This chapter gets dark, here, folks. Like, someone's going to need to man the flashlight. You've been warned.

The bar's familiar neon lights were a welcome sight to Dean as he parked the Impala in a secluded spot, away from other cars so as not to risk any dings. Not that he should've been driving, anyway. Those shots he'd had back at the Bunker were already taking their toll. He shut off the ignition and got out of the car, glancing around the lot. There were only a couple cars parked, probably bar staff. It was a Tuesday night, after all, and not exactly a prime night for partying. It didn't matter to Dean, though; he needed a drink, like, yesterday.

Though he recognized the place, from the outside, Dean had never actually been to this bar. The town nearby the Men of Letters hideout had a few nice places to drink. Usually he and Sam would hit up a small, local pub down the street from here. But tonight Dean was in the mood for something different, unfamiliar; a place where he was anonymous. Inside, the bar was pretty nice. There were booths along the walls and some high boys in the center. Towards the back, there were some comfortable-looking cushioned chairs and benches, grouped together if you wanted to have a more private setting for a party. The chandeliers that hung from the ceiling were dimmed, casting a soft glow over everything. There were a handful of people scattered throughout, locals most likely. Slipping off his leather jacket, Dean found an open seat at the bar, which was also dimly lit except for a backlight that alternated colors, highlighting the alcohol selection. The bar was playing some sort of techno dance crap that Dean typically hated, but what the hell? Tonight he was switching things up.

He glanced around, looking for a bartender. She was at the other end of the bar, chatting with a waitress. When she (finally) caught his eye, she flipped her bleached hair and wandered over looking mildly annoyed to have her conversation interrupted. She cocked a heavily penciled eyebrow and stared at him, expectantly; so much for fucking customer service.

"Can I get a double? Jack."

She wordlessly poured his drink and placed it on a napkin in front of him. He flipped her a credit card.

"Leave it open." Dean knew he was probably going to regret that but screw it. He badly needed to get fucked up tonight.

Since he was already buzzed from his earlier drinking he decided not to slam this one down, though he was mighty tempted. Instead he sipped his drink, the ice making chinking sounds in his glass, and thought back to his conversation with Sam. It was fucking brutal, coming clean to his brother like that. He'd never told anyone about that stuff; not even Bobby knew though maybe he suspected, Dean wasn't sure. The old man was smart. He could remember a few times back then when he and Sam were lucky enough to stay at Singer Auto, and Bobby would sit down with him, after Sammy had gone to bed, and want to know how things were going...really going. And Dean would lie and tell him everything was just fine, and Bobby would look at him and know he was lying.

As Dean sat and sipped his drink, other memories started to come back to him; memories he had shoved deep into the back recesses of his mind. Memories of himself, 17 years old and hungry because he had given the last frozen pizza to Sam, hanging around greasy truck stop diners and looking for takers. Memories of trucker cabs that smelled of sweat and stale cigarettes and unwashed clothes. Memories of dirty motels, of faceless bodies grinding against him, of someone else's ejaculate all over his stomach. Memories of hot, damp breath in his ear, telling him how pretty he was all while grimy hands fondled his bare ass. Memories of situations that ended badly, and of him having to try and explain to Sammy how he had gotten those bruises.

Thank God most of Dean's memories from that time were foggy. He had been pretty fucked up then, sampling a variety of drugs and booze and whatnot. That was the thing about hanging around cheap motels and truck stops; you didn't just find pervy middle-aged men and prostitutes, but also weed, heroine, miscellaneous prescription pills. Besides, the drugs made it less shitty; it was a lot easier to give some 40-something, unhappily married guy from the 'burbs, who had a thing for teenaged boys, a $20 blowjob when you were stoned out of your mind. If he was lucky he'd score a female customer, but let's be honest, it was usually men who were willing to pay for sex. Dean actually didn't mind it when it was a younger, good-looking guy - he had always appreciated an attractive guy, though it wasn't until recently that he openly admitted it (to himself) - it was the older ones that he hated. They were usually too rough, shoving their cocks down his throat until he nearly gagged.

