A/N: And part two. Enjoy.

The couple hours following their games are usually Roman's favorite time.

Dean's crowbarred himself together out of barbed wire and broken bottle experiences, the burnt-out ends of nobody's pleasant dreams, and a whole mountain – more than he'll admit even to Roman – of being let down and screwed over.

It's left him all sharp barbs and jagged angles most of the time, so many things that Roman's had to learn to fit himself around.

Roman does it gladly:

He loves Dean so much it scares him sometimes – scares him to think just how much he can't see his life without his partner-turned-brother-turned-lover in it.

Scares him even more to think that maybe this just a one-way street he's walking himself.

Dean's equally as bad at having feeling as he is expressing them.

The angles get particularly sharp when Roman tries to show him anything like affection, tries to be anything like soft – either because he doesn't like it or because it scares him, too, and he'd rather be a prickly asshole than admit it.

Only nights like this are things any different.

It was Roman who'd suggested they play this little chase-and-catch game, after one particularly ugly pay-per-view when it felt like the whole damn arena seemed hell-bent on hating him just for the crime of winning the match. The beating he'd taken in the ring had felt like a spring shower compared to the hailstorm of insults – "NFL reject!" "Golden Boy!" "How many times you sucked McMahon's dick today?"- the Universe had put poured down on him.

Like he was the whipping boy for whatever had gone wrong both in the company and their lives.

Normally that shit rolls off his back like water, but that night, those barbs had stuck.

The thing about Dean Roman most loves is how he just gets it.

One look at Roman after that match, and Dean had said, all tight eyes and a supporting hand at Roman's elbow, "Whatever you need tonight, Rome."

It was a fantasy Roman had had for a while, and tonight he'd lost the ability to feel awkward about asking.

Dean had looked at him for a while, unreadable as he ever gets, and nodded.

And they'd ended up down some dank-ass alley in the middle of God only knew where, both of them sweating like hell and reeking of the bitter old tar of long-dead cigarettes and the sour wash of old alcohol, the mouthy street punk with his face mashed against some old brick building, and Roman pounding away like he was trying to tattoo the imprint of his dick inside the guy.

Afterward, Roman had felt peaceful, and Dean's usual sharp barbs and jagged edges had been smoothed away and softened enough he'd said an, "I love you so fuckin' much, Rome," that sounded like it came right out of his damn soul as he'd curled up against Roman's side on their hotel bed.

It had hit Roman like a ton of bricks that, yeah, this was for real.

Best night of his damn life.

Every time after that, it's been just the same: Dean curving himself to fit around Roman instead the opposite.

Until tonight.

Alone in the steamy closet of the hotel's cracker box shower stall, scalding water and even more scalding regret sluice down Roman's already-burning body, carrying away all the grime and the sweat from the alley, but leaving all the other junk – the mental stuff – behind.

He hadn't even been able to look Dean in the eye on the way back here after that causal bomb had exploded between them.

"When I did this for real."

At first he'd been mad at Dean himself for just lobbing that unpleasant hand grenade, like, Who does that?

Dean does that.

Because the other thing about Dean is, he is sometimes brutally, painfully honest. Like the kind of honesty that makes you feel like you got stabbed in the gut and had your teeth yanked right out of your mouth. Like the kind of honesty that makes you wonder what other little monsters are going to sneak out of the guy's closet one day?

But then.

But now.

As he drags a soapy rag across skin that's prickling like he's pulled on wrong, all Roman can see is some chubby, pasty rich dude shoving a wad of bills at a Dean whose traitor eyes can't quite hide his desperation, all bony wrists and pants that bag off of him and hoodie as big as a sail. A fat sneer, and fatter hands shoving Dean down, and some ugly little nub of a dick being pulled out-

Stop.

"When I did this for real."

It makes Roman's stomach shrivel up to something that feels about the size of a grape.

Dean shouldn't have had to go through that.

