Fic: Mutual Friends, Jack Harkness/Dean Winchester, NC17
title: Mutual Friends
fandom: Torchwood/Supernatural
pairing: Jack Harkness/Dean Winchester (Past Jack/Ianto, Doctor/Dean, implied Dean/Castiel)
rating: NC17
warnings: Language, M/M sex
word count: ~3050
summary: “Sorry,” he says in the same monotonous voice Jack had used, sounding anything but apologetic. “You’re not my type.”
a/n: So I don't know if anyone's noticed, but the internet has recently exploded with SuperWho. Being an avid member of both fandoms, I joined in the fun. Thanks go to Kai, for her unintentional prompt of 'We-both-love-other-people-but-we’re-here-hot-emotional-sex.'
Jack wanders into a bar.
Nothing about this is particularly unusual, as wandering into bar after bar after bar is all he’s done with any sense of commitment since… Well, just since. He doesn’t like to talk about it.
Now though, he’s back on Earth, which is something unusual. He hasn’t been to Earth in a long time - to him anyway, although in this reality, Earth’s reality, it’s only been 2 years. He’s somewhere in America, although he doesn’t specifically know where. And as long as they serve whiskey, he’s not sure he gives a damn either.
“Jack Daniels,” he says, monotonous, simple. No coke, no ice, no bullshit. Just the whiskey.
After so long without this particular poison, it burns his throat like all hell, but it’s a good burn. It reminds him that he’s alive, which after feeling so numb for so long can only be a good thing.
“I’ll have the same,” a voice says next to him, deep, gruff, male. “But a double.”
Jack gives about a half-second’s resistance before he cocks his head and turns to the other man, who is staring down at the smudged, grimy wood of the bar like it’s going to tell him his destiny. He seems to be oblivious, now, with his drink in his hand, to Jack’s existence. Jack almost smiles.
“You stare any longer and you’ll burn holes through it,” he says casually. The man doesn’t look up.
“Screw you,” he mutters, downing his glass and waving his hand for another. He drains the second just as quick.
“Jeez,” Jack says, almost appreciatively. “Who’d you lose?”
The man finally looks up. His green eyes are dull, his mouth set in a hard line. He has the kind of lips that, once upon a time, Jack would’ve liked to run his thumb over.
“Mind your own damn business,” the man snaps, and with his third drink clutched in his white-knuckled grasp, he walks away, sitting alone at a small table by a window, his intense, laser-eye gaze now fixed on the bottom of his glass. Jack turns back to the bar, to the bottles lining the mirrored wall opposite, and watches the man over his shoulder. He’ll give himself two more drinks, make it even with the guy, and then try again. God knows it’s been too long.
*
The guy’s on beer now, head turned away to stare, unseeing, out of the window. He doesn’t hear Jack until he speaks.
“Hey good looking.”
The guy turns slowly, as though it takes longer to hear the words than it should.
“Sorry,” he says in the same monotonous voice Jack had used, sounding anything but apologetic. “You’re not my type.”
“Dean Winchester, right?” Jack says, ignoring the comment, and suddenly the guy is sitting up a little straighter than before, jaw clenched, eyes slightly more alert - it’s panic, Jack realises, that makes the guy reach for his gun. “I wouldn’t do that in here,” he suggests softly. “Otherwise I’ll have to get mine out and then we’ll both be kicked out.”
The guy holds his gaze for a moment, and then gives a single curt nod. Jack offers him an almost smile. He gestures to the seat opposite. “Mind if I sit?”
The guy shrugs. “Go ahead,” he says, still with as little feeling as he possibly can. The panic in his eyes doesn’t filter into his voice. He’s controlled, collected. Jack could admire him, if he wasn’t exactly the same.
“So, Dean,” he starts, but is interrupted.
Dean holds his hand up, palm open, fingers spread, the universal sign for stop. Jack huffs a little, and sits back in his chair. Dean leans forward, an unpleasant downwards curl on that pretty mouth.
“Don’t you so Dean me,” he says darkly, “whoever the hell you are. You don’t have that right.”
