Fic: Keep Your Feet On the Ground (John/Dean)

May 02, 2007 23:09

Title: Keep Your Feet on the Ground
Author: essenceofmeanin
Pairing: John/Dean
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 1250
Summary: Dean can feel John’s jaw muscles working, stubble scraping against sensitive skin; he can hear himself panting into humid darkness, nowhere near enough air in the room.
Author’s Note: This is the third piece in a series of thinky PWP one-shots concerning John/Dean’s relationship. Thanks so much to hansbekhart for betaing this, and for the idea in the first place. I made her misspell the word ‘hot’ with this, so I’m pleased. Cross-posted, so sorry if you see it more than once. Please enjoy!


1.

The creak of the bedsprings wakes Dean first. A weight settles on his right side, rolling his body toward the middle of the lumpy mattress. His fingers tighten around the hilt of the knife he already reflexively grips in his sleep, arm muscles flexing minutely, until a hand wraps around his elbow to still him.

“Just me,” and Dean hears the smile curling around the edges of John’s low rumble.

Dean opens his eyes into the dark but closes them again, unwilling to wait for familiar things to appear out of the gloom. He mumbles nonsense into the pillow, sucks in a deep breath when John places a heavy hand between his shoulder blades, and waits.

John hums softly to himself, not long enough for Dean to pick out a tune, and slides his thumb down Dean’s spine. He can feel blood pooling in his cock, pressed into the sheets, as his father’s calluses scrape against his skin and over long-healed scars.

John lifts his other hand, brushes it down Dean’s ribcage. He rubs his thumbs under the hem of Dean’s shorts, drawing circles on his inner thighs. He stops for a long minute, palms gently spreading Dean open, and Dean pushes back into his father’s grip, arching his back like a cat. He growls impatiently, rubbing his aching dick into the bed, and John chuckles, moving back to slip Dean’s thin cotton briefs off, dropping them to the floor. Dean can feel the other man moving in the dark, taking off his clothes as well, until John comes back to kneel between Dean’s legs again; until he can feel John’s wiry leg hair chafing against his own.

Strong hands grip his hips, haul Dean up onto his knees. John presses his lips to the base of Dean’s spine, and Dean feels the sting of teeth before his father pulls him open again, tongue soft against his hole before pressing in. Dean presses his face into the pillow, grabs his aching dick, thumbing the head roughly. John catches his wrist, wraps his fingers over Dean’s own and slows his hand into an agonizingly deliberate rhythm. Dean can feel John’s jaw muscles working, stubble scraping against sensitive skin; he can hear himself panting into humid darkness, nowhere near enough air in the room.

Dean can feel his orgasm already building at the base of his spine; his vision in the dark turning silver. He doesn’t know if he’s hyperventilating or not, stops thinking about it completely when John’s mouth turns sloppy and demanding, fingers slipping in and pushing him forward. John squeezes the hand wrapped around him briefly before letting go to reach behind them, his fingers still thrusting far too slowly in and out, teasing. Dean lets out a long shuddery breath when he feels cool lube dripped down around his asshole, and John slides another slicked up finger into him. Dean can feel himself opening up as stars build behind his eyes, his hand hovering near his cock without quite touching it yet. He feels suspended, almost there; wants to beg John harder but his throat won’t work enough to say it.

2.

John smiles darkly at Dean as he gets up and walks away. Dean leaves his beer at the bar, shoves his own case files into his pockets before locking the men’s room door behind them. The bathroom’s weird, angular; brushed steel and apathetically graffitied brick. It smells like piss and sweated-out booze under the bleach stink, but that’s never bothered him much.

John pushes him back against the wall. Dean can feel his dad’s journal against his ribs, shoved into an inner jacket pocket. There’s a mirror behind them, but Dean can’t see his own reflection past his father. He’s already breathing hard like they hadn’t fucked this morning, doesn’t try to hide it.

He fumbles at John’s buttons until John takes pity on him, pops open the top one himself and reaches for Dean. John shoves Dean’s pants open around his hips, and Dean can feel the top of his ass hit the brick behind him when John wraps a hand around his dick. Dean licks his own palm shakily, pushing down past John’s boxers, matching the rhythm of his father’s hand with his own.

He can feel John sweating, the heat of his body leaching through all their layers of clothes. Their teeth click together when John leans down to kiss him for a fierce minute, both breathing into the other’s half open mouth. Dean breaks the kiss first, hissing as John drags a calloused thumb around the head of his cock. He drops his head to push his face into his father’s flannel, panting harshly, vision swimming. He croaks out a “God, faster,” hopes John hears him. He does.

Dean’s knees buckle when he comes; John shoves him bodily against the wall again to keep him on his feet. Through the buzzing in his ears he can hear John’s breath stutter as he jerks himself off, squeezing Dean’s hand around his cock. John comes leaking over their fingers, murmuring Dean’s name into his hair.

The two men lean against the wall for a long minute, listening to their heart rates slow. John grins slowly, turns away to wash his hands. Dean sneaks a taste of mingled spunk on his knuckle, tongue swirling around his ring before joining his father at the sink. He runs his cold soaking hands over his scalp and down across his face. John clasps Dean’s shoulder, reaches for the door.

“Hey, Dad!” John looks back, hand on the knob. “See ya next week.”

John nods, affirms, “Cripple Creek.”

3..

The buzz of cicadas drowns out most other sounds in the lazy sun. They’d splurged on a bottle on Jameson, pulled off a country highway for no damn reason at all. Dean’s sprawled on the grass, head pillowed on his leather, propping himself up on his elbows when the bottle’s passed back to him. John’s turned the radio to bluegrass; the whiskey goes down like water.

“Hey, I got one for ya.” John cocks his head to show he’s listening, takes another swig. “So, there’s this convention of people who believe in ghosts, right? Whaddaya call ‘em, paranormal investigators.” He snaps his fingers aimlessly. “So this speaker’s got a lecture going, and when he’s done he says, ‘okay, I know we all believe in ghosts, but how many of you have ever seen one?’ And about half the audience raises their hands. The dude looks around, impressed, and says ‘Wow. But how many of you have ever touched a ghost?’ ‘Bout half of them drop their hands, but there’s still a few in the air. The dude’s surprised, decides to up the ante a little. ‘All right,’ he says, ‘how many of you have ever fucked a ghost?’ There’s still one dude’s hand up, and the other guy’s shocked, y’know, ‘Sir, did you really fuck a ghost?’” Dean leans over, snags the whiskey from his father, takes a long pull of it. “And so the guy in the audience says ‘Oh! I thought we were talking about goats!’”

Dean grins up at the sky. John’s silent for a long minute, shaking his head. He takes the bottle back and sighs to himself, says, “What has nine arms and sucks?”

“What?”

“Def Leppard.”

Dean squints at the sun, chews on his lip. He raises a fist halfheartedly before dropping it again. “Yeah. Yeah, I’ll give you that one.”

john/dean, fic, nc-17

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