And he shouldn't have to relive it just because it's Roman's weird-ass kink.

Of course, Dean's the kind of guy who'd rather cut his own hand off than admit anything's really bothering him down deep; here lately, Roman's been calling his ass out on that bullshit – they're together, and they face the damn monsters together – but since this one's on him, he thinks as he twists the shower's tap off, he's just going to quietly let it go.

Find some other way to deal with his own bullshit.

Dean's already showered, scrubbed clean of Gravel Voice and that random alley. He's laying sprawled out loose-limbed and comfortable on the bed by the time Roman rolls of the bathroom.

Nothing but shorts and an easy smile on him.

Drying hair frizzing around his head like some kind of crooked halo, and Roman has to snort at that.

He himself is wearing only his underwear because the room's pathetic excuse for an air conditioner isn't doing much but wheezing out cool air that's immediately smothered by the blanket of damp-hot around it.

But as he tosses his jeans and tee shirt toward his bed, eye contact is still too hard for him – as hard as words, apparently.

He avoids both altogether, and just slips right onto the empty half of the bed.

Human Seatbelt there is on him like a magnet to metal, a just-starting-to-stubble cheek landing somewhere along the bottom edge of Roman's tattoo, and a lean arm strapping across Roman's stomach.

"Fuck, that was fun," he murmurs, breath ghosting warm over Roman's chest. "But I got somethin' real special in mind for next time."

Roman closes his arm around Dean's shoulders, all absent affection, and grunts, "Huh."

"Yeah," Dean says, in an obvious attempt at baiting, "you're really gonna like it. But I ain't tellin."

Sing-song.

Like he's ten.

"We'll see," Roman murmurs.

Dean picks his head up and squints those sharp damn eyes on Roman's face. Like some kind of scanner or something. "Quiet," he says, a frown chasing away whatever amusement had been there. "You all right?"

Roman leans forward enough to catch him for a kiss, long and slow, trying to communicate and apology and a promise to do better in every brush of lips and every touch of his tongue and the fingers that thread into Dean's hair.

They both deserve better than grungy sex in random alleys.

When Dean pulls away, his eyes remind Roman of fogged-over windows, his smile has no edges, and for once, he's totally still.

"I love your crazy ass," Roman tells him. Quietly. Meaning it maybe more than he ever has. "The game. You know I don't see you like that, right? Not for real."

That earns him a slow, confused blink. "I never thought you did. Is this – shit, are you getting weird about what I told you? Roman. Stop getting weird about what I told you. It's no big deal."

"You shouldn't have had to do it," Roman tells him.

"Yeah, well, I shouldn't have had to be raised by a junkie, either, but that's the way the world shakes out." Dean lowers his head back to Roman's chest. His fingertips skim lines from the point of Roman's nipple down to the dimple of his belly button and back up. "Shouldn't have told you that. Stupid."

"Why did you?" More curious than anything.

"I don't know." Back and forth, slow, even. "You know a lot of my other shit. Didn't think it'd matter. It doesn't matter, Rome. You better not tell me we're stopping."

"I just – I don't like the idea that I'm doing something to you that-"

"For fuck's sake." Dean sits up completely, cross-legged, knee butted right up into Roman's ribs. "You know why I dig it so much? 'Cuz I like to know I'm not the only one bent a little weird in this relationship. 'Cuz it's one of the few times I ever see you just fucking let go and relax. Fuck, I'm not even thinkin' about what I did when I was younger when we're doin' it. You know? It's just cutting loose and having fun."

"You wouldn't have brought it up tonight if you weren't thinking about it," Roman points out, covering Dean's knee. "I don't think it's a good idea to keep doing it."

Lightning flash of something heated in Dean's eyes. "So, it's okay for me to jump in and get involved in this Wyatt thing – and get my ass kicked from one corner of the building to another – but playing a, like, roleplaying game or whatever that's basically you just fucking me in an alley, that's not okay. What the fuck is that? Come on. Does it really bother you that much?"

