He watched the bane of his existence over the rim of his whiskey glass. The athletic man in the snazzy black suit was the object of all his desires.
He was casually leaning against the wall highlighting the leanness of his figure, while talking to some rich people about the importance of his job.
At least thatâs what he ought to do. And he himself should too. At least that was what this fundraiser was for.
Ketch pretended to smile and nodded to keep the people talking to him engaged, before letting his thoughts wander off again.
Dean Winchester was violently good looking. Ketch knew he wasnât the only person who couldnât take his eyes off Dean. Not only the woman but also some men, including Ketch, were eyeing Dean across the room.
Ketch took another sip from his whiskey feeling the heat rise in his body. He desperately needed some fresh air, but there was no escaping this.
Dean bit his lip, while pretending to listen to those old men with too much money. Nodding intensely like he was absolutely agreeing with them. But Ketch knew that, like himself, Dean wasnât even listening.
He watched as Deanâs teeth dug deep into his perfectly swung lips. His long lashes covering his indecent green eyes, his lascivious smile bewitching everyone who looked at him.
Ketch didnât count the number of glasses passing his hand this evening. There was no surviving this without a considerable amount of whiskey.
Slowly the alcohol was making the sounds in the room distorted. Hundreds of voices merging to one buzz, uneven peaks hitting his brain. Even his vision became lightly blurred; lagging behind as his head moved.
He hated Dean from the bottom of his soul.
Such a pretty little boy, so handsomely soft, with a thousand freckles covering his soft skin. Always perfect Dean Winchester. No matter how many times he screwed up, he just needed to smile and everything was forgiven.
Whereas Ketch was always violently fucked. He always took the blame for Deanâs little indecencies. In the eyes of their boss, Dean was a true saint, while Ketch was a monster newly emerged from the depths of hell. But Ketch knew there was something dark in Deanâs blood; something earthshattering unholy was cursing his veins.
Dean looked up from his conversation, his gaze wandering through the room, catching him stare. But Ketch didnât lower his eyes. Dean was allowed to know his raging hatred, his barely containable anger towards him.
As their look continued, Deanâs look deepened, allowing Ketch to see the darkness within. This man was dangerous.
They both were. This was a play of life and death and Ketch was in the least sure, who the winner would be.
His conversation partners had moved themselves elsewhere, but Ketch didnât care. He didnât want to be here; didnât want to beg for money. He never begged.
Dean broke their eye contact to politely excuse himself from those old men. Perfect little slut that he was.
The light was dimmed as someone was about to give a speech.
Dean came over, standing inappropriately close to him. Ketch could smell his aftershave and a faint note of whiskey.
âJust planning my murder again or is there another reason to stare at me so blatantly?â Dean whispered, leaning in a little so Ketch could feel his whiskey heavy breath on his neck.
âIâm just imagining penetrating your guts nice and slowly with a blunt butter knife.â
âKinky,â Dean responded smirking. âLast week you still wanted to strangle me with your bare hands.â
âWell, my wishes evolved.â
Standing next to each other, they pretended to listen to an interchangeable and self-absorbed speech typical for the industry.
When it was over, Dean grabbed the loop of Ketchâ pants, pulling him closer, using the few seconds everyone was blinded by the turned-on light.
Their faces so close that they were breathing the same air, their lips nearly touching before they grazed his ear whispering: âSee you tomorrow.â
It was a matter of two seconds. Too fast for anyone to notice, but enough to leave Ketch in a state of indecency.
