
“I don’t get it. What does that have to do with me not being a sub? I let them tie me up, I let them be in control—I submit to them.”
“Well, sort of. But that’s what they enjoy. That you’re not really submitting to them, you’re being overpowered by them. In a consensual kind of way. Tell me, when one of them uses a paddle on you or nipple clamps—” Dean blushed furiously at the knowledge that his boss knew the kinds of things he did, but of course he did “—what makes you get off on it?”
“What?”
“You like it, don’t you?”
Dean felt dizzy with how hard he was blushing now.
“The question is why. Why do like being spanked or having your nipples tortured into oversensitivity? Is it because that’s what your dom wants?”
Dean’s brow creased. “I don’t understand.”
“Exactly. The thrill for you isn’t being obedient; it’s not being a good sub. The thrill for you is the pain. You’re actually more of a masochist than a submissive.”
“O-oh.” Dean still felt embarrassed, but he didn’t know if this revelation was a good thing or a bad thing. He supposed it didn’t make that much of a difference—one wasn’t weirder than the other.
“But, I have noticed that you enjoy orgasm denial.”
Dean covered his face with a hand. “Do watch all your employee’s sessions?”
“Yes, but not for sexual reasons. Here’s the thing, Dean. I think you are submissive. Deep inside you have a need not only for someone to take control, but for yourself to relinquish it. Being tied up and manhandled and spanked or whatever feels good, but it’s just sex, more or less. But when you have a dom who tells you that you can’t come—and you obey him—it heightens your pleasure. It calms you down. No matter how worked up you get with the need to come, when you’re not in control anymore, you feel free, don’t you?”
Dean picked at the label on the cylindrical bottle and couldn’t meet Gabriel’s eyes. The man had put into words the feeling Dean had been unable to describe whenever he had his sessions with Zeke. He wasn’t really attracted to him, found him a little annoying to be honest, but the release with him was always so good because Zeke had total control over it.
“I think you could not only enjoy being a real sub, but even benefit from it. But the games you play with the clients you service here are usually power games, which there’s just an agreed upon understanding at the beginning who will eventually win. That’s not a dominant/submissive relationship. It’s kind of funny; you don’t fit into the B&D scene or the S&M scene. You’re more of a B&M.”
“A BM?” Dean said dryly. “That sounds sexy.”
Gabriel smiled around his drink as he took another large gulp. “Anyway, if I thought you couldn’t truly be a submissive, and that you really aren’t one at all, I wouldn’t even be considering asking you this.”
Oh, right. Dean was here to do Gabriel a favor involving his brother, not get his Cosmo score on “What Kind of Sex Fiend Are You?” quiz. He cleared his throat and opened the bottle of water. He took a sip and determined that it tasted exactly like the bottled tap water crap.
“So, you think I’m a submissive, but a very unknowledgeable one, and you want me to become a full time sub for your brother who is—‘not himself.’ Do I have it right so far?”
Gabriel set his drink down on the desk and then put his hands in his lap. He kept his eyes focused on his hands.
“My little brother has always been a bit—on the quirky side shall we say. He was diagnosed with OCD when he was thirteen. Not the lights on and off and open and close doors and cabinets kind, but close to it. He peels the labels off of everything, he picks at anything that isn’t smooth or flush. It becomes a problem when he has uneven nails or scabs—he picks at them until his nails are nubs and small wounds won’t completely heal for months, leaving scars behind. He also has a thing about orderliness. He liked things clean then, not obsessively so, but clean for a child his age. What he really got out of control about was organizing things. Organizing by size, color, alphabetization—anything that could have an ‘order.’ And he got upset when things were disorderly and forgot about other tasks in lieu of ‘fixing the mess.’”
Gabriel smiled wryly. “My sister and I were such total dicks. If our parents told us to clean our rooms, we’d just find Cas and show it to him and let his neurosis do the work for us. But we were kids too. We didn’t get what it did to him. But it wasn’t that bad then. He could function in the real world. He could cope with messes and disorder so long as they weren’t in his space. He didn’t drop everything to organize a stranger’s purse on the bus, you know?”
Dean nodded, curious enough to be patient even though he didn’t know what this had to do with the mysterious little brother needing a sub.