Watching Dean about to jump to the wrong conclusion is like watching a glass about to fall off the edge of a table – and not being able to shit to stop it.

"It does," Dean says, scooting back on his hands and butt. Suddenly, he's all boarded-over eyes and a stone face. "You think 'cuz I sucked a few dicks for money ten years ago, I'm trash. Well, you're right. I've never pretended I wasn't, but okay. I see how it is. You want me to go? Wouldn't wanna pollute your bed."

"Cut it out, dumb-ass." Roman clamps a hand on Dean's ankle before the idiot can run away. "I just got done telling you I love you. I love you. If I hear you call yourself trash one more time, I'm gonna break my foot off in your ass."

"Sure you want to stick your foot in my trash hole?" Dean asks, defiant and challenging.

It ain't the easiest thing in the world to get Dean pinned down in head-lock, but Roman has the element of surprise and about sixty pounds on his side. Eventually, he winds up in the middle of the bed with his tattooed arm clamped tight around Dean's neck, and Dean punching helplessly at his leg.

"Come on, tough guy," Roman laughs. "Say 'I'm not trash,' and I'll let you up."

"Let me go, fucker." Dean's voice is muffled. This close, his skin feels hot as a furnace. He's twisting and pulling in Roman's grip like an animal trying to pull out of a trap. "Fucking let go, Rome."

"Not until you say 'I'm not trash.'"

Dean manages to land one solid knuckle-first punch right into the meat of Roman's thigh that stings like a bitch, but Roman only tightens his grip.

"Say it."

"Fine, fuck. I'm not trash. There. Fucking let go."

Warily, Roman lets go and moves back to sit in the spot he'd vacated, muscles tensed just in case there's any retaliation.

But Dean just sits there rubbing his jaw, this weird-ass look on his face Roman would need Google Translate to put into understandable words. "Yeah, I guess, it's not worth fighting about. We got bigger problems in the Wyatts anyway. Unless you're gonna make a big deal about me helping you."

"Hey, man," Roman says, reaching across the gap, "don't be like that. You know ain't nobody on the planet I want watching your back besides you. Nobody I trust."

Dean's shoulder is stiff as a board under Roman's hand, but he eventually nods and says, "Yeah. Okay. Shit. I'm fuckin' beat, Rome. Let's go to bed."

"Good plan," Roman says.

And it is. And they do.

Roman goes to sleep with Dean curled up in his usual place against him, but when he wakes up in the morning, Dean's all the way on the other side of the bed, wide awake and watching TV.

It's not that Roman's paranoid, but for the next couple weeks it just feels like he and Dean fall out of sync with each other.

Like they'd been matching each other step for step, and one of them has slowed while the other one has sped up.

They don't argue any more or less than usual, but what arguments they do have feel sharper than usual, words like arrowheads, pointed and cutting. Longer. They manage not to go to bed angry, but after one really stupid argument over a wet towel Dean had left in the middle of the bathroom floor, it's a close call.

Feels like they're even missing a step when they're having sex.

Roman goes out of his way to do more than just fuck Dean; he's slower and gentler, more eye contact and less mindless pounding, more long stretches where he's mapping out all the planes and ridges of Dean's body like it's country worth exploring, less dirty talk and more encouraging talk.

Trying to show Dean how not-trash he is by being generous with "I love you" and steering clear of "I can't wait to tear your ass up tonight."

He lets Dean top him more often, but insists that, instead of diving in for the main course like he normally would, Dean spend some time sampling some of the appetizers. Dean's really not the slow-down-and-savor type of guy, and he's as grudging as a kid being told to clean his room about doing it at first, but Roman's patient and encouraging and makes a lot of noise – which Dean loves – and Dean eventually tries.

He tries, even if he winds up jittery and pulled in on himself afterward, the way he always gets when he feels like he's putting too much of himself out there.

