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FIRST BITE TO SOOTHE

New Orleans, man. It's like Vegas. That's got to be why Dean feels so comfortable there. The heat is different, it's not all sun-baked and deserts. It's more like being wrapped around steam, the heavy stuff, liquid dripping down Dean's back and neck. He likes it. From this angle – slouched against a wall like a crooked question mark - he can spy a droplet trickling down the back of Roman's neck. So obviously he goes to lick it off.

Roman's back arches and he presses into Dean's touch. Every move he makes is fucking beautiful. Dean grins into the slick of Roman's skin, at the rumbling sigh working its way through Roman. Roman's got his hair all tied back, in one of those slipknot buns, and he's fucking glowing in the twilight. Dean's got battered hands, some of his fingers are taped up and there's concrete dust under his nails. There's an ache through his shoulder that he's come to expect now. Roman always knows when it gets bad; the moment they're clear backstage he sits Dean down and starts working on Dean's sore shoulder, in just the right way.

There's a shout from up front and their order is ready. Roman scopes a look over his shoulder at Dean, those fucking fantastic eyes – they're like stained glass with a fire behind them when Rome's pissed off – cutting at Dean, telling him Roman's planning on getting him back. Dean smirks, oh yes, according to fucking plan then.

They're outside anyway, it's one of those places that serves right out on the street, and they wander away, tucking into fried goodness. This is definitely a cheat night. Dean eats fast, tossing his head to get a dangling scrub of curls out of his eyeline. Roman is definitely laughing at him, Roman who never has a hair out of place, in and out of the ring. Roman who is so fucking beautiful it, like, hurts Dean's eyes sometimes to look at him. It's why he digs his teeth into Roman's bottom lip and why he leaves a trail of bruises across Roman's neck, ribs and chest. He's not marring the ridiculous perfection, he's reminding himself that he gets to have it. Plus he sees how crazy it drives Roman, all those noises he makes, fucking gorgeous.

Like right now, as Roman looks at him, like he knows what Dean's thinking. Dean sucks up a lingering mouthful of food and licks his lips clean. Roman's eyes darken – sunset behind glass now, the tight calm before the fucking storm. There's a punch of victory in Dean's hollow chest. He grins.

Roman's got game though because he stands there, his back to crumbling bricks, in a dark vest that shows off his every wet-dream angle and he looks at Dean like he's thinking of a million filthy things and Dean is going to like them. Fuck. Of course. Now Roman's grinning and the glass has gotten smoky.

They eat round their grins, the air still so warm around them. Dean still loves it. Maybe because he was here when he stole Seth's gold and drove the fucker crazy by taking a million pictures around New Orleans, having a good time, without Seth, with Seth's gold. He might have pressed his fingers against Seth's nameplate, feeling the cold bite of those letters. He'd wanted Roman there so fucking fiercely, like when a kidney gets busted, that kind of pain.

Anyway, Dean's here again now and so is Roman and they've both finished their meals.

Roman tilts his head and it's like he's giving off some kind of steam of his own because Dean ends up walking right up to him – his right sneaker has a hole in the heel and he's sweating through his vest under a gray shirt that he probably swiped from Drake down in Florida. He's a mess, he's always a mess. Roman's hands aren't battered or taped and they settle on Dean as easy as lying. Roman has always been the most gorgeous man Dean's ever seen but he's come to be sure that Roman's a couple of shades fucked up too. Because Roman doesn't tell Dean to fuck off, he doesn't sneer or laugh like cruelty or tell Dean he's crazy. He sleeps at Dean's back, slides him packets of mustard because Dean wants to actually taste his breakfast, not chew cardboard. He lies under Dean, so willing, the slip-slide of them together, the most gorgeous fucking thing. Dean shudders thinking about it, his own eyes glassing out. Because Roman likes Dean making a mess of him amongst kisses that aren't always savage because Roman likes to slow things down too and Dean can even stand that because its Roman.

No doubt Roman sees all of that on Dean's face because there's that look in his eyes – bonfires and burning tar and maybe the glass is melting or it can't because Roman's got the kind of steel running through him that nothing can dent. Roman drags his hands across Dean's waist, under Dean's shirt and pulls him close so that they're flush together, sweating skin and damp cotton and Dean sort of falls, crumples, into Roman because he can't be that close and not taste.

He can feel Roman's smile, the swipe of his tongue. The smell of New Orleans is thick and Dean can taste the sauce that coated Roman's dinner, right there on Roman's lips. The kiss gets dirty fast, Dean's got a hand slammed up against the wall at Roman's shoulder, then it rides down against skin and his free fingers flex at the side of Roman's face. There's pain under tape and it's so fucking good. Roman's gripping Dean keen enough to leave bruises. Dean loves that, it's why Roman's digging in. Dean can feel how its working for Roman too. They've got this, they've got this. The ache in Dean's shoulder all blends in. Roman's rumbles sounds against Dean's lips, his hand deliberately straying to Dean's bad shoulder again.

Yes, of course it still hurts. Yes, of course Dean shudders because Roman is touching him like nobody else. Dean's used to bruises and cuts under skin but this...this tenderness, it's something he can't usually take. But it's Roman and he won't stop, with a look in his eyes like candlelight and stained glass. It's like those slow kisses, like so many fucking things when it comes to Roman.

And the night is still so fucking young. Dean bites at Roman's lips, pushing close like there's any air left between them to squeeze out. He's feeling a slip-slide, that kidney-punch burn and flicker of candlelight, no bite of memories or gold letters but New Orleans and Roman, soaking past his fucking skin.

-the end