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If it's one thing Chicago has, it's the blues.
A voice as smooth as top shelf liquor echoes through the club. It wraps around the wrists and waists of the people on the dance floor and pulls them close to their partners. Close enough so that lipstick is a taste, not a color, and kisses are an action, not a thought. The press of hips, the inhale of cologne, and the haze from the stage lights are the makings of a classic Chicago jazz and blues bar. This ain't no tourist spot. It will never be found in a guidebook or on tour. Maybe, some say, it doesn't even exist.
This is a cash only, open until four a.m., brick walled, ribs and rice served on Fridays place. No need for a bouncer. The owner takes care of everything. Anyone who pays cover in Chicago is being played. But anyone who doesn't tip the bartender is a fucking tool and deserves their tires slashed.
Broad shoulders swing in Dean's view. He licks his lips and tastes his whiskey and someone else's Coke.
He's got no cane tonight. It has been left, forgotten. Suggestions were made. Ask for help. Get it healed. Let it be taken care of by someone on a higher level.
No.
His body has been subject to the whims of others for too long. He has scratched and clawed at his own brain from the inside out. Outside interference is no longer welcome. Neither are the requests to dance or the drinks that are bought for him by others. He wants none of that.
If pain is on the menu, he wants to feel it.
It's his to experience.
Guitar and bass turn into lightning. People crowd together as close as the vocalist is to their mic.
It's his to experience the hand on the small of his back that floats there for a moment before snaking down to his ass. It's his to experience the crush of his lips against another's.
"That's right." The voice from the stage goes by old school rules. It's liquifies and melts and pours all over each and every soul standing on two feet. It seeps into pores and works it's way into the shells of ears, lingering there, teasing and flickering with every note.
Whiskey meets Coke. Rough hands grab at Dean's ass and pull him into the center of the floor. A hundred people may be around him, but all he feels is the swing of hips plastered against his. Metallic blue lights blanket the club. A hint of red is added later.
Chills thrum through the length of him.
Fingers trace his spine.
The rise and fall of the chest against his distracts him. They push and pull and twist and grind and arch from standing up to bending, spreading, reaching.
They move. It's not a private booth. If anyone looks close enough, there's no hiding the activities in each dark, cushioned cavern. But no one bothers. No one cares here. Not a second thought is given to the hitch of long legs around Dean's waist, or the dip of his own shoulders and the stance he takes for balance.
Tabletop. Quick hands.
The music roars.
A wheel turns and a flame is fanned. Lord. Save the blues. Lord. Hear my blues. Lord. Dean lines himself up.
He pushes his cock into a swelter.
Ignited by the blast of a sax, driven by the prettiest mouth beneath him, he sinks inside. Buried to the hilt, he pauses just to savor the stretch of muscle around him, the burn and give of it all.
Words spill out. Hands hold onto Dean's arms. Braced. Steadied.
The table rattles.
The legs around his waist wrap tighter, and the sounds Dean's movements extract from this mouth become louder. Yes. Yes. There.
His cock responds to every tilt, pull, and clench.
He picks up on every heartbeat and each exhale. Every thrust is slick. Deeper. Harder. Fingers dig into his skin whenever they can touch. Their mouths meet. Sloppy. Wet. Hungry.
Sam is his.
Dean pins Sam's arms above his head. He pounds into him without restraint, on target, reveling in the feel of himself between Sam's thighs. Sam tosses his head back.
It's easy to forget the world like this.
Right here, in the lushest part of Sam.
Lord. Gotta give you. Lord. Gotta give you my love. Chicago blues are desperate. They beg. They're yearning. Lord. I'm burning. They're needy, fierce, and tumultuous. Lord. My great big love. Lord. Got to give you my love.
Pressure elevates. Sam's eyes close. He reaches out and grips onto Dean's shoulders with the same force Dean is pushing into him. A shout is given; the drums pick up. Everything in those few seconds before, Dean feels. He groans to the tremble of the muscle over his cock, the erratic shift of Sam's hips, and the twitch of Sam's cock bobbing between them.
My great big love. Got to give you my love.
Leaning forward, Dean closes his eyes. His toes curl and the sensation in his spine is as electric as the music on stage. People dance with fervor. They press together tighter, more can fit, the volume rises, the heat escalates, and the lights dim to a royal blue.
Buried, Dean comes. He corkscrews his hips as he pulses and twitches and fills Sam up. He shivers when Sam clenches around him. Two hard thrusts are given, to feel the squelch of his come and to make Sam gasp. Right here.
This is his.
Long fingers stroke over Dean's neck and chest. Their bodies and movements clash with the dance floor. Now they slow down.
Sam taps Dean's chin.
"I like this song," he murmurs, smiling lazily up at Dean.
"Yeah."
"Well, well, well," Sam sings. His voice is deep. He's relaxed. Melted. The guitar takes over; hypnotic solo. Sam pulls Dean closer and kisses him, dirty at first, sweet to finish.
They'll figure out clean up in a minute.
Sam sings the final line of the song. His fingers are under the collar of Dean's shirt. "I jus' kissed my baby."
Dean is in this for everything.
Pain included.