SPN: Shot Me Down
Fandom: Supernatural
Main characters: John, Dean
Referenced characters: N/a
Pairings: John/Dean
Contains: Gunplay, incest
Rating: PG13
Summary: Four rules of firearms safety. For
feywood, for getting up on time.
Dean's been up close and personal with guns almost as long as he's known what one is. And he knows how to handle guns. He knows the damage they can do, knows how careful you have to be, and he's not bragging when he says he's the best marksman he knows of, bar none. The lecture should be boring. Routine. Shouldn't even be necessary.
Trouble is, there's something riveting about the way Dad's holding the gun to his head, and it's not just the fear. There's that, yes, a sick chill in his belly, a shudder crawling down his spine -- but it's not all that, not purely that. There's something else, twisting up inside him, a Gordian knot of suppressed desire and unacknowledged desperation. And his dad knows. God, he knows. That makes him sick too, sick fucking thrill, and Dean can't keep his breathing steady.
"Guns are always loaded, Dean," John says, a rumble that Dean can almost feel. "That's the first rule."
"Yes, sir," he says, bowing his head a little, and god, he can imagine what he looks like, the submission, knows that nothing about this is going to be lost on his dad. He feels on the edge, like he's flirting with a danger more real than it's ever been, and at the same time -- at the same time he knows he's as safe here as he's ever going to be.
"Never point the gun at something you're not willing to destroy," John says, and Dean moans, helpless, horrified and desperate. "That's the second rule."
A pause, and then Dean forces the words out: "Yes, sir."
John comes round to the front of him, looks down at him, and Dean doesn't dare look up and meet his eyes. He shudders as John places the gun against his forehead. All he hears is "keep your finger off the trigger", can't focus on anything else over the roar in his ears as John's finger caresses the trigger lightly. Dean's breath is coming almost in sobs now.
"Sir," he says, that's all, can't get out any more.
"Be sure of your target," John says, crouching down to look into his face -- it's got a world of meanings, tells Dean that his dad knows everything, everything he's feeling, everything he wants -- and then, after that significant pause, "and what lies beyond it."
"Dad," he says, breathless and wrecked, needing. John gets up, and he wants to -- he wants to beg, or something. John takes a moment and then he's back, and his hands smell of metal and gun oil as he cups Dean's face. He leans close, so that Dean tastes the faint tang of alcohol on his breath, still hesitates, hesitates, until Dean makes an impatient noise and then -- It's like a shot, goes right through him: the feel of his dad's mouth, the roughness of his dad's hands on his face, and nothing is ever going to be the same again.
Main characters: John, Dean
Referenced characters: N/a
Pairings: John/Dean
Contains: Gunplay, incest
Rating: PG13
Summary: Four rules of firearms safety. For
feywood, for getting up on time.
Dean's been up close and personal with guns almost as long as he's known what one is. And he knows how to handle guns. He knows the damage they can do, knows how careful you have to be, and he's not bragging when he says he's the best marksman he knows of, bar none. The lecture should be boring. Routine. Shouldn't even be necessary.
Trouble is, there's something riveting about the way Dad's holding the gun to his head, and it's not just the fear. There's that, yes, a sick chill in his belly, a shudder crawling down his spine -- but it's not all that, not purely that. There's something else, twisting up inside him, a Gordian knot of suppressed desire and unacknowledged desperation. And his dad knows. God, he knows. That makes him sick too, sick fucking thrill, and Dean can't keep his breathing steady.
"Guns are always loaded, Dean," John says, a rumble that Dean can almost feel. "That's the first rule."
"Yes, sir," he says, bowing his head a little, and god, he can imagine what he looks like, the submission, knows that nothing about this is going to be lost on his dad. He feels on the edge, like he's flirting with a danger more real than it's ever been, and at the same time -- at the same time he knows he's as safe here as he's ever going to be.
"Never point the gun at something you're not willing to destroy," John says, and Dean moans, helpless, horrified and desperate. "That's the second rule."
A pause, and then Dean forces the words out: "Yes, sir."
John comes round to the front of him, looks down at him, and Dean doesn't dare look up and meet his eyes. He shudders as John places the gun against his forehead. All he hears is "keep your finger off the trigger", can't focus on anything else over the roar in his ears as John's finger caresses the trigger lightly. Dean's breath is coming almost in sobs now.
"Sir," he says, that's all, can't get out any more.
"Be sure of your target," John says, crouching down to look into his face -- it's got a world of meanings, tells Dean that his dad knows everything, everything he's feeling, everything he wants -- and then, after that significant pause, "and what lies beyond it."
"Dad," he says, breathless and wrecked, needing. John gets up, and he wants to -- he wants to beg, or something. John takes a moment and then he's back, and his hands smell of metal and gun oil as he cups Dean's face. He leans close, so that Dean tastes the faint tang of alcohol on his breath, still hesitates, hesitates, until Dean makes an impatient noise and then -- It's like a shot, goes right through him: the feel of his dad's mouth, the roughness of his dad's hands on his face, and nothing is ever going to be the same again.