Trouble is, Roman's finding, his orgasms just aren't as intense as usual.

It's satisfying to have more intimate sex, yeah, but…

…but that occasional spark is just gone.

They don't talk about it, and that's on both of them.

At the best of times, neither of them is good at talking.

And this is not the best of times, especially with the Bray Wyatt and Luke Harper breathing their swamp-water breath down Dean and Roman's necks.

With SummerSlam coming, they got a big war to prepare for, and now is not the time for them to be fighting over petty personal things.

Or for Roman to be feeling bad about forcing Dean to relive a part of his past that he shouldn't have to.

But there's Wyatts.

And SummerSlam.

And SummerSlam is what finally tips the scales back over.

The Creatures from the Black Lagoon put up a hell of a fight, but in the end, Dean and Roman pull out a strong-ass victory, the two of them pushing past all the weirdness and bullshit lately to be their most cohesive best.

But Roman makes the pin on Bray Wyatt in disheartening sea of boos – not as loud as he'd heard at the Royal Rumble this year, but loud enough to make the victory taste a little sour.

As the ref's hand is slapping down the three-count, Roman's laying over Wyatt's b.o.-rank carcass wondering what it'll take to convince the boo-birds he's not just some guy who lucked his way to the top of the roster.

Wondering how long it'll take him to actually stop caring.

One of Dean's spindly hand touches his arm on the way up the ramp, and Roman hears a warm, "Hey, fuck 'em, Rome. We were here to deal with the Wyatts, and we did. All that matters, right?"

"Yeah," Roman says, ignoring the sullen part of himself muttering that it's easy for Dean to say that, considering he never gets booed.

Back in the sanctuary of their tiny cubbyhole of a locker room, Roman sits moodily in an uncomfortable, cold folding chair and glares at the strap of his suitcase, his head full of boos and his joints full of ground glass and nails.

Dean's right there, shirtless and sweating buckets still, hair plastered to his face. He picks up his own chair, swivels it around backward, and straddles it, his knee touching Roman's.

"You know," he says, "tonight would be a good night for you to go pick somebody up."

"No," Roman says without lifting his head.

"Why not? You look like you could use a good workout."

Roman shakes his head. "Not that kind. I told you, we're not doing that anymore, and Dean, I am really not in the mood to have this argument right now, so-"

"Tough," Dean says, steel in his voice. "Roman, I sucked a few dicks and let a couple dudes fuck me for money when I was a stupid kid. I stopped when I had steady work. It's not a fucking tragedy. You don't gotta act like I'm some damaged little prince that needs saving from himself."

"Dean-"

"No," Dean snaps, all coiled anger and fingernails scratch-scatching at his shoulder. "You're gonna fucking listen to me. I wanted to play with you because I like it. It's fun to let go and get fucking wild like we do. It's the best fucking thing in the world to me to see you out there cutting loose. That's why I do it. I want you to fuck me up in alleys like that sometimes – not 'cuz I think I'm trash – but because it's fun. Because it gets me so fucking hard I can't think to see you getting into it as much as I am. The shit in my past doesn't enter into it. Pull your fucking head out, Roman. We can still have the crazy sex and have the nice sex, too. It doesn't have to be one or the other. Why not both?"

Roman closes his mouth, anger momentarily forgotten.

"It's fun," Dean reiterates. "Know why it's fun? 'Cuz it ain't real. I'm out there playing Monopoly-money rentboy for a guy I happen to be fucking crazy about. You have any idea how great that is? How we can do something like this, and it's not weird? It's fucking wild. The shit I did before has nothing to do with this. I'm over it. It doesn't matter. I shouldn't have even brought it up."

"Yeah," Roman says, reaching over to bat Dean's scratching fingers away from his shoulder before they draw blood. "Yeah, you should have. I told you, good, bad, indifferent – I want to know. Even that stuff. Because it's you. You know what I come from. I wanna know what you come from."