“So. He’s been like that since he was born. It’s just in his nature. And it was manageable. In fact, after he was diagnosed and had it explained to him, he was able to control his tendencies better. He was fine. He went through high school and had some friends. Played on the chess team, went on hikes with the nature club. He went to college at Yale. Smart little bugger. Definitely made it out of Small Time, Nebraska unlike his siblings.”
Dean was surprised to learn that Gabriel was a Huntsville native, or least native to Nebraska. Though he supposed one didn’t pick random cities in Nebraska when they decided to open up a gay bar and club. One tended not to think of Nebraska at all when it came to LGBT entrepreneurial endeavors.
“So, I’m guessing something happened that made his OCD worse?”
Gabriel half shrugged. “Kind of. His OCD is about the same. We were told that the term is offensive and disrespectful to sufferers of OCD, but ‘anal retentive’ is accurate.”
Dean let out a small huff of a laugh and gave Gabriel a reproving smile.
“That never really changed. I just said he learned to manage it. What happened to him—gave him PTSD. And his OCD made him more susceptible to the ramifications of living with PTSD. He doesn’t really have the anger though—it manifests itself more as fear. Fear of everything. The more we tried to get him help and to force him to start interacting with the world again, the more he withdrew and became fearful.
“You know, the modern age is so wonderful these days. It’s possible to work out of your home and have everything you could possibly need delivered right to your doorstep. It makes it completely possible to lock yourself away and never need to come out.” Dean noticed Gabriel’s knuckles were white as he held his hands absolutely still. “Castiel hasn’t left his condo in almost seven years.”
Dean felt his jaw drop open. “He’s never gone outside at all? Not even to the hallway or the lobby?”
Gabriel shook his head. He hasn’t opened a window or his blackout curtains. I’m not sure he’s even seen the sky or the sun outside of movies and television in years.” He laughed bitterly. “But he’s got his vitamin D supplement pills, so he’s fine.”
The man looked disgusted and Dean could tell that this was an argument he’d had with his brother more than once.
“What happened?” Dean couldn’t help but ask. “What caused the PTSD?”
Gabriel crossed his legs and smoothed out a wrinkle in his khakis. “That’s not anything you need to know to do this job.”
Dean tightened his lips, but accepted that answer. “So, if he’s afraid of the world, why would he invite a stranger into his home?”
“He was into the d/s scene before he...well, before. Being in control—it played to his desire for orderliness. When he had control over something as uncontrollable and unpredictable as a human it made him feel like he had control of himself. That he could control his illness and trust himself. After he started doming, his OCD all but faded from his life except for when he was doming. He was—good. He was happy.”
Gabriel inhaled and exhaled deeply before continuing. “After—well, after. I did everything I could to try to help him. Therapists, medication, hypnosis, any crack theory I could find. And he was willing to try most of them. That’s the worst part. He feels guilty. He feels like a burden or like he’s some shameful secret that my sister and I have to hide. But it’s just about helping him. It really is…ugh!”
Gabriel stood up and turned his back to Dean. He saw him quickly moving his hand in front of his face and Dean looked at his feet to pretend like he didn’t notice his boss was fighting back tears. Gabriel opened the jar of candy and pulled out a dum-dum. He offered one to Dean who declined with a shake of his head. Gabriel tossed the wrapper into the garbage and then sat back down with the lollipop tucked up into his cheek.
“So one day I decided that the poor guy hasn’t been laid, in like, years, so I asked one of my boys here to pay him a visit. I brought the most submissive guy on my roster at the time, not because I thought Cas would be up for a scene, but because I needed a guy who could sit still and quiet for a long time and be patient enough to wait for Cas to get with the program.
“It did take a little bit of time to get us in the door, and even more time for Cas to finally go into the room with the guy, but he did go. And he easily picked up on the guy’s submissive nature. I hung around just in case shit went down. I mean, Cas has never been violent, but he’d been secluded for so long I just didn’t know what to expect. After about an hour I went in to take a peek and make sure everything was okay—and there was Cas, doming the hell out of Inias and the kid was loving it. I was so shocked to see Cas being Cas that I didn’t even realize I was watching my brother do seriously kinky shit with one of my employees.”
Dean made a face.