Jack leans forward in kind. “I’m an old friend of the Doctor’s.”
If Dean is caught off guard, he doesn’t show it. He simply sighs, takes another swig of his beer, and leans straight back again. Jack feels a little like they’re dancing around each other. He wonders if this is going to end in any reward at all.
“Figures,” Dean mutters, taps his fingers on the neck of his bottle. “You a time traveller too?”
Jack nods. “Still not your type?”
This seems to finally gain a reaction; Dean flushes lightly. Jack’s long-held suspicions are effectively confirmed - the Doctor getting it on with Dean Winchester, he never would’ve imagined. He smirks slightly.
“You can take that look straight off your face,” Dean says sharply, and Jack lifts his palms in surrender.
“Hey, come on, I practically know you.”
“Funny, that,” Dean mutters. “How I don’t know you.”
“Captain Jack Harkness,” Jack replies brusquely, holding his hand out. A flicker of recognition shows in Dean’s eyes, and he takes Jack’s hand for a moment before returning to his drink.
“I know of you,” he replies, closing his lips over his bottle again. He doesn’t say anything more.
Jack doesn’t respond. Instead, he leans on one elbow on the table and looks at Dean carefully. “So if I’m not your type, then what is?”
“Tits,” Dean replies shortly, and Jack actually laughs at that.
“Bullshit.” He smiles slightly. “Last I knew, neither the Doctor nor Cas had tits.”
Dean blushes brightly this time. “How the hell do you know about Cas?”
“Small universe,” Jack replies. Dean glowers into his beer. There is a long pause. “I’m sorry about what happened.”
“Oh, you know about that too,” Dean mutters. “An angel becomes a God because some humans didn’t love him enough and now we’re the gossip of the entire universe.”
“At least he’s not dead.”
With five words, Jack’s thrown himself out there. He’ll have to explain that one. For a second, he thinks he’s bothered. And then all caution is thrown to the wind as Dean’s leg bumps against his.
“My boyfriend died in my arms before I had chance to tell him I loved him.”
“Sorry,” Dean says. He isn’t, not really, Jack can tell, and Jack doesn’t mind. Dean doesn’t know him, didn’t know Ianto, isn’t supposed to feel overwhelming pity. Jack’s kind of sick of it. The Doctor’s forgiveness was enough, everyone else’s crushing sympathy and condolences make him want to scream.
“The Doctor talk to you about Cas?” Dean asks, and Jack gives a single nod. “He tell you what I’ll have to do?”
“Is he supposed to know?”
“Dammit, everyone knows,” Dean snaps. “I’m probably gonna have to kill him, and I have to do it knowing that I love him but never said a damn thing.”
“Sorry,” Jack says and Dean knows that he doesn’t mean it either. “I don’t know what the hell I can say to that.”
“So let’s not talk about it,” Dean growls. It’s an order, not a suggestion. Jack knows better than to disagree, so he nods, shrugs, drinks his whiskey and Dean plays with his bottle. There is silence, before Jack decides it’s finally time to make his damn move.
“So old and kinda immortal your type then?”
“Guess so,” Dean replies quietly. Jack grins.
“You’re in luck then.”
Dean chokes on his beer. “You taking me home?” Jack likes that it sounds like a challenge.
“Yes,” he replies, plain and simple, and when he stands up to put on his coat, Dean hurries to do the same.
*
Dean had intended to turn the light on the normal way, but his head is pushed against the switch before he can. Jack’s teeth bite into his bottom lip and Dean grabs his lapels to keep him close. This isn’t a kiss, Dean knows kisses. He’s done a lot of it with a lot of people, and this man pinning him against the wall with his whole body is not kissing him. But it’s good.
Dean rakes his hands up Jack’s arms to his shoulders and shoves at his coat. Jack tugs on his lower lip before letting go and shrugging his coat off, throwing it aside. He presses back into Dean’s space, holding his face in one hand as he parts his lips and presses his tongue inside. Dean’s fingers fumble with Jack’s braces as he pushes his own tongue forward. This is something more like a kiss, at least until Jack groans and curses, stepping back undressing himself. Dean is almost surprised by how considerably less intimate this feels, taking care of his own clothes and not even watching Jack do the same. Surprised, but surprisingly uncaring.