Dean was jolted out of his reverie when he took another sip and came back with only an ice cube in his mouth. He chewed it, glancing around the bar as he did so. A couple other people had come in since he sat down. There was now a guy to his right, about his age, a few seats away at the bar. There was something familiar about him, but Dean couldn't put his finger on it. He had dark hair and large eyes, and looked like he had come straight from work as he was still in business attire. Dean dumped another ice cube into his mouth and flagged down the bartender and gestured to his empty glass. She smirked as she poured him another double whiskey.

"Rough day?"

"Rough year," Dean sighed.

She turned away and stepped over to her newest customer, turning her full, painted lips into a phony smile. He said something and she giggled, leaning over the bar and squeezing her arms together to push up her breasts. Dean rolled his eyes and turned back to his drink. Oddly though, Dean could feel the guy's eyes on him, even while he chatted up the bartender. When she walked away to resume gossiping with the waitress, Dean stole a glance at his neighbor. Sure enough, the guy was watching him, none too discretely either. It was kinda fucking creepy. The hunter rubbed the back of his neck, feeling himself get hot with discomfort. Fortunately, his favorite pistol was in his coat pocket, and he had a knife tucked into his boot. He glanced to right again. Still fucking looking.

"Hi there," said the stranger. Dean pursed his lips, untrusting.

"Hey," he grunted.

"I've never seen you here before, you new in town?"

Dean shrugged. "Relatively," he replied, not looking at the stranger.

The stranger leaned over, stretching out his right hand to shake. "I'm Matt."

Dean paused a minute, eyeing "Matt" up and down. He couldn't tell what this guy's game was, but he appeared to just be some local, nothing more insidious than that. He extended his own hand, giving Matt a quick pump before pulling away and turning back to his glass; he didn't offer his name and the guy didn't press him for it.

"Mind if I join you? Or are you meeting someone?"

"Free country, man," Dean growled.

There was the scraping of wood and suddenly Matt was sitting right next to him, real fucking close, actually. Dean glanced at him, slightly annoyed at the intrusion but Matt didn't notice.

"So what's got you drinking on a Tuesday night? I can tell that's not your first."

Dean sighed, and finished his drink but didn't order a third...yet. Probably best to pace himself, if he planned to make a night of it; he was already pretty fucking buzzed.

"Just some shit at home I'd rather not deal with right now."

"Yeah, I hear that," Matt chuckled, quietly. "Sometimes I feel like I'm here more than I'm at home." Dean nodded, but remained silent. He wasn't about to spill his guts to some random dude at a bar; his goddamn problems were his own. Matt turned his body so that he was fully facing Dean, and continued.

"D'you ever feel like your own fucking family is less accepting of you, than say...total strangers?"

At that, Dean turned to the stranger, finally getting a good a look at him. He was a nice-looking guy, attractive actually. His large eyes were light-colored, and had a certain...familiar quality to them, but there was more to it than that. There was an honesty to the guy; Dean could tell he wasn't just bullshitting him. Maybe it was just the way he was looking at Dean... He swallowed.

"Yeah. That's...that's so funny that you say that," Dean smiled, and Matt smiled back.

"Hey let me buy you a beer."

Dean waved him off, but Matt insisted and called over the blond bartender, who apparently knew him. After a minute of eye batting and giggling, she produced two craft beers. Dean tapped his beer to Matt's and took a long drink. The beer was dark and rich, and was velvety smooth going down his throat. Dean was having a pretty awesome time; he was feeling good, and the whole fight with Sam was far from his mind.

Matt eyed him out of the corner of his eye, taking notice of Dean's increasingly relaxed state. He leaned in closer.

"Hey," he said quietly, his breath warm against Dean's cheek, "you interested in a real party?"

Dean knew exactly what the guy was hinting at. A movement from Matt's hand caught his eye and he glanced down. Matt had reached into his pants' pocket and discretely pulled out a baggie with several small, white pills in it. Ecstasy, Dean figured.

"Maybe a private party? For two?"

Dean hesitated for a second, but he didn't want the evening to end just yet. This guy seemed pretty cool, and he sure as shit didn't want to go back to the Bunker. What was the harm in getting a little high?

"I'm down," Dean replied, giving Matt his patented crooked smile.

