They met in the middle of the room, their eyes locked. The other's eyes were pits of blue fire, and it hurt to make contact with them. So Dean fixated on his lips, soft and pink and full. He leaned forward to place a kiss on them, but was shut down as the prostitute moved to the side.

"I don't kiss," was breathed against Dean's ear, a hint of sadness to his voice.

Again, his heartstrings were tugged at, causing Dean to close his eyes to withstand the blow. No kissing―no kissing his Castiel. Wasn't that the story of his life? "Just once, please." He felt so low, begging a prostitute dressed up as his angel to kiss him. This was sin on a whole new level. What level of Hell did these deeds entail?

Sympathetic to Dean's plight, his makeshift Castiel nudged his face to the side. His lips were soft against Dean's own and they fit against Dean's own like puzzle pieces. He tasted faintly of rum and spearmint. As Dean leaned in to deepen the kiss, the other male whimpered, his signal for Dean to stop. The urge to keep kissing was strong—it had been so long since someone had asked to kiss him, and then kissed him in such a loving way—but they had to part. He had agreed to only one kiss, and if he kept kissing this beautiful sad puppy before him, he would lose his stable mental footing. If they didn't kiss, there was no attachment. And if there was no attachment, there was no room to be hurt. The prostitute always heard stories about clients falling in love with their prostitutes and being whisked away into the night for a better life. He had also heard about prostitutes falling in nonreciprocal love with their clients, and having their hearts smashed to the point of being fine powder. This Dean character was so in love with this Castiel that there would be no room for anyone else.

When the kiss was broken, their foreheads rested together, Dean's eyes closed and the prostitute's studying Dean's face. "Thank you for...y'know...letting me set this up this way..." Dean whispered, keeping his voice audible enough for the other to hear. For emphasis, he rubbed up the other's back, inwardly reveling in the softness of the trench coat against the roughness of his palm. "Especially for letting me call you Castiel."

The prostitute nodded, but otherwise kept to himself. This liaison was nothing new to him. His role was to play someone else for the client, whether the client recognized it or not. The job was to play a lover, a companion—if only for one night. The companion could be nameless, faceless; simply a body to love on and to be loved by. Or it could be staged to be someone they desired, but could never have. He would never be Brice, the boy who had been dealt bad cards in life. He would never be the innocent, sweet high schooler that people relied on. Only the prostitute; a lifelike toy to be used and then set aside as time ticked away.

They were silent for a moment, Dean's hand absently trailing up and down the other's trench coat. Dean didn't know how to go about this—he had never staged a....transaction like this. The few others had just fallen into place, starting with sex and ending with money. This had started with careful planning, would turn to sex, and would end in heartbreak. He sighed to himself and whispered, "Lay on the bed, Castiel."

With his Castiel on the bed, Dean took a second to take him in up and down. Just like Castiel, only a little thinner. He couldn't have found a better doppelganger if he had searched for months. That sent off sirens in the hunter's head, telling him just how meant to be he and Castiel were. If only it were that simple.

As gingerly as he could muster, Dean unbuttoned the trench coat and then the button-up covering Brice's chest. He would never admit it, but his hands were unsteady and sweaty; his brain was swimming with questions about his existence and how he had let himself get this lost in lust. Too late for those questions, though. He preoccupied himself with rowing kisses up and down the now exposed flesh, with marveling in the deep breaths the body took in response. The occasional nip was offered to the other's nipples, causing his breathing to become even more audible. There was a tingling sensation coursing up and down Dean's spine and a buzzing, droning noise in his ears. This all was so surreal.

The pants were the next to go. He fidgeted with the clasp for a moment, the primitive action of slipping the button through its slot alluding him. When he finally got the contraption to comply, he laid them on the bed beside them. Foreplay had never made him this nervous, even when he lost his virginity. It had come naturally to him, as if he had tapped into the well of raw sexuality that he would later use to bed a good portion of the female—and male—population of the United States. But foreplay had never involved someone like Castiel—someone he was completely and sinfully smitten with.

Next went the boxers, Dean kissing lines across the viewable flesh as the cloth descended down, inch by inch. His partner's erection was prominent in its stiffness, and heat radiated from it like nothing Dean had ever experienced. If he was that warm there, how warm would he be inside? Castiel did radiate goodness and innocence, though. He burnt away sin and cleansed things. All the more reason why this, right here, would be all they would ever have outside of their off-brand of friendship.

Having attention paid so closely to Brice, himself, was a new experience. Sex with the normal client involved rough, greedy hands and a mindset that screamed, "Me, me, me, me" without any room for, "You." These careful touches and gentle kisses lit fires within his veins and brought his blood to a boil. Half of the time he worked, he didn't even get an erection. But here he was, mostly naked with Dean fully dressed, and he was at full attention. He resolved to change that fact. He pulled on Dean's jacket and shirt, tossing both carelessly to the floor. Dean's eyes were so passionate, pools of molten emeralds and amber.

He was then allowed to move Dean onto the bed, to undress him further until they were both completely exposed. Straddling his customer, the makeshift Castiel ground down against Dean until he could feel the erection rubbing against his backside. He reached over into the pants beside them and fished out a condom, Dean's hands trailing up and down his chest all the while. Within seconds Dean's erection was sheathed by the latex. Dean gave a soft whispered moan as Brice eased down on his erection. The heat of the other's entrance birthed goosebumps along Dean's arms.

Sex was nothing new to Brice, but sex with Dean was a totally different experience. He was attuned with the needs of his partner, knowing just when to grind and when to thrust, where to kiss and where to bite. Skillfully he would turn Brice this way and that, never losing time or rhythm. Every move was seamless and beautiful, as if he had crafted it beforehand. His lips were everywhere at once, leaving kisses along Brice's flesh that seared deliciously, and his warm, calloused fingers kept Brice's mind and body from floating away.

This Castiel, Brice decided, stars flashing against his eyelids as Dean hit his prostate, didn't know what he was missing.

Throughout the act, Dean mumbled Castiel's name, softly at first, into the prostitute's neck. But as he grew nearer and nearer to his climax, his thrusts becoming more demanding and the gentle purrs became moans and pleas. He gripped the body, now below him, with such needs that a white tint shaded the tops of his knuckles. If it fazed the other male, he didn't show it. His back was still arched in pleasure and his mouth was still contorted in a delicate 'o'.

Dean was so lost in his bliss, in the body beneath him, that he didn't hear the faint fluttering of wings. Either time.

- - -

O:!

Sorry that took forever. My muse kinda went A.W.O.L. for a bit there. More when I get around to it.

Reviews are love. (: