(no subject)
Title: sweet
Author: captainswank
Pairing: Dean/OMCs, sort of. Dean/John, sort of.
Rating: PG-13
Words: 750
Summary: Everyone notices Dean's pretty face.
Warnings: I dunno, vague underage, sort of implicit parental incest, conflicted consent.
3:47 a.m. and John’s awake. Been awake for a while, a pretty long while. Can’t sleep; knows what’s out there that could take his kids while he’s out. Can’t sleep; only two beds and they’ve both got a son in them. Can’t sleep; nightmares.
It’s okay, lots to do. Clean guns, update journal. Fifty pushups, coffee, pills, pushups.
At some point he runs out of motion and pulls up a chair in between the two beds. Sits there with his shotgun, ultra-sensitized. Every siren from every passing cop car, every draft that shakes through the worn-out apartment, makes all the hairs on his arms stand on end. He tries to force his gaze to wander but tonight it keeps ending up on Dean.
Dean, who’s spread out on the bed, taking full advantage of having his own for the night, young fresh face turned to the side, one hand under his pillow. Dean, who’s illuminated by a thin strip of moonlight that’s forced its way through the black of the room, long dark eyelashes resting against his clear pale skin. Dean, who he took to a hunter bar for the first time tonight.
Dean who swaggered in, knowing no one would look him up and down and call John Winchester a liar. From when they first stepped through the door John wanted to shake him for enjoying that his sweet soft features, illegal here, could be allowed to stay. Dean flashed white teeth, clear that he believed no one thought it was worth going up against his daddy, everybody in the place wanting to keep all their grins intact tonight. But John knew it was because his boy was more than welcome.
If only these men had the fear of John in them. If only these old and wasted fucks would cower when he walked by to grab a smoky corner booth. Before he could catch his wrist and tell him no Dean was off and grinning to grab a couple beers. John sat in his sticky seat and watched his son slip up to the bar. Must feel real smooth, though John could see his tells, has seen enough fear on his son from a distance to pick up on little things.
Dean leans on the bar and waits and it’s immediate how they come to the draw of his glow, black insects to a bright bright light. Dean pours on the charm even now, and it was John who taught him that anyone could be useful, especially in a place like this, lots of contacts and information to be gained.
Tonight it’s two men, two hundred pounds each of gut and muscle, about his age, armed, bearded man on the left with a little limp. Man on the right puts his hand on his son’s back, real friendly. John’s arthritic knuckles crack and pop.
The men look down into Dean and John knows what they see. Big round wet green eyes, thick lashes like a- The beers, where are the beers. Gimp legged fucker leans in and he can see Dean’s downy cheeks and chin where John just gave him his first lesson with a razor. Where the fuck are those beers. His arm’s around Dean now and John can’t hear what he’s saying into Dean’s delicate pink ears, and John needs to close his eyes to ease the aching in his chest so it’ll be only a fantasy when he does this, when he draws his knife from his boot and pushes the man shaped animal against the wall and pushes the teeth of his blade against his neck or maybe down between his legs and tells him exactly what he’s going to do to send them back down to hell ‘cause John’s been in the back and watched monsters claw his son but this is something else.
He remembers to breathe again when he hears Dean’s approach and the boy is careful not to shake when the beers clunk down against the wood of the table. Dean slides into the booth and presses up beside him, to help keep an eye on the door, but John makes him sit on the chair on the other side with his back to the room, token complaint when John takes both beers. They won’t be staying long anyway, have to get back and check on Sammy.
And now it’s almost dawn and John looks down at his sleeping son and there’s a sick low clench in his twisted guts.
Author: captainswank
Pairing: Dean/OMCs, sort of. Dean/John, sort of.
Rating: PG-13
Words: 750
Summary: Everyone notices Dean's pretty face.
Warnings: I dunno, vague underage, sort of implicit parental incest, conflicted consent.
3:47 a.m. and John’s awake. Been awake for a while, a pretty long while. Can’t sleep; knows what’s out there that could take his kids while he’s out. Can’t sleep; only two beds and they’ve both got a son in them. Can’t sleep; nightmares.
It’s okay, lots to do. Clean guns, update journal. Fifty pushups, coffee, pills, pushups.
At some point he runs out of motion and pulls up a chair in between the two beds. Sits there with his shotgun, ultra-sensitized. Every siren from every passing cop car, every draft that shakes through the worn-out apartment, makes all the hairs on his arms stand on end. He tries to force his gaze to wander but tonight it keeps ending up on Dean.
Dean, who’s spread out on the bed, taking full advantage of having his own for the night, young fresh face turned to the side, one hand under his pillow. Dean, who’s illuminated by a thin strip of moonlight that’s forced its way through the black of the room, long dark eyelashes resting against his clear pale skin. Dean, who he took to a hunter bar for the first time tonight.
Dean who swaggered in, knowing no one would look him up and down and call John Winchester a liar. From when they first stepped through the door John wanted to shake him for enjoying that his sweet soft features, illegal here, could be allowed to stay. Dean flashed white teeth, clear that he believed no one thought it was worth going up against his daddy, everybody in the place wanting to keep all their grins intact tonight. But John knew it was because his boy was more than welcome.
If only these men had the fear of John in them. If only these old and wasted fucks would cower when he walked by to grab a smoky corner booth. Before he could catch his wrist and tell him no Dean was off and grinning to grab a couple beers. John sat in his sticky seat and watched his son slip up to the bar. Must feel real smooth, though John could see his tells, has seen enough fear on his son from a distance to pick up on little things.
Dean leans on the bar and waits and it’s immediate how they come to the draw of his glow, black insects to a bright bright light. Dean pours on the charm even now, and it was John who taught him that anyone could be useful, especially in a place like this, lots of contacts and information to be gained.
Tonight it’s two men, two hundred pounds each of gut and muscle, about his age, armed, bearded man on the left with a little limp. Man on the right puts his hand on his son’s back, real friendly. John’s arthritic knuckles crack and pop.
The men look down into Dean and John knows what they see. Big round wet green eyes, thick lashes like a- The beers, where are the beers. Gimp legged fucker leans in and he can see Dean’s downy cheeks and chin where John just gave him his first lesson with a razor. Where the fuck are those beers. His arm’s around Dean now and John can’t hear what he’s saying into Dean’s delicate pink ears, and John needs to close his eyes to ease the aching in his chest so it’ll be only a fantasy when he does this, when he draws his knife from his boot and pushes the man shaped animal against the wall and pushes the teeth of his blade against his neck or maybe down between his legs and tells him exactly what he’s going to do to send them back down to hell ‘cause John’s been in the back and watched monsters claw his son but this is something else.
He remembers to breathe again when he hears Dean’s approach and the boy is careful not to shake when the beers clunk down against the wood of the table. Dean slides into the booth and presses up beside him, to help keep an eye on the door, but John makes him sit on the chair on the other side with his back to the room, token complaint when John takes both beers. They won’t be staying long anyway, have to get back and check on Sammy.
And now it’s almost dawn and John looks down at his sleeping son and there’s a sick low clench in his twisted guts.