Dean is naked first, naturally; he doesn’t have anywhere near the same cumbersome clothes as Jack, and he’s done this more often recently. Unlike Jack, celibacy plays no part in his grieving process.
By the time Jack has finally thrown his underwear aside, Dean’s flat on his back on the motel bed, arms under his head, cock half-hard and eyes fixed on the ceiling. Jack didn’t want personal tonight, but this is so impersonal that he actually hesitates.
Dean notices his pause, and rolls his head to the side to look at him. Jack notices his eye line remains fixed on his face - he’s not even looking about what he’s got himself in for, he doesn’t even care.
“You don’t want this,” Jack says, like it’s a fact, which it isn’t. Dean’s impersonal, but he’s not completely detached. Jack is a good-looking man with a good-looking cock and Dean wants him to fuck him. He lets his gaze travel slowly down Jack’s torso to his cock and wets his lips with the very tip of his tongue. Immediately, Jack’s gaze is drawn to his mouth and Dean knows he’s attractive, knows he’s got those lips, and smiles lightly.
“Shut up thinking and let me suck your dick,” he says, voice both smooth and firm, without preamble, and Jack, damn him, cannot say no.
As far as finesse goes, Dean’s sloppy and a little uncoordinated at times, but he makes up for it in his eagerness and how good he really is with his tongue. He’s just the right side of too fast when he rubs the flat of it against the underside of the shaft, and when he curls it under the head Jack’s breath hitches and he bucks his hips, running his fingers through Dean’s short hair. Dean looks up at him with his pretty green eyes under his eyelashes and Jack knows that if he could smile around his cock, Dean would. He slides those lips slowly down, inch by inch, until the head of Jack’s cock nudges the back of his throat. Jack has to physically force his hips to remain still, wanting nothing more than to thrust forward, but as much as he likes the idea of coming inside that mouth, he wants to fuck Dean more.
Dean seems to have other ideas, humming around Jack’s cock, and when Jack groans and bucks up again without a second thought, Dean’s throat opens up and Jack’s suddenly a lot closer to the edge than he’d thought, and he tightens his fingers in Dean’s hair, and tugs him up and off without a warning.
Dean’s mouth is red and wet with spit and Jack kisses him hard and fast, rolling them over as the bed creaks ominously beneath them. Dean laughs against Jack’s mouth, wrapping one leg around his waist and grinding upwards, rubbing their cocks together. The bare skin and friction is almost as perfect as the wet heat of Dean’s mouth, but Jack doesn’t want to come like this either.
“Stop stop stop,” Jack pants hurriedly, breathing wetly over Dean’s mouth. He pauses to bite on the bottom lip again, unable to resist, and shivers at Dean’s low groan. Then Dean’s hips are rocking upwards again, rhythmic and encouraging.
“Go go go,” he murmurs in kind, and it’s so stupidly cheesy Jack laughs. The earlier tension has dissipated, at least for now. Jack can bet that it will return by the time they’re spent, but until then… “I want you to fuck me.”
“Actually fuck you?” Jack asks softly, pulling away to sit back on his heels. He looks down at Dean’s face, a light sheen of sweat on his forehead and cheekbones, and in the hollow of his throat, his collarbones, down his torso. Jack absently reaches out to brush his fingertip over one of Dean’s dark nipples, and he inhales sharply at the touch, arching slightly upwards. Then a smirk dances over his face, and he rolls over, holding himself up on his elbows.
“Yes,” he answers. “Don’t you want to?”
Jack lets himself look at the curve of Dean’s backside for longer than is strictly necessary, just looking, unashamedly, at the smooth skin, the crease where his thighs begin, the dip of his back before the upwards swell of his ass, and then Dean’s voice is there, and Jack sees him looking over his shoulder, eyes glittering.
