"I believe you owe me sixty bucks." Ah, but it was good to fleece the stupid. Nothing like a Friday night in redneck country. "Fucking shark, dude." Dean's hand didn't waver. "You're the sucker that took the bet." "Yeah, yeah," the other guy grumbled good-naturedly as he tipped his oil-smeared John Deere cap in recognition of Dean's skill, and slapped the twenties into Dean's palm. "Let me know if you feel like parting with more of your money," Dean nodded, and headed away from the pool tables and to the bar to buy himself a well-deserved celebratory beer. So far, it had been a damn good night. The haunted pawn shop he'd been investigating had turned out to be a bored trickster – a simple spell had taken care of that problem. He had money in his pocket and nothing else to do until the next day when he checked in with Dad, and the bar was teeming with easy-looking girls all wearing either short-shorts or teeny-tiny halter tops. Or, Lord love 'em, both. God bless summertime in the Deep South. Dean walked up to the bar and ordered a Bud and a shot, nodded and smiled a greeting at the guy on the stool next to him. Didn't seem the usual type for a backwoods joint like this, where the alcohol flowed and the music was loud and mostly kuntry with a k. Dude was nursing his beer, for one thing, instead of slamming it down. And his jeans, t-shirt, and leather jacket were nondescript – no loud, flashy patterns, no polo ties or ten gallon hats. Dean downed his shot with a shudder and a smack of the lips, and snagged his beer, intending to head out to the dance floor and chat up one of the easier-looking blondes, when the guy spoke. "Nice English." Dean stopped and turned, puzzled smile in place. "Native tongue, man." The guy – tall, leanly muscled, dark-haired – had an easy, open grin. "I meant the spin on the ball on that last shot." "Oh." Dean shrugged, even though he was secretly pleased someone had noticed. Foghat had been replaced by Garth Brooks, and the dance floor was a little too crowded for any serious flirtation. No harm in staying here for a minute. "Yeah, well, when you've got it..." "You don't need to show it off," and, before Dean could figure out if he'd just been insulted, the other guy held out a hand. "Slevin Kelevra." "Dean Winchester." Slevin had a nice, firm handshake, and Dean could feel the calluses on his thumb and forefinger – the kind of calluses that only came from lots of hours firing a pistol. And his eyes, a really pretty shade of brown, with the longest lashes Dean had ever seen on a guy, sized Dean up in about a second flat. Dean's own eyes narrowed in recognition. Like knew its own, after all. "Kind of a funny name, Slevin." Slevin's smile was rueful, changed his face ever so slightly. For a split second, the affable, good-looking man he'd just met was replaced by a stone-cold killer. Dean shivered without even noticing. "Yeah, I get that a lot," Slevin shrugged. The look disappeared in a flash, and Slevin was, once again, open and easy. Dean decided he must have imagined it. "It's cool, though. Sounds like a name from one of those old noir films from back in the day." He signaled for another round of shots. "Or a Jimmy Cagney movie." "I always liked Fred McMurray myself." "Really?" Fred McMurray, man. Dean hadn't pegged Slevin as the type, and he liked to think of himself as a pretty good judge of people. He slouched against the counter, decided a small test was in order. "Always thought he was a sucker for constantly falling for the wrong women." "Yeah, but the women..." Slevin drawled, patting his heart in an exaggerated manner. "Barbara Stanwyck." "Ida Lupino." "Oh, dude." Dean had jerked off to the thought of Ida Lupino's rack more times than he could count. The bartender dropped off the shots, and Dean shoved one over to Slevin. "Veronica Lake." Slevin tapped his shot glass against Dean's. Went down easier this time, and Dean, who was always up for a bit of easy conversation that may or may not lead to something else (he'd noticed the way Slevin's eyes kept dropping to his hands, knew what it meant), decided that maybe the blondes could wait. Besides, he really hated .38 Special. "You know your noir," Slevin said, soft-looking lips glossy with whiskey, and it took Dean a second to recall what the hell they were talking about. "Grew up watching a lot of late night tv," he replied. Some nights, it had been the only thing that kept him relatively sane. Although Sam would probably argue that. Then again, his brother was a righteous idiot about a lot of things, classic movies being among them. You'd think being around an awesome arbiter of all things cool like Dean would have taught him better, too. "Yeah, me too." For another second, that same hard, inscrutable look was back on Slevin's face, turning light brown eyes almost black. "Yeah?" Dean cocked his head and looked at his companion – really looked, studied him, and not just as a potential pick-up. The lanky, but sturdy, build, the steady gaze, steady hands, the graceful, smooth way he moved, like he'd had some training, seen some action. Dean bet if he were to ask Slevin to give him details of the guy sitting four stools down, Slevin would know his shoe size. "Who's your favorite actor?" he asked. He was willing to bet it'd be one of three people. "Paul Newman." Bingo. Yeah, Slevin was a hunter of some type, alright. Seemed his hunch from earlier was dead on. "Good choice." Slevin signaled for two more shots. "What about you?" "Steve McQueen." "Dude, Bullit." "Bullit." They clinked their beer bottles in a toast. "Coolest car in a film ever." "Coolest car in a film, yes. But not the coolest car," Dean said, playing on another hunch. Yeah, there was always a chance he could