"Well, now you know." Dean folds both of his arms over the chair's back and leans forward over them, intent gaze all but burning a hole into Roman's face. "Know what I know? You're all balled up right now 'cuz of those assholes out there, and you need to unwind before you blow. And hey, coincidentally, I got a hankering for dirty alley sex. Come on."

There's an analog clock on the wall over the door, one of the standard kinds with the black frame and the white face you'd find in most schools across the country, with the sweeping red second hand and blunt hands pointing out the minutes and seconds.

Roman watches the second hand sweep around for a good while, thinking of boo-birds and dirty alleys and how it feels to have Dean pinned against some grungy wall.

Dean doing it not because has to, but because he just wants to.

Because he knows Roman himself wants to.

Which…

…he does.

Dean deserves better.

But:

Dean deserves to have something he wants.

And:

So do I.

It's stupid to deny them something they both want; Dean's all jags and angles, but he's crowbarred himself into a whole person, somebody who can fight his own damn monsters and deal with his own shit.

Like Roman himself, and how would he feel – really feel – if Dean tried to decide something for him?

Roman gathers his damp, matted hair and pulls it into a loose tail to get it the hell off face so he can see clearly. "Dirty alley sex does sound like fun tonight. You got a place in mind?"

It's as much of an apology as he can make, but Dean's not somebody who really needs them.

In fact, his eyes light right up and his slow smile is full of secrets and sex and makes Roman's blood heat up in all the right ways.

"'Course I do," is the cheerful answer. "It's me. I got everything in mind. Trust me," he adds, clapping a hand on Roman's shoulder, "you're gonna love this."

Late night.

Doesn't matter where.

The streets breathe sighs of relief around him as the relentless blaring heat of the day finally breaks and night cool settles in.

His ears are ringing from boos that had been flung at him like stones after he pinned Bray Wyatt tonight, and all he wants right now is to lose himself in a warm, willing body.

He knows he could pick up a rat if he wanted to, but that's too easy.

It's not wrong enough.

So here he is, down in a place where light seems to be afraid to tread. Broken down cars stand abandoned next to buildings that are boarded over and probably haunted by the ghosts of tenants past.

Around a corner, then, and:

A tall man in ragged jeans and a black hoodie slouched against the side of a building. No hat, but it's too dark to really see his face.

Roman eases the car up to the broken curb and rolls the window down.

Hoodie picks up a backpack and saunters over to the car: an alley cat strutting his stuff, hipshot and unhurried.

It's sexy as hell.

He leans down into the passenger window and says, smirking, "'S up. Lookin for something?"

"Depends on what you're selling," Roman says easily.

"Anything you want, cowboy. Long as you ain't a cop."

"Do I look like a cop?" Roman asks. Way off in the distance, a neon sign flicks lazily between blue and gold.

"Kinda. You're way too fuckin' hot to be cruising in this part of town. Must be some kinda desperate tonight."

Roman flicks an annoyed look over. "All you should care about is if I can pay. Which I can. I ain't a cop."

"Sweet," the guy says. Without waiting for invitation, he pulls the car door open and climbs in, tossing his backpack into the footwell between his dirty boots. He flicks on the dome light and swivels around to give Roman a once-over. "Holy fuck, man, you are – damn. Best thing I've seen all fucking night."

Turning, Roman takes a look himself: smirk so sharp it should be illegal. Dimples. Bright eyes. Hair that doesn't look like it's seen a brush in weeks. Hard to say about the body, but looks like it's got a lot of go. A kind of twitchiness restlessness to him like he's got a live electrical wire attached to him.

Sex walking.

"Not too bad yourself," he says mildly. "Name your price."

Dimples there runs through a spiel that consists of, "No kissing, I don't swallow, and no bare-backing," and then throws out a price that makes Roman scoff.

"Your ass ain't worth that much, man," he says.

"Wanna bet?" Dimples asks. "Best ass in the city. By a mile."