Matt tossed some cash onto the bar and hopped off his stool, jerking his head in the direction of the back of the bar. Dean hailed the bartender and paid his tab, grabbed his leather jacket and beer and followed Matt towards the back of the bar. He was having a hard time walking straight; he was drunker than he thought. He realized Matt was leading them to the men's bathroom. Dean felt a rush of excitement, but also reluctance. It'd been years since he touched any recreational drugs. He peaked when Sam left for Stanford (surviving John Winchester, alone, pretty much required it), but quit when they started hunting together again.

In the bathroom, Matt checked both stalls. Once he was satisfied they were alone, he locked the bathroom door and pulled out the baggie with the pills in it. He popped one in his mouth, swallowing it dry. He then popped another one and pulled Dean over to him, kissing him full on the mouth. Dean grunted in surprise, but opened his mouth as he felt Matt's tongue push inside. He felt a small pill being transferred onto his own tongue, and Matt pulled away, grinning. Dean washed down the Ecstasy with the rest of his beer. Fuck he was hammered. He ran a hand across his face, stumbling a little. Suddenly he wished he was back home with Sam...

He doesn't want to see you. Not after what you told him.

Dean shook his head as his alcohol-steeped mind waged a war with itself.

Sam understands. It won't matter to him; he gets it.

Someone was laughing.

Gets what? That you're disgusting? Pathetic? A dirty fucking whore? What would John say?

Dad's dead, doesn't matter what he'd say.

He would've beat the shit out of you if he found out. Maybe that's what you need, for someone to beat it out of you. All those nasty thoughts you have about a certain angel? Like he'd want you, especially if he knew...

Not a minute too soon the effects of the drug started to kick in. Dean's anxiety over his fight with Sam faded away, as he began to relax. Suddenly things didn't seem so bad; he couldn't remember why he was so stressed out in the first place. Sam would forgive him, he always did. As for the Mark of Cain? Who gave a shit. And Abaddon? Fuck that bitch, let someone else deal with her. Cas? Cas who? At the same time, he became hyper-aware of everything around him. The bar's music pulsed in his ears. The dim fluorescent lights seemed too bright. He felt his own blood pumping through his veins. It was like being infected with vamp blood all over again, except it felt fucking amazing.

Suddenly someone's hands were on him; he thought it was the guy from the bar but he couldn't remember his name all of a sudden. But fuck did it feel good. Dean hadn't been touched like that in so long. Hands were in his hair and on his waist and under his shirt, and Dean was swaying to the music. Then a mouth was on Dean's, kissing along his jaw and down his neck. He dragged his own hands down his newfound companion's waist, and grabbed at his belt buckle, fumbling in his excitement. Sliding his hands into the guy's pants, Dean could feel the heat of his erection through the fabric of his boxers, and God it fucking turned him on. Dean could feel his own erection pressing uncomfortable against his jeans; it had been too fucking long, and Dean felt like he was ready to explode. He'd been so on edge with everything that had happened between him and Sam, not to mention the urges he felt towards Cas, which had been so fucking unbearable, lately. Now Cas was gone again, and Dean felt like a hole had been punched through his chest and all he wanted was for it to go away. He just wanted to feel good again. He couldn't remember the last time he felt good...

Dean grabbed the man by the front of his shirt and shoved him against one of the stall doors. It flew open and the two men stumbled inside, slamming the door behind them. Dean leaned heavily against the wall, stumbling in his euphoric state. He felt hands fumbling at his waist. Hands undid his belt buckle, followed by his fly. His partner knelt down in front of Dean, and pulled out his swollen dick. Oh fuck. Dean was panting heavily, his heart pounding so fucking hard he thought it would burst out of his chest. As the guy eased his lips onto his dick, Dean's knees almost gave out beneath him. The stranger swirled his tongue around the head, licking up the precum that had trickled out. Dean buried his fingers into his partner's hair, holding on for dear life. Dean could feel a tongue slowing sliding up the length of his cock, teasing him for a few moments before the whole length was taken in. Dean gasped. He was gripping the top of the stall now, knuckles white, hardly able to stand. The guy was sucking him off faster now, and Dean shifted his hips to maintain the rhythm.

"Oh fuck. Oh my fucking God..." Dean was babbling now, his words barely coherent.

The man went faster and faster, gripping Dean's hips hard enough to leave crescent-shaped nail marks. The orgasm hit Dean so hard he almost collapsed right then and there. His senses, already amped up by the E went into total overdrive: he felt flushed, his vision went black, there was a loud ringing in his ears and the base from the club's music rattled his bones so hard he was afraid they'd break...