be wrong, but he didn't think so. Well, he sure as hell hoped he wasn't, anyway. Slevin kept looking down at his thumb ring, man, and that had to count for something, even in the middle of nowhere Alabama. "How's that?" Slevin asked, brows drawn together in confusion. "That's easy, man." Dean threw back his shot, and watched with ill-disguised appreciation as Slevin did the same, throat working. It was a nice throat, too. Dean wondered what it would taste like. "I own the coolest car ever." "Uh huh." "1967 Chevy Impala." Dean bit back the grin when Slevin straightened up, gave Dean a wide, admiring look. "Get out." Dean fished in the pocket of his jacket and held up the car key. "Parked outside." "Alright, I'll bite." They both polished off their beers, and Dean led Slevin outside to the crowded parking lot. His baby was parked under one of the streetlamps, and Slevin's low whistle of envy had Dean grinning for an entirely different reason. Sometimes, it really was too easy, even for an equal. Then again, Dean liked easy. Hell, he fucking loved it. His job was tough, man. He expected his pleasures – and he had a goddamn good idea about how pleasurable Slevin's hands would be – to be anything but tough. "Man, you weren't kidding." "Told you," Dean replied, certain he looked as smug as he felt. Slevin ran a slow lover's hand along the hood. Dean bit his lip and tried not to be jealous of his car. "What's she top out at?" "140, easy. My girl can move." "Nice." Dean stepped beside Slevin, stepped close enough so that their hips brushed. And gave himself a mental high-five when Slevin shifted slightly against him. "Know anyplace around here where we could open her up?" Dean asked, dropping his voice into his best seductive purr. Slevin canted a glance at him that told Dean everything he wanted to know. "Yeah. Yeah, man, I know a place." A dark eyebrow raised in challenge. "You wanna?" "Yeah." Fuck yeah, even. "Let's do it." They both hopped in the car, and Slevin directed him to the middle of nowhere, through a tangle of hairpin twists that led to a flat stretch of nothing but open road. And Dean just throttled it, tac climbing, engine rumbling and purring, hot, muggy breeze rushing from the open windows, and he was humping over the 100 mark when Slevin loomed over from the passenger seat and palmed his crotch. He wasn't even surprised to find he was completely hard, and he spread his knees to better let Slevin unzip his jeans and free his cock. "Keep driving," Slevin murmured in his ear, then bent his head, awkward and stiff, under the steering wheel. Jesus fucking Christ on toast, but it was good to be right. Dean clamped his hands around worn leather, foot pushing on the gas as Slevin started to bob his head, all suction and tongue around Dean's cock, lips wet and tight, sliding down like a clamp. Dean's eyes blurred – he hoped like hell a rabbit or deer didn't decide to jump out in front of him, because he didn't think he could stop if he wanted to. He flexed his hips in time with each movement, feasted on slurping moans, audible even over the engine and the roaring in his ears. He didn't dare move his hands from the steering wheel. Faster, faster, 111, 112, Slevin working his cock like a pro, two fingers holding his cock in place for Slevin's mouth, 113, 114, Slevin's tongue flickering over the slit, then sliding along the shaft again and again, the motions hot and wicked fast, 115, 116, 117, and Dean jerked, bucked, 118, 119, 120, came in thick spurts down Slevin's throat. He eased his foot off the gas, eased down, body sated, humming, as Slevin moved up, sticky lips nuzzling under the collar of his jacket. Dean pulled over on the soft shoulder of the road, gravel crunching under tires, and his mouth was on Slevin's the second he threw it in park and turned off the engine. Slevin's lips were still sticky, and he tasted of come and beer, but his tongue was voluptuously soft, moved over, with Dean's in a slow dance. "Helluva reception," Dean murmured, when they finally pulled apart. "Like you said. It's a nice car." Dean laughed. "Yeah, it is." He bit down on that full, pouty lower lip as he teased Slevin's zipper. "Want me to take care of that for you now?" Slevin flexed under his hand, nodded. "Wouldn't complain." Dean smiled, cocky and sure, and drew the zipper down, drew Slevin's cock out, wetting his palm before starting a slow, assured glide. Fit rather nice in his fingers. "Gotta box of condoms and a bottle of lube back in my motel room," he murmured, and grazed Slevin's earlobe with his teeth. "Think...uh, fuck..." Slevin jerked up, hand dropping over Dean's. "...think we'll...need the whole box?" "We can try. No harm in being prepared." "Boy scout," Slevin groaned and sought Dean's mouth. They were still kissing, slow and easy, when Slevin stiffened, then came all over Dean's hand. "Nice," Slevin sighed, then blinked owlishly. "Magic hands." "Why I picked you up." Picked him up? Dean met Slevin's amused look with his own puzzled one, and Slevin's winking grin spoke louder than words. Cock fucking sucker. He'd just been played by a master, and hadn't even realized. "Slick," he laughed, and grabbed a napkin from the glove box to clean off his hand. "Very slick." Slevin's eyes crinkled when he grinned and Dean stared at twin dimples. Wanted to run his tongue over them in the worst way. Wondered if one night was going to be enough, the way he was feeling. Fuck it, man, not like he couldn't be a persuasive bastard when the mood struck, and the iron was definitely hot right now. "My middle name is Slick," Slevin replied, and Dean was still laughing when Slevin pulled him in for another kiss.
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