Roman flat-eyes him, thumbs tapping the wheel. "Tell you what, bro, I'll pay you what you want, but in return I get two things: you don't talk unless I tell you, and you're gonna let me kiss you if I want to."

Dark glint in the eyes, and, "Deal. Now pay me my half."

"Once I give you this money, you don't talk again. You talk, deal's off. Got it?"

"Sure, sure. Just hand it over, hot stuff."

Roman counts out a few bills and passes them over. Doesn't take offense when the guy makes it a point to count it.

"Okay," Dimples says, "so here comes the part where I ruin your night, stud." And while Roman sits there baffled, Dimples pulls something out of his hoodie's ragged flap of a front pocket.

A police badge.

And before Roman can even process this plot development, there's a metallic clink and something wraps around the wrist he's got sitting loose on the gear shifter.

"You're under arrest for solicitation, pal," Dimples tells him. "Take your other hand off the wheel."

Roman nearly chokes.

Busted?

"You have the key for that, right?" he asks, staring at the handcuff dangling from his wrist.

Officer Dimples gives him a stern look. "What do you think I am, an amateur? Of course I have the keys. Now sit tight." He throws open the passenger door, grabs his backpack, and climbs out.

It hits Roman that this twist is probably a kind of punishment – if you want to call it that – for being kind of a dumb-ass about all this the past few weeks.

He decides on the spot he's going to play along with this no matter what.

When Officer Dimples finally makes his way around to the driver's side, it's not in the hoodie he'd had on, but instead his police officer's jacket and hat.

It's ridiculous as hell, but Roman pops a semi anyway, because Jesus Dean – Officer Dimples – looks hot in them.

"Turn off the car," Officer Dimples instructs him, "and get out, slowly. No sudden movements."

Which is how Roman ends up leaning against the hood of his rental car on a night that feels like it's thirty degrees cooler than the last time he'd done this. His hands are totally cuffed behind him. He's managing to keep the smile at bay for now, but nearly loses it when Officer Dimples pulls out a nightstick and pokes him in the ribs.

After he reads Roman his rights, Officer Dimples stands in front of Roman with his hands planted on his hips, nightstick dangling against his legs, and his hat sitting square on his head.

"Let's talk, stud," he says. "'Cuz to be honest, I'm a lazy fucker and I don't wanna haul your pretty ass all the way down to lockup. Plus, my dick's been hard ever since I laid eyes on you. And if the way you're eyeballing my nightstick's any indication, I'm guessing maybe you're willing to cut a deal."

"Might be," Roman says. "I'm listening."

"Maybe you, uh, service my nightstick good tonight, and I let you go with a warning. But so we're clear: it's your call. You don't wanna do it, I won't force the issue." In the dark, his face is mostly shadow, but he sounds sincere. "I'll just haul you down to lockup and we'll call it a night. But, uh, so you know, if you do play ball here with me, I'll make it worth your while."

Roman pretends to consider it, and nods. "You're on, Officer."

"Good," Officer Dimples says briskly. "Come on. Let's get you into the passenger seat. I know a spot."

A spot:

A blacked-out canyon of an alley, a little wider than the norm, but still just as devoid of life. Roman swears he can hear things crawling on the grungy walls and on the ground, the pitter-patter of insect feet.

The brick he finds himself shoved back-first into is still warm with the day's heat and has the scents of old cigarettes and sour old liquor wafting out of its pores. A low, garbagey stink drifts out of the mouth of the dumpster beside him, rotting food and stuff Roman's not sure he wants to think about.

Fortunately, he doesn't have to.

Officer Dimples is on him like a dog attacking a raw steak, all chapped-lip kisses and hints of teeth and a tongue that absolutely refuses to stay out of Roman's mouth, slick and sliding against Roman's like they're on a battlefield.

Clammy hands slip under his shirt and he gasps at the unexpected sharp scrape of bitten nails over his nipples.