The waves of pleasure slowly passed, and Dean was able to stand upright again.

"My turn."

"Huh?"

Dean suddenly found himself being slammed against the locked door of the stall, and his jeans and boxer briefs yanked down. Under the fog of the E he was a willing partner. He could hear the sound of a wrapper tearing, and latex snapping. He barely had time to register the feeling of déjà vu, when the man slid into him. To be honest, it kinda fucking hurt; it'd been a long time since he'd done anal. The man behind him roughly pumped in and out, shoving Dean into the door with each thrust. The side of Dean's face was starting to hurt, the metal door cold against his skin. His ass was starting to hurt too. Suddenly he had a vision of himself at 16, lying facedown on a stained mattress in a motel room outside of Kansas City, as some balding traveling salesman drunkenly fucked him; it had been Dean's first time and he remembered how it felt like he was being torn in two. He remembered he couldn't sit, comfortably, for three days after that and Sam kept giving him weird looks the whole time. Dean squeezed his eyes shut against the memory, against the pain...

Just as it was getting to be too much, the salesman finished, trembling against Dean's back. He pulled out; Dean heard a splash and the toilet flush. A fly being zipped up. A belt buckle clinking, loudly. His own shallow breathing. He was sweating now, droplets running down his lower back. Slowly, painfully, he pushed himself away from the door and pulled up his jeans and underwear. He stepped out of the tiny stall and over to the sink, bracing himself against the chipped vanity. Fuck his ass was sore; he was going to feel like shit tomorrow. He glanced sideways, and noticed the salesman staring at him, giving him a weird look.

"What?" he rasped. His mouth was dry and he was starting to feel sick.

"Who's Cas?"

Yup, definitely sick. "Wh - what did you say?"

The salesman cocked his head to the side, making him look a lot like... "Cas. You called me 'Cas.' When you came."

Dean ran a shaky hand over his face. That wasn't right. He was confused, and his head felt like someone took a fucking drill to it. Cas wasn't here; Dean hadn't heard from him in weeks. He heard a soft chuckle from the salesman.

"Well whoever he is, I hope you guys get your shit figured out. 'Cus having sex with random strangers in bars is clearly not doing it for you."

"Not what you think..." Dean mumbled. The salesman rolled his large, bright blue eyes - those fucking eyes that made Dean's stomach flip every time they even glanced in his direction. Except they weren't his eyes anymore, they were Matt's...from the bar.

"I'm sure. Well...it was fun, thanks," and with that, Matt left the bathroom leaving Dean alone with his jumbled thoughts.

Dean's stomach was turning. Suddenly he felt a mixture of the evening's drinks rising in his throat. He ran back into one of the stalls and, throwing himself on the floor, he puked up everything into the toilet. The combination of the drug and booze was totally fucking up his stomach. He heaved again. After a third time, he felt empty. Flushing the toilet, he leaned against the wall, sweat running down his face. Grabbing some toilet paper, he wiped his mouth and face and pushed himself off the cold tile.

Stumbling back through the dimly lit bar, Dean could barely find the entrance. His head was pounding and his feet felt like lead. He finally found the door and stepped outside, the cool night air feeling refreshing. He took a few deep breaths, the fog in his head clearing a little. He stumbled across the lot and found his car and, after a minute of fumbling with his keys, he managed to unlock the back door and collapse onto the seat. He was in no shape to drive; he'd have to sleep, parked in the bar lot. He groaned. His head was swimming and his stomach muscles were sore from puking. Dean desperately wanted his soft memory foam mattress, but settled for the back seat of the Impala, with its busted springs.

After all, what's one more sacrifice?

This chapter was a bit of a challenge for me, there were a few firsts. Never having taken Ecstasy, myself, I had to nerd it up online to find out its effects. I tried to get the end of this chapter to read a little weird, as it was from Dean's drugged up POV. Hopefully that came across alright; it sounded cool in my head. This was also my first time writing a graphic sex scene so...yeah.

Anyway, I didn't intend on going beyond this chapter, but if there's a strong demand for some follow-up I'm sure I can scrounge up another chapter. Overall, I hope you liked the story. I know I really enjoyed writing it!