“He was even better after they were done. For a while. I mean, he wasn’t ready to go outside, but we did order a pizza. That was huge. He doesn’t trust people to prepare his food, but that night I guess he’d worked up enough an appetite…” Gabriel chuckled and Dean shook his head.
“Dude, that’s your brother.”
“Exactly. It was my brother. And I missed him. So, I hired Inias to sub for him full time. And it helped. He got better and better. His phobias dwindled and he wasn’t as scared and paranoid anymore. I was so close to getting him to go outside again, but then Inias left. Cas and Inias had enjoyed their time together, but it never developed into an emotional relationship. So, when Inias decided to follow his boyfriend across country, I couldn’t convince him to stay.
“Cas regressed. Really badly. I’ve been supplying him with subs ever since—for oh, three years now. With varying degrees of success. No one has ever worked out as well as Inias did, but he’s had spurts of progress, and overall he was better. Less stressed, more open to life. But lately, over the past several months, he’s been withdrawing more and more and finding problems with the new subs. The last five haven’t lasted longer than a week. The most recent one he kicked out during the interview. No one even got naked.”
“Interview?”
Gabriel sighed. “He does have a process. And now he’s worse than ever. And maybe I should just give up and let him be. But, I can’t. I miss my brother. And I love him. And I’ve seen that he’s still in there and this is the only way I know that has helped him at all. And I’m not ready to give up yet.”
Dean fidgeted in the following silence. This was not just a job. Gabriel was asking him to be some kind of sex therapy for his seriously disturbed brother. He was asking him to take on a role that apparently he might not have the right constitution for. Gabriel was asking not only for Dean to place a lot of trust in him, but also for Dean to be trustworthy with his personal business and his brother’s wellbeing. This was a seriously heavy request. So, Dean deflected.
“Wow. So, you’ve had to go through this dozens of times?”
“Eh, not exactly. I just told them that Cas was very particular. I think sending them in blind is probably why there were so many problems. A contract has to be signed before anything even happens, and I think Cas’ thoroughness might have freaked one or two out. That’s why I thought being up front about everything might yield better results.”
“But why me?”
Gabriel shrugged. “You’re the bottom of the barrel, kiddo. After you, I got nothing. So, I need to provide you with the best possible chance of succeeding.”
Dean bobbed his head and examined his cuticles. They were really fascinating.
“So, uh…” Gabriel trailed off.
“Look man, I’m really sorry about your brother. And you’ve been good to me, in a lot of ways. But this just seems—”
“Wait! There is one more thing. We haven’t discussed the subject of payment.” Gabriel chuckled like he’d just told a joke. Dean gave him a blank look. Gabriel cleared his throat. “Anywho, let me tell you what the job would entail and how you’d be compensated. Cas will fight me on this, but my goal is to get him to agree to have you be with him in his apartment for eight hours on weekdays, both Friday and Saturday nights, and you can have your weeknights (except Friday), Saturday day, and all day Sunday off.
“That’s a lot of hours.”
Gabriel shrugged. “It’s about seventy-two by my figuring. But how many hours do you work at Heavenly Host right now?”
Dean calculated his hours including double shifts and the overnight shifts on weekends. “I suppose it’s about that. Sometimes more, sometimes less.”
“And you have to factor in the extra hours you pull in here. I know it’s not a lot, but it is work.”
Dean gave a half-shrug. Gabriel raised an eyebrow.
“You don’t consider it work. Maybe there’s more sub in you than I thought. How much do you make?”
Dean didn’t even pretend like he had to think about it. He’d definitely parsed out how much he made working for Crowley—it was the only way he could justify to himself not trying to find a more legitimate job. His friend, Benny, worked at La Rècolte, the only four star restaurant in Huntsville, to put himself through culinary school. He easily cleared a couple hundred dollars on weekdays, and weekends could be double or triple that. However, he had to stand on his feet for hours and carry around heavy trays that left him with a tweaked back and elbow.
Dean on the other hand only had to dance mostly naked for a few minutes a night, and deliver some drinks and an occasional appetizer. Dancing tips, waiting tips, and his nominal hourly fee earned him an average of $1400 per week depending on the time of year, which theme nights he participated in, and if he worked six out of seven nights. Discounting the approximate four weeks total he took off from work, usually around his birthday and Sam’s birthday as opposed to holidays, he made about $67,000 dollars a year. About $44,000 was actually usable after taxes. It was possible for a single person to live very comfortably on that kind of money, but Dean had to support his brother and father, save up for his brother’s college fund, and keep an emergency fund squirreled away for posting his father’s bail.