Outright moans when his shirt's rudely rucked up and he feels lips and teeth close around first one, and then the other. Can do nothing but grope uselessly at the pitted wall behind him at the sensation of warm, open-mouthed kisses and sucking little bites trailing down his torso. Can only throw his head back and close his eyes as blunt fingers slide right down to the top of his jeans.

His dick's already throbbing.

Can't help gasping out a breathless laugh when the officer squeezes him through his jeans and says, "Well, well, well, you hiding a gun in here, or are you just happy to see me? Hmm. Guess I'm just going to have to do a strip search and find out."

The bastard unzips Roman's jeans one tooth at a time, all the while rubbing right over Roman's entire cloth-covered shaft nowhere near hard enough.

Roman fights not to make a noise, but a choked-off groan's nearly forced out of him at an unexpected squeeze.

"Hurry up," he says through his teeth.

"Don't tell me what to do, scumbag," Officer Dimples says from Roman's waist level, his voice thick.

Roman really wishes he could see the guy's face.

And – oh.

Dick freed and pants shoved down, and one hand groping his dick while the others on his balls, and:

"Hmm. Big weapon you've got here, stud. Not gonna fire if I put it in my mouth, right?"

Roman laughs. "You really gonna put a loaded gun in your mouth, officer?"

"Only live once." Sounds like he's chuckling himself. "Fuck this thing is huge. Bet you've done some serious damage with it. Get somebody's ass nice and stretched around it, and just pound away…"

It's a good thing there's a wall behind him, because Roman's knees choose that moment to buckle a little. "Damn."

"Want me to lick you, stud? Tell you how you taste?"

"…yeah."

"You gotta say please."

Oh, you bastard. "Please."

More a demand than a request, and man, he is going to get De – Officer Dimples back for this.

Slowly and painfully.

"I didn't hear you," Officer Dimples says through snicker that just sounds filthy. Light fingers circle Roman's dick and stroke back and forth a couple times. "Say please like you mean it."

Roman grits his teeth. Feels like he's got lava pooling in his belly, fire racing in his veins, and as much as he wants to strangle the asshole, he's flying high and feeling that wild freedom.

"Please," he says, kicking aside pride and giving in to the desperation and madness of it all.

A hot, wet tongue traces a wet line from the base of his balls all the way up to the leaking tip of his dick. Then a willing and able mouth closes over the head, and he's just done.

There is nothing left to do but stand there and let Officer Dimples take him apart.

Teasing licks along his shaft and firm, diving ones all over the head.

Light, lapping suction, and firm, intense pressure around him.

Shallow sucks and being swallowed a good way down.

All of it alternating at random, no pattern, no rhyme or reason, just things being done to his dick here in the closed-in dark of an empty alley, all of it right and what he needs, and he doesn't shy away from voicing his approval.

He's lit up in the best way, and so lost in the pooling heat that doesn't even register how he manages to be standing there with his pants completely off one leg, both of his shoes still on, and a lube-slick finger circling around his rim.

Finally noticing these things startles him enough that he tenses up.

Immediately, Dean's mouth pops off Roman's dick and the hand falls away from his ass. "Red light?"

It takes Roman an embarrassingly long time to answer, "Green light, man." Slurring like he's had a few too many. "Jus' startled me."

"Sure?"

"You gonna sit there talking at me, Officer, or are you gonna put your nightstick to use?"

Because Officer Dimples here deserves this.

(Dean deserves it.

They both do.)

Getting fucked isn't really Roman's favorite thing in the world, but his knees come unhinged even more when two blunt, probing fingers find his prostate and give it a good stroking at the same time as that slow, suction deepens around his dick.

The sudden loss of sensation, though, almost hurts.

Those calloused hands spin him around by the shoulders and shove him into the stinking wall hard enough draw a grunt out of him, his cheek scraping hard on brick that feels like concrete.