“Yes, you want to,” he smirks. “Can we get on with it?”
“Lube,” Jack all but barks, and Dean gestures vaguely over to the spare bed.
“In the bag. Should be a condom too.”
Jack feels like he’s wasting time searching through the duffel for slick when, from his extensive experience, spit would work just as well, but when he finally turns back to the occupied bed with his prize, Dean is grinding down on the sheets with his head hanging between his arms and well, Jack could watch that for hours.
“Hurry up,” Dean groans, and Jack is kneeling behind him on the bed, rolling the condom over his cock without even noticing his movement.
He places his hands on Dean’s hips, and Dean moves without prompt, lifting himself onto his knees, kneeling on all fours while Jack spreads lube over his fingers.
It can’t have been very long since Dean last got fucked, or between that and the time before, and the time before, because he opens easily around Jack’s first finger. Jack figures they all have different ways of dealing with loss - he became a heavy-drinking, lonely recluse, Dean became a heavy-drinking, arrogant slut, apparently. He voices this idea aloud, and Dean laughs without much humour.
“Nothing’s really changed for me then,” he says, sounding almost bitter, before pushing his hips back. “Come on.”
Jack thinks for a second that maybe he should take his time, and he pulls his finger out slowly before pushing it back in, curling it, watching as Dean shudders before he starts grinding his hips back, impatient, and all Jack’s caution and care is thrown to the wind.
He’s got three fingers inside, stretching and twisting, his mouth on the back of Dean’s thighs, kissing and nipping, when Dean finally swears at him.
“Fuck Jack, I’m ready, come on.”
Jack slides his fingers up and down his cock a few times, adding even more lube, and then finally he’s pushing inside.
It’s tighter than he’d imagined, just, and Dean inhales sharply as he’s breached, inch by inch. Jack gives him a second to adjust, and then curls over his back, bites his ear, digs his fingers into Dean’s hips, and thrusts quickly forward.
Dean’s heavy breaths turn into pants, and he pushes backwards against Jack’s hips until he feels a brush of pressure against his prostate and then he groans, loud and low, and Jack isn’t being very quiet either, his thrusts picking up speed, rolling his hips in quick, fluid movements.
It’s been too long for Jack though, and he was near to the edge before he’d even got the condom on after Dean’s administrations with his mouth. His fingers dig in deeper, and he groans loud and long into Dean’s ear, hips jerking before he stiffens, and Dean can feel him pulsing inside him as he comes in the condom.
Dean has his fingers curled around his cock before Jack even pulls out, fisting it quickly, head hanging and breath loud and fast. Then he’s on his back, hands pinned by his sides, and Jack’s hot mouth is sucking on the head of his cock and Jesus, Dean doesn’t have any idea how this happened but he’s damned if he’s going to say anything.
Not that he can, as Jack’s first finger slides quickly inside him again, curling against his prostate at the same time Jack hollows his cheeks and sucks Dean’s cock in all the way down, and he’s coming in Jack’s mouth, hips bucking and eyes rolling back, cursing loudly between his heavy breaths.
“Jesus fuck,” he groans, and Jack gives him a smug smile as he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.
*
The room stinks of sweat and sex and Dean is drinking another beer from the vending machine outside. Jack is watching him sadly, fastening his trousers.
“You should stay,” Dean says. He sounds sleepy and drunk, and Jack smiles sadly.
“No I shouldn’t,” he replies softly.
“Yeah well,” Dean breaks off, looks up at him from his place in the bed, curled up in the sheets. “You can.”
Jack shakes his head. “I can’t.”
Dean opens his mouth to argue again - he likes Jack, and he never has anyone stay the night after sex, this could be good for him. For both of them - but Jack shakes his head again.
“Dean, I just can’t.”
Dean watches him dress in silence. “I hope you find what you’re looking for,” he says as Jack turns the doorknob. There’s a long, heavy pause. There’s so much Jack could say - I’ll be fine; good luck with your angel; I hope you don’t have to kill him.
He settles for a muttered, “you too,” and shuts the door behind him.
fandom: Torchwood/Supernatural
pairing: Jack Harkness/Dean Winchester (Past Jack/Ianto, Doctor/Dean, implied Dean/Castiel)
rating: NC17
warnings: Language, M/M sex
word count: ~3050
summary: “Sorry,” he says in the same monotonous voice Jack had used, sounding anything but apologetic. “You’re not my type.”
a/n: So I don't know if anyone's noticed, but the internet has recently exploded with SuperWho. Being an avid member of both fandoms, I joined in the fun. Thanks go to Kai, for her unintentional prompt of 'We-both-love-other-people-but-we’re-here-hot-emotional-sex.'
Jack wanders into a bar.
Nothing about this is particularly unusual, as wandering into bar after bar after bar is all he’s done with any sense of commitment since… Well, just since. He doesn’t like to talk about it.
Now though, he’s back on Earth, which is something unusual. He hasn’t been to Earth in a long time - to him anyway, although in this reality, Earth’s reality, it’s only been 2 years. He’s somewhere in America, although he doesn’t specifically know where. And as long as they serve whiskey, he’s not sure he gives a damn either.
“Jack Daniels,” he says, monotonous, simple. No coke, no ice, no bullshit. Just the whiskey.
After so long without this particular poison, it burns his throat like all hell, but it’s a good burn. It reminds him that he’s alive, which after feeling so numb for so long can only be a good thing.
“I’ll have the same,” a voice says next to him, deep, gruff, male. “But a double.”
Jack gives about a half-second’s resistance before he cocks his head and turns to the other man, who is staring down at the smudged, grimy wood of the bar like it’s going to tell him his destiny. He seems to be oblivious, now, with his drink in his hand, to Jack’s existence. Jack almost smiles.
“You stare any longer and you’ll burn holes through it,” he says casually. The man doesn’t look up.
“Screw you,” he mutters, downing his glass and waving his hand for another. He drains the second just as quick.
“Jeez,” Jack says, almost appreciatively. “Who’d you lose?”
The man finally looks up. His green eyes are dull, his mouth set in a hard line. He has the kind of lips that, once upon a time, Jack would’ve liked to run his thumb over.
“Mind your own damn business,” the man snaps, and with his third drink clutched in his white-knuckled grasp, he walks away, sitting alone at a small table by a window, his intense, laser-eye gaze now fixed on the bottom of his glass. Jack turns back to the bar, to the bottles lining the mirrored wall opposite, and watches the man over his shoulder. He’ll give himself two more drinks, make it even with the guy, and then try again. God knows it’s been too long.
*
The guy’s on beer now, head turned away to stare, unseeing, out of the window. He doesn’t hear Jack until he speaks.
“Hey good looking.”
The guy turns slowly, as though it takes longer to hear the words than it should.
“Sorry,” he says in the same monotonous voice Jack had used, sounding anything but apologetic. “You’re not my type.”
“Dean Winchester, right?” Jack says, ignoring the comment, and suddenly the guy is sitting up a little straighter than before, jaw clenched, eyes slightly more alert - it’s panic, Jack realises, that makes the guy reach for his gun. “I wouldn’t do that in here,” he suggests softly. “Otherwise I’ll have to get mine out and then we’ll both be kicked out.”
The guy holds his gaze for a moment, and then gives a single curt nod. Jack offers him an almost smile. He gestures to the seat opposite. “Mind if I sit?”
The guy shrugs. “Go ahead,” he says, still with as little feeling as he possibly can. The panic in his eyes doesn’t filter into his voice. He’s controlled, collected. Jack could admire him, if he wasn’t exactly the same.
“So, Dean,” he starts, but is interrupted.
Dean holds his hand up, palm open, fingers spread, the universal sign for stop. Jack huffs a little, and sits back in his chair. Dean leans forward, an unpleasant downwards curl on that pretty mouth.
“Don’t you so Dean me,” he says darkly, “whoever the hell you are. You don’t have that right.”
Jack leans forward in kind. “I’m an old friend of the Doctor’s.”
If Dean is caught off guard, he doesn’t show it. He simply sighs, takes another swig of his beer, and leans straight back again. Jack feels a little like they’re dancing around each other. He wonders if this is going to end in any reward at all.
“Figures,” Dean mutters, taps his fingers on the neck of his bottle. “You a time traveller too?”
Jack nods. “Still not your type?”
This seems to finally gain a reaction; Dean flushes lightly. Jack’s long-held suspicions are effectively confirmed - the Doctor getting it on with Dean Winchester, he never would’ve imagined. He smirks slightly.
“You can take that look straight off your face,” Dean says sharply, and Jack lifts his palms in surrender.
“Hey, come on, I practically know you.”
“Funny, that,” Dean mutters. “How I don’t know you.”
“Captain Jack Harkness,” Jack replies brusquely, holding his hand out. A flicker of recognition shows in Dean’s eyes, and he takes Jack’s hand for a moment before returning to his drink.
“I know of you,” he replies, closing his lips over his bottle again. He doesn’t say anything more.
Jack doesn’t respond. Instead, he leans on one elbow on the table and looks at Dean carefully. “So if I’m not your type, then what is?”
“Tits,” Dean replies shortly, and Jack actually laughs at that.
“Bullshit.” He smiles slightly. “Last I knew, neither the Doctor nor Cas had tits.”
Dean blushes brightly this time. “How the hell do you know about Cas?”
“Small universe,” Jack replies. Dean glowers into his beer. There is a long pause. “I’m sorry about what happened.”
“Oh, you know about that too,” Dean mutters. “An angel becomes a God because some humans didn’t love him enough and now we’re the gossip of the entire universe.”
“At least he’s not dead.”
With five words, Jack’s thrown himself out there. He’ll have to explain that one. For a second, he thinks he’s bothered. And then all caution is thrown to the wind as Dean’s leg bumps against his.
“My boyfriend died in my arms before I had chance to tell him I loved him.”
“Sorry,” Dean says. He isn’t, not really, Jack can tell, and Jack doesn’t mind. Dean doesn’t know him, didn’t know Ianto, isn’t supposed to feel overwhelming pity. Jack’s kind of sick of it. The Doctor’s forgiveness was enough, everyone else’s crushing sympathy and condolences make him want to scream.
“The Doctor talk to you about Cas?” Dean asks, and Jack gives a single nod. “He tell you what I’ll have to do?”
“Is he supposed to know?”
“Dammit, everyone knows,” Dean snaps. “I’m probably gonna have to kill him, and I have to do it knowing that I love him but never said a damn thing.”
“Sorry,” Jack says and Dean knows that he doesn’t mean it either. “I don’t know what the hell I can say to that.”
“So let’s not talk about it,” Dean growls. It’s an order, not a suggestion. Jack knows better than to disagree, so he nods, shrugs, drinks his whiskey and Dean plays with his bottle. There is silence, before Jack decides it’s finally time to make his damn move.
“So old and kinda immortal your type then?”
“Guess so,” Dean replies quietly. Jack grins.
“You’re in luck then.”
Dean chokes on his beer. “You taking me home?” Jack likes that it sounds like a challenge.
“Yes,” he replies, plain and simple, and when he stands up to put on his coat, Dean hurries to do the same.
*
Dean had intended to turn the light on the normal way, but his head is pushed against the switch before he can. Jack’s teeth bite into his bottom lip and Dean grabs his lapels to keep him close. This isn’t a kiss, Dean knows kisses. He’s done a lot of it with a lot of people, and this man pinning him against the wall with his whole body is not kissing him. But it’s good.
Dean rakes his hands up Jack’s arms to his shoulders and shoves at his coat. Jack tugs on his lower lip before letting go and shrugging his coat off, throwing it aside. He presses back into Dean’s space, holding his face in one hand as he parts his lips and presses his tongue inside. Dean’s fingers fumble with Jack’s braces as he pushes his own tongue forward. This is something more like a kiss, at least until Jack groans and curses, stepping back undressing himself. Dean is almost surprised by how considerably less intimate this feels, taking care of his own clothes and not even watching Jack do the same. Surprised, but surprisingly uncaring.
Dean is naked first, naturally; he doesn’t have anywhere near the same cumbersome clothes as Jack, and he’s done this more often recently. Unlike Jack, celibacy plays no part in his grieving process.
By the time Jack has finally thrown his underwear aside, Dean’s flat on his back on the motel bed, arms under his head, cock half-hard and eyes fixed on the ceiling. Jack didn’t want personal tonight, but this is so impersonal that he actually hesitates.
Dean notices his pause, and rolls his head to the side to look at him. Jack notices his eye line remains fixed on his face - he’s not even looking about what he’s got himself in for, he doesn’t even care.
“You don’t want this,” Jack says, like it’s a fact, which it isn’t. Dean’s impersonal, but he’s not completely detached. Jack is a good-looking man with a good-looking cock and Dean wants him to fuck him. He lets his gaze travel slowly down Jack’s torso to his cock and wets his lips with the very tip of his tongue. Immediately, Jack’s gaze is drawn to his mouth and Dean knows he’s attractive, knows he’s got those lips, and smiles lightly.
“Shut up thinking and let me suck your dick,” he says, voice both smooth and firm, without preamble, and Jack, damn him, cannot say no.
As far as finesse goes, Dean’s sloppy and a little uncoordinated at times, but he makes up for it in his eagerness and how good he really is with his tongue. He’s just the right side of too fast when he rubs the flat of it against the underside of the shaft, and when he curls it under the head Jack’s breath hitches and he bucks his hips, running his fingers through Dean’s short hair. Dean looks up at him with his pretty green eyes under his eyelashes and Jack knows that if he could smile around his cock, Dean would. He slides those lips slowly down, inch by inch, until the head of Jack’s cock nudges the back of his throat. Jack has to physically force his hips to remain still, wanting nothing more than to thrust forward, but as much as he likes the idea of coming inside that mouth, he wants to fuck Dean more.
Dean seems to have other ideas, humming around Jack’s cock, and when Jack groans and bucks up again without a second thought, Dean’s throat opens up and Jack’s suddenly a lot closer to the edge than he’d thought, and he tightens his fingers in Dean’s hair, and tugs him up and off without a warning.
Dean’s mouth is red and wet with spit and Jack kisses him hard and fast, rolling them over as the bed creaks ominously beneath them. Dean laughs against Jack’s mouth, wrapping one leg around his waist and grinding upwards, rubbing their cocks together. The bare skin and friction is almost as perfect as the wet heat of Dean’s mouth, but Jack doesn’t want to come like this either.
“Stop stop stop,” Jack pants hurriedly, breathing wetly over Dean’s mouth. He pauses to bite on the bottom lip again, unable to resist, and shivers at Dean’s low groan. Then Dean’s hips are rocking upwards again, rhythmic and encouraging.
“Go go go,” he murmurs in kind, and it’s so stupidly cheesy Jack laughs. The earlier tension has dissipated, at least for now. Jack can bet that it will return by the time they’re spent, but until then… “I want you to fuck me.”
“Actually fuck you?” Jack asks softly, pulling away to sit back on his heels. He looks down at Dean’s face, a light sheen of sweat on his forehead and cheekbones, and in the hollow of his throat, his collarbones, down his torso. Jack absently reaches out to brush his fingertip over one of Dean’s dark nipples, and he inhales sharply at the touch, arching slightly upwards. Then a smirk dances over his face, and he rolls over, holding himself up on his elbows.
“Yes,” he answers. “Don’t you want to?”
Jack lets himself look at the curve of Dean’s backside for longer than is strictly necessary, just looking, unashamedly, at the smooth skin, the crease where his thighs begin, the dip of his back before the upwards swell of his ass, and then Dean’s voice is there, and Jack sees him looking over his shoulder, eyes glittering.