Dean wasn’t sure where Gabriel was going with the question, but he answered truthfully. “I make between sixty-five and seventy thousand a year at Heavenly Host. Another ten to twenty thousand from you, but I haven’t worked a full year for you yet, so I’m not sure.”
Gabriel nodded. “That’s not bad. It’s not engineering money, but it puts food on the table.”
Dean narrowed his eyes slightly. Had Gabriel picked engineering at random? Or had he somehow talked to someone who knew that when he’d graduated high school Dean had managed to get one year of college under his belt with the goal of getting a mechanical engineering degree before his father finally went off the rails for good. It had been a long, winding, inevitable path from his mother’s death eleven years prior that resulted in Dean having to leave college to support his family. But there’s no way Gabriel could know that; those two parts of his life didn’t intersect at all. The man continued before Dean could think himself into a paranoid panic.
“How would you like to have enough money for food on the table, gas in the car, and one of those coconut drinks with the tiny umbrellas in your hand while you relax on a sunny beach in the Caribbean?”
Dean felt his face scrunch up into a mixture of reactions: confusion, longing, confusion again; mostly confusion.
“Gabriel,” Dean sighed, his exhaustion really starting to weigh on him.
“Okay, okay. Look. I’m asking you to be a full time sub for my brother. Six days a week, you get weeknights off and all of Sunday. And you’ll be compensated $2500 per week. If you work, say, forty-eight weeks a year, that’s $120,000.”
Dean’s eyebrows shot up.
“No stripping, no new clients, no creepy clients, no really late nights, a set schedule so you can actually make plans….what do you think?”
Dean exhaled slowly. He wasn’t sure his brain was firing on all pistons.
“I’m not saying no, but I need to think about it when I’m more awake.”
“Of course. I mean, I would need an answer by tomorrow morning.”
“What?”
“Just for the interview! Not if you’ll take the job. Hell, we don’t know if my brother will take you.”
Dean felt a bit miffed by that implication; he’d always been picked first or second in gym class.
“So, you want me to interview with your brother tomorrow morning?”
“Yes, if you can. Please. It’ll be a long interview, so I’ll compensate you for your time.”
Dean was tired and just wanted to go home. “Sure, fine. What time?”
“Can you meet me in the Sweet Things parking lot at eight?”
“In the morning?”
“Yes. Cas has a schedule.”
“Gabriel, I’m not going to get home until almost two o’clock and you want me back here by eight?”
“Yes. I’ll pay you two thousand. Cash. Under the table.”
Dean knew he couldn’t say no to that. “Okay. What should I wear?”
“Whatever you like. I can’t give you any pointers; Cas will sniff that out. Just be yourself. Either he likes you or he doesn’t.”
“Fantastic. So, I can be a total dick tomorrow so he won’t hire me and I’ll still get two grand? I guess that’s worth getting up for.”
Gabriel rolled his eyes, but Dean could see the mild fear in them.
“Don’t worry. I won’t throw the interview, but this is also an interview for me. If I don’t feel comfortable or think it would be a bad match—I’m going to choose not to do it.”
“I understand.”
“Alright then,” Dean said while standing up. “I’ll see you here tomorrow at eight, then.”
“Dean,” Gabriel said around chewing his thumbnail. “There’s one more thing.”
“Of course there is. What is it?”
“You’re—you’re going to be agreeing to…having sex with him. I mean the whole enchilada. Hands, mouths, dicks in all kinds of orifices.”
Dean froze, not sure how to process that.
“And…you’re going to have to get tested and provide proof that you’re clean. So you can bareback.”
Dean’s brain kept glitching.
“And you’re going to have to be utterly monogamous so long as you’re with him.”
Dean gripped the back of the chair tightly. He thought for a long moment before he looked at Gabriel.
“You’re asking me to cross that line. Into prostitution.”
Gabriel kind of shrugged. “Yes and no? But, mostly yes.”
Dean started to shake his head but Gabriel said quickly, “Just interview with him. Two thousand dollars to talk to him.”
Dean sighed heavily. “Alright. Fine. See you tomorrow.”