Dean slides onto a barstool, lifts his eyebrows at the bartender. "Beer." He turns his head, checks out the room. Sees something interesting. "And give me whatever the guy in the corner's having."
He takes the drinks and slides off the stool.
"Hey," he says, sitting down. "You could do with a refill." He puts the glass on the table in front of the man. He's young, with dark hair and clear, blue eyes. There's an open journal in front of him with loose, hand written pages.
The man looks up at Dean, blinks. "I'm sorry—"
Dean leans forward, pulls the book toward himn. The words and symbols are familiar, he's drawn them, spoken them before. "The bartender's a demon." Dean taps the edge of his coaster on the table. Sulphur dusts into a line. "But I got this. You can go."
The man snatches his book, tucks it into his jacket. "This is my town," he says. "My people." He lifts his chin, glares. "I'm not going anywhere."
"Okay." Dean looks up at the bartender, catches him looking back. "But if I made you, so did he. We gotta move before he does."
There's a devil's trap on the floor, ropes soaked in holy water fix the bartender to a chair. Dean splashes the last drops from his flask onto the demon, watches them sizzle as the other hunter—his name is Mark—recites the exorcism.
They're words Dean's heard a hundred times before, but never like this. There's a fluidity and a sensuality and a command to them when they come out of Mark's mouth. Dean likes it.
He's far too pretty to be a hunter, hands far too soft, but he knows what he's doing. Dean respects that.
The demon pours out of the bartenders mouth in a column of black smoke, the man left behind slumps and moans.
Mark drops to his knees to tug at the ropes and free the man. "Don't try to speak," Mark says. "You're okay. It's gone."
"That was far too easy," Dean says as they slip out into the night. "Kind of anticlimactic." There's a buzz under his skin that he can't shake. "Shall we?" He waves the bottle he snaked from behind the bar.
Mark laughs. "I shouldn't."
"This job has few perks," Dean says. "Gotta make the most of them when they come."
Dean finds plastic cups in the motel room. Half fills them both. There's a queen bed in the room and not much else, so he sits on one side, nods his head at the other and passes the second cup to Mark. "So," he says. "How long you been hunting?"
Mark shakes his head. "I knew a man. A priest. My mentor. My teacher. He spoke of demons. They're not a metaphor, they're real. He taught me what he knew."
"It's not just demons," Dean says. "Vampires, werewolves, ghosts. Other things. If you've heard of it, they probably exist."
Mark lets out a shuddering breath, then throws back his drink.
"Yep." Dean leans forward, refills Mark's cup. "And this is how we deal with it."
Mark stares at the amber liquid. "That doesn't seem healthy."
"There are other ways." Dean waits for Mark to look up, then holds eye contact. Bites his lower lip. "If you're up for it."
Mark's eyes widen, and he breathes hard. "Oh." He looks away, but his eyes flick back to Dean, wander over him. "Oh."
Dean grins and takes Mark's cup from him, puts both down on the bedside table. Then he pulls Mark close, brings their lips together. "Your Latin is beautiful," he whispers, a moment before he kisses him.
Mark breathes hard, twists his fingers into the fabric of Dean's shirt like he's starved, and only Dean can ease his hunger.
Dean wakes to a note on the pillow.
I have an early start.
Thank you for an unforgettable night.
On the way out of town, Dean stops at the Catholic church. He slips inside, and there's no sign of anyone, so he dips his empty flask in the font.
He hears a step behind him, screws the lid back on as he turns, a winning smile already on his face as he prepares to lie his way out.
"Father," he says, when he sees the collar.
Then his eyes take in the rest of the priest in front of him. "Holy fuck," he says. "Mark?"
Feel free to fill in the gaps. My blanket statement is here.