“Yes, you want to,” he smirks. “Can we get on with it?”
“Lube,” Jack all but barks, and Dean gestures vaguely over to the spare bed.
“In the bag. Should be a condom too.”
Jack feels like he’s wasting time searching through the duffel for slick when, from his extensive experience, spit would work just as well, but when he finally turns back to the occupied bed with his prize, Dean is grinding down on the sheets with his head hanging between his arms and well, Jack could watch that for hours.
“Hurry up,” Dean groans, and Jack is kneeling behind him on the bed, rolling the condom over his cock without even noticing his movement.
He places his hands on Dean’s hips, and Dean moves without prompt, lifting himself onto his knees, kneeling on all fours while Jack spreads lube over his fingers.
It can’t have been very long since Dean last got fucked, or between that and the time before, and the time before, because he opens easily around Jack’s first finger. Jack figures they all have different ways of dealing with loss - he became a heavy-drinking, lonely recluse, Dean became a heavy-drinking, arrogant slut, apparently. He voices this idea aloud, and Dean laughs without much humour.
“Nothing’s really changed for me then,” he says, sounding almost bitter, before pushing his hips back. “Come on.”
Jack thinks for a second that maybe he should take his time, and he pulls his finger out slowly before pushing it back in, curling it, watching as Dean shudders before he starts grinding his hips back, impatient, and all Jack’s caution and care is thrown to the wind.
He’s got three fingers inside, stretching and twisting, his mouth on the back of Dean’s thighs, kissing and nipping, when Dean finally swears at him.
“Fuck Jack, I’m ready, come on.”
Jack slides his fingers up and down his cock a few times, adding even more lube, and then finally he’s pushing inside.
It’s tighter than he’d imagined, just, and Dean inhales sharply as he’s breached, inch by inch. Jack gives him a second to adjust, and then curls over his back, bites his ear, digs his fingers into Dean’s hips, and thrusts quickly forward.
Dean’s heavy breaths turn into pants, and he pushes backwards against Jack’s hips until he feels a brush of pressure against his prostate and then he groans, loud and low, and Jack isn’t being very quiet either, his thrusts picking up speed, rolling his hips in quick, fluid movements.
It’s been too long for Jack though, and he was near to the edge before he’d even got the condom on after Dean’s administrations with his mouth. His fingers dig in deeper, and he groans loud and long into Dean’s ear, hips jerking before he stiffens, and Dean can feel him pulsing inside him as he comes in the condom.
Dean has his fingers curled around his cock before Jack even pulls out, fisting it quickly, head hanging and breath loud and fast. Then he’s on his back, hands pinned by his sides, and Jack’s hot mouth is sucking on the head of his cock and Jesus, Dean doesn’t have any idea how this happened but he’s damned if he’s going to say anything.
Not that he can, as Jack’s first finger slides quickly inside him again, curling against his prostate at the same time Jack hollows his cheeks and sucks Dean’s cock in all the way down, and he’s coming in Jack’s mouth, hips bucking and eyes rolling back, cursing loudly between his heavy breaths.
“Jesus fuck,” he groans, and Jack gives him a smug smile as he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.
*
The room stinks of sweat and sex and Dean is drinking another beer from the vending machine outside. Jack is watching him sadly, fastening his trousers.
“You should stay,” Dean says. He sounds sleepy and drunk, and Jack smiles sadly.
“No I shouldn’t,” he replies softly.
“Yeah well,” Dean breaks off, looks up at him from his place in the bed, curled up in the sheets. “You can.”
Jack shakes his head. “I can’t.”
Dean opens his mouth to argue again - he likes Jack, and he never has anyone stay the night after sex, this could be good for him. For both of them - but Jack shakes his head again.
“Dean, I just can’t.”
Dean watches him dress in silence. “I hope you find what you’re looking for,” he says as Jack turns the doorknob. There’s a long, heavy pause. There’s so much Jack could say - I’ll be fine; good luck with your angel; I hope you don’t have to kill him.
He settles for a muttered, “you too,” and shuts the door behind him.