He sucks down a hard breath at the first intrusion, at the stretch and the burn, and holds it until Officer Dimples slides all the way in, smooth and slow.

"Puttin' it to work now, huh?" Officer Dimples growls against Roman's jaw.

"Uh-huh."

"Can…? Should-?"

"Move," Roman mutters, grabbing hold of the front of Officer Dimple's tee shirt. A lifeline. He's as ready as he's ever gonna get, and after a couple of slower strokes, Officer Dimples shoves in hard enough that they make a dirty slap when they hit together.

Goes right across Roman's prostate, and he feels like he could come right there, all heat and sparks.

But he doesn't – not then.

"Fuck," Officer Dimples mutters, and it almost sounds reverent, at total odds to the firm arm barring across the back of Roman's shoulders. "God damn, you are tight, man. This – you feel fucking amazing. I can't even tell you."

He rocks and rolls as he continues to babble away, setting a driving, relentless pace of pulling back to shove in, hitting the sweet spot every damn time, filling the calm night air with a symphony of "fuck" and "good" and choked moans , and it's not Roman's favorite thing, but it's still a very…damn…good…thing…

Fingers wrap around his dick, and somehow Officer Dimples manages a loose, sloppy rhythm between his own hips and his hand and that fast, low heat's pooling in Roman's belly all over again, and before he knows it he's right on the edge – right there – and that's when he feels lips against his ear and hears a soft, "Let go, man. I gotcha. Just let go."

And he does, wrists straining against the handcuffs, body tensing as he groans a hell of an orgasm into the unyielding bricks. It rolls over him in a big, fast wave, and takes everything with it.

He's so out-of-it numb afterward, he barely registers Officer Dimples coming, except as an flurry of curses and ragged nails biting into one hip and hard movement and the guy stiffening up behind him.

All he really knows that in one blink, he's standing there feeling like an exposed raw nerve, and the next, he's got something wet trickling down the inside of his thigh, and Officer Dimples's sweaty face is burning against the side of his neck.

They're both breathing like steam engines, and…

…that just happened.

He just got his own ass pounded against the side of a building, and it…

"…damn," he mutters.

"Nng," is the incoherent answer.

Roman grunts a spent laugh as the feeling begins to return to his hands. "Mm-hmm."

"…mm…fuck."

"Can you move?" Roman asks him. "Brick's starting to hurt."

They both hiss at the too-fast way Dean pulls out, but Roman forgets all about that in his relief at being able to breathe away from that nasty wall.

The rotting trash smell of the dumpster's not much better, but it's the lesser of two evils.

Dean does have the handcuff's keys with him – thank God – and it's the work of a quiet couple of minutes between them to get as cleaned up as they can (better than usual because in an unusually thoughtful move, Dean brought a couple of hand towels and a couple bottles of water).

Roman's still floating a foot above his own body when he wedges himself into the car's driver seat.

But it's good.

Cleaned out.

Had they been booing him tonight?

Oh well.

Let 'em.

Dean slumps boneless into the passenger seat, squinting against the dome light as tosses his hat down into the footwell with his backpack. "I think I can let you go with a warning for that," he slurs. "It was okay, right?"

For a guy who walks around like nothing bothers him, Dean can be really insecure.

Thing of it is, seems to rear its ugly head at the worst-possible times.

Because Roman still doesn't have the energy to make words, so he settles for reeling Dean in for a long kiss, slow and easy, and full of everything he's too brain-dead to say.

Like, Yes.

Like, I'm gonna get you back for this.

Like, I love you.

Like, I'm sorry I was too stupid to see you need this as much as I do.

The way Dean goes to putty into the kiss, Roman's pretty sure the message is received.

What Roman does say as he slips the keys into the ignition and turns the car on is, "I want to do it regular next time."

Despite Dean's apparent exhaustion, he manages a cocky smile and, "Already one step ahead of you. Wait 'til you see what I got in mind."

Roman smiles. "Can't wait."

[The end]

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