fic: just another blow
This was written for the story_lottery bonus prompt "a rainbow." This follows from two other ficlets: For the Simple Need and Like All the Others. Also, thanks go to taylor_serenil for the speedy and reliable beta.
OMGWTF: slash (Dean Winchester/Dean Bendis); SPN/DB x-over; 4-5 on TEH ANGST-O-METER.
Just Another Blow
Over the next five days, Winchester has a habit of showing up at his door almost as soon as Dean actually gets back from the warehouse, from running i.d.s and incident reports and statistics on the smaller gangs cropping up around L.A.; it's a surprising amount of busy work for the whole week that Carter’s practically M.I.A. - when he's just a brief shadow that ducks in, grabs papers and books, then leaves again.
He doesn’t really know why he lets Winchester in. There’s nothing beyond hand jobs and blow jobs and maybe drinking too much alcohol. They don’t talk. He doesn’t know one damn thing about Winchester except he really knows how to use his mouth and his hands and he isn’t shy about it. Usually, Dean thinks it’s a good thing; he doesn’t want to know anything else, because there’s something, maybe Winchester’s hard jaw and harder eyes, that says better leave it alone. But sometimes, when they’re sprawled over each other, sweating and panting and exhausted, he thinks that maybe knowing something would make this whole situation slightly less bizarre. Maybe.
Dean wants to ask about Sam, sometimes, when he wonders what the other guy thinks about Winchester leaving or not showing or just not being there at all. Wants to ask, when he realizes that Winchester is, in fact, almost pathetically infatuated with Big Guy.
But Dean’s not actually a fourteen year old girl, so he doesn’t. If sometimes Winchester’s words slow or stumble and Dean can almost see Winchester mentally editing out the words Sam said and Sam did he doesn’t react. Just waits for the revised edition to make it’s way out of the man’s mouth and pretends that’s exactly what it means. He’s almost surprised at how easy it is.
Almost as easy as pressing lips to skin, licking along lines of muscle and bumps of bone. Tasting sweat and smoke and something darker, something he thinks maybe only Winchester has.
He recalls Winchester’s words from last night, and he breaks away, mouth hovering over the other man’s; asks, “Is this gonna be a repeat of the other night?”
Winchester closes the distance, and Dean can taste it when he says, “no, this time we’ll make it to the bed.”
“I want you to fuck me.” It’s not hard to say; the words just slide out, hang there, while Winchester looks him over, smirk resting in the corners of his mouth. Not difficult, maybe, but afterwards, pressed into mattress and pillows and stripped naked, he kind of feels like he’s about to choke on his tongue.
But Winchester pulls back, creates space where Dean really doesn‘t want any. Says, “I’m leaving town tomorrow,” and just looks at Dean, steady green gleam in the dim light.
He hears what’s underneath. Shrugs as best he can, because it doesn’t matter. “Not like I need your itinerary, Winchester,” and hears the other man laugh, feels it in the warm air brushing his cheek and the sudden press of Winchester’s chest against him.
It’s a warm, heavy weight against him, something he feels like a shock when cool slick and hot fingers press against his ass. One, then two, scissoring him open, and a source of tentative pressure at the base of his spine, not pleasure but not quite pain, either. Expert fingers that crook, send something bright and sharp through him to his dick; then it’s a stretch and burn that makes him grunt, Winchester pressing in, bracing arms on either side of Dean’s head, asking, “you okay?”
“Yeah,” he forces out. “Just. Wait.” It’s almost too much - weird heat and pressure that he isn’t used to, but his dick doesn’t seem to mind, still hard and aching, and he’s says, “okay. Move.”
Then Winchester’s moving and thrusting and shifting, lips dragging at the corners of Dean’s mouth when he gets it just right until Dean’s almost dizzy and panting and blinded by it. Until it’s close to painful when Winchester gets his hands on him, starts stripping him in time with his thrusts. Dean can’t hold on; feels his orgasm crash through him, warmth spilling between them both.
It‘s after, with the too-strong smell of sex in his nostrils and Winchester pulling out, away, and tying off the condom (and, Christ, it‘s a good thing, because Dean forgot to say anything, to ask) and tossing it toward the trashcan in the corner, that Dean asks, “you fuck a lot of guys, Winchester?”
“I’m not about to go out and buy a rainbow shirt, but yeah,” there’s laughter under Winchester’s words, warmth spilling over from him, burrowing in through Dean’s shoulder and side when Winchester lays back down; it doesn’t relax him, just makes him tense, think about putting space between them even though there's nowhere to go. “I’ve fucked my share.”
Dean watches as Winchester scrubs a hand through his hair, then trails it over his face. “Me and Sam.” And Dean thinks it’s an odd way to start a conversation - a fact. A statement. But he waits, and Winchester continues, “we don’t come around L.A. that often.”
Oh, he thinks, tangling his feet in sheets trapped at the end of his bed. Oh. “No. That’s fine,” he says, like he doesn’t know how to say anything else. The smile Winchester turns on him is blinding, flashes of white that he can’t respond to, so he doesn’t. Just thinks okay and throws an arm over his eyes, waiting for sleep.
The completed table is here
OMGWTF: slash (Dean Winchester/Dean Bendis); SPN/DB x-over; 4-5 on TEH ANGST-O-METER.
Just Another Blow
Over the next five days, Winchester has a habit of showing up at his door almost as soon as Dean actually gets back from the warehouse, from running i.d.s and incident reports and statistics on the smaller gangs cropping up around L.A.; it's a surprising amount of busy work for the whole week that Carter’s practically M.I.A. - when he's just a brief shadow that ducks in, grabs papers and books, then leaves again.
He doesn’t really know why he lets Winchester in. There’s nothing beyond hand jobs and blow jobs and maybe drinking too much alcohol. They don’t talk. He doesn’t know one damn thing about Winchester except he really knows how to use his mouth and his hands and he isn’t shy about it. Usually, Dean thinks it’s a good thing; he doesn’t want to know anything else, because there’s something, maybe Winchester’s hard jaw and harder eyes, that says better leave it alone. But sometimes, when they’re sprawled over each other, sweating and panting and exhausted, he thinks that maybe knowing something would make this whole situation slightly less bizarre. Maybe.
Dean wants to ask about Sam, sometimes, when he wonders what the other guy thinks about Winchester leaving or not showing or just not being there at all. Wants to ask, when he realizes that Winchester is, in fact, almost pathetically infatuated with Big Guy.
But Dean’s not actually a fourteen year old girl, so he doesn’t. If sometimes Winchester’s words slow or stumble and Dean can almost see Winchester mentally editing out the words Sam said and Sam did he doesn’t react. Just waits for the revised edition to make it’s way out of the man’s mouth and pretends that’s exactly what it means. He’s almost surprised at how easy it is.
Almost as easy as pressing lips to skin, licking along lines of muscle and bumps of bone. Tasting sweat and smoke and something darker, something he thinks maybe only Winchester has.
He recalls Winchester’s words from last night, and he breaks away, mouth hovering over the other man’s; asks, “Is this gonna be a repeat of the other night?”
Winchester closes the distance, and Dean can taste it when he says, “no, this time we’ll make it to the bed.”
“I want you to fuck me.” It’s not hard to say; the words just slide out, hang there, while Winchester looks him over, smirk resting in the corners of his mouth. Not difficult, maybe, but afterwards, pressed into mattress and pillows and stripped naked, he kind of feels like he’s about to choke on his tongue.
But Winchester pulls back, creates space where Dean really doesn‘t want any. Says, “I’m leaving town tomorrow,” and just looks at Dean, steady green gleam in the dim light.
He hears what’s underneath. Shrugs as best he can, because it doesn’t matter. “Not like I need your itinerary, Winchester,” and hears the other man laugh, feels it in the warm air brushing his cheek and the sudden press of Winchester’s chest against him.
It’s a warm, heavy weight against him, something he feels like a shock when cool slick and hot fingers press against his ass. One, then two, scissoring him open, and a source of tentative pressure at the base of his spine, not pleasure but not quite pain, either. Expert fingers that crook, send something bright and sharp through him to his dick; then it’s a stretch and burn that makes him grunt, Winchester pressing in, bracing arms on either side of Dean’s head, asking, “you okay?”
“Yeah,” he forces out. “Just. Wait.” It’s almost too much - weird heat and pressure that he isn’t used to, but his dick doesn’t seem to mind, still hard and aching, and he’s says, “okay. Move.”
Then Winchester’s moving and thrusting and shifting, lips dragging at the corners of Dean’s mouth when he gets it just right until Dean’s almost dizzy and panting and blinded by it. Until it’s close to painful when Winchester gets his hands on him, starts stripping him in time with his thrusts. Dean can’t hold on; feels his orgasm crash through him, warmth spilling between them both.
It‘s after, with the too-strong smell of sex in his nostrils and Winchester pulling out, away, and tying off the condom (and, Christ, it‘s a good thing, because Dean forgot to say anything, to ask) and tossing it toward the trashcan in the corner, that Dean asks, “you fuck a lot of guys, Winchester?”
“I’m not about to go out and buy a rainbow shirt, but yeah,” there’s laughter under Winchester’s words, warmth spilling over from him, burrowing in through Dean’s shoulder and side when Winchester lays back down; it doesn’t relax him, just makes him tense, think about putting space between them even though there's nowhere to go. “I’ve fucked my share.”
Dean watches as Winchester scrubs a hand through his hair, then trails it over his face. “Me and Sam.” And Dean thinks it’s an odd way to start a conversation - a fact. A statement. But he waits, and Winchester continues, “we don’t come around L.A. that often.”
Oh, he thinks, tangling his feet in sheets trapped at the end of his bed. Oh. “No. That’s fine,” he says, like he doesn’t know how to say anything else. The smile Winchester turns on him is blinding, flashes of white that he can’t respond to, so he doesn’t. Just thinks okay and throws an arm over his eyes, waiting for sleep.
The completed table is here