You smell like bacon

Oct 25, 2014 05:37



Dust.
With every step he raised clouds of it. It was not exactly a road and it was too wide to be a path. It was just there, dry and abandoned, surprisingly smooth until his feet disturbed the surface. Scraggly trees to his left, dry flatlands to his right, heavy overcast sky. The air felt tight and charged as if waiting for that first strike of lightening before the gray skies opened up.
Seth wasn’t in a hurry. He knew he would reach his destination eventually. It didn’t matter when or how. Because all of it was comfortably intimate, a walk he’d taken countless times. It didn’t matter that he couldn’t remember where it ended, it didn’t matter that he didn’t know what was waiting for him. What mattered was the road, his road, the one he was born to walk, the road he was made for.

“You remember that you have a choice, right?”

He glanced to his right and saw a familiar figure. Shaggy hair, lopsided smile, brown eyes too old for the young face. Ripped jeans, raggedy old sweatshirt, dusty sneakers.
A friend. An old friend.

“I’m sorry,” Seth said ruefully,
“I don’t remember you name.”
“Andy. Don’t sweat it, you never remember. I don’t think you’re supposed to.”
Seth nodded because it made sense.

Ahead of them, the road widened and the first rows of weathered townhouses started taking shape. Seth smiled. He knew every row by heart. He could remember. He knew the broken porch rails, the warped window shutters, the dusty curtains hanging from the shattered windows.

“You do remember?” Andy asked again.
“That you don’t have to be here?”

Seth shrugged,
“This is where I’m supposed to be. So it’s ok.”

There was the corral with the blood stain long soaked into the ground. The old school house where dark things hid in shaded corners. The windmill peaked above the rooftops, silent and still under the windless sky. And there was the townhouse where salt lines flickered in and out of existence on the cracked window sills. He paused in front of it, hand reaching out to touch the porch post. This is where Ava died. He couldn’t remember who Ava is or what she looked like, but this is where she died. And each time he stopped to touch the post, he felt a tug of guilt.

But he was close to his destination now so he turned away, the flash of the memory already fading.

There it was. In the middle of the town, in the center of the road. The bell. He was here for the bell.

The footsteps next to him shuffled to a stop and he turned around.
“This is my stop,” Andy said.
“I know. Thank you. For keeping me company.”
“What are old friends for?” Andy smiled.

And if his smile was sad, that was nothing new either. Seth had a faint, elusive memory of other trips, other conversations held, disagreements and angry words exchanged. He didn’t know why. How could he be mad at Andy? What could they possibly have to argue over? Andy was his friend, a good, faithful friend.

“Be careful,” Seth told him, and it was a warning older than memory, one he’d repeated thousands of times under the same sky, with the same feeling of distant dread.
“You too. I’ll see you soon.”

Seth watched him walk away, hands tucked in the deep jacket pockets, a hood of his sweatshirt peaking above it. Watched him walk slowly, without disturbing the dust, without looking left or right. The sudden urge to call out another warning went away as quickly as it came. He was here for the bell.

He turned to face this thing he’d seen a million times, across millions of different lifetimes. It never changed. Heavy and almost crude in design, it drew him like a magnet. And when he touched it, he would know why.

His hand reached out towards the delicate tree carved into its side, pressed his palm against it, and the world exploded in a shower of pain.

--

He jerked out of sound sleep, his heart beating mile a minute, soaked in cold sweat. Looked around feeling disoriented.

White walls, curtainless windows, shiny new wooden floors. A house. In Litchfield, Ohio. Dean made a small sound and twitched slightly under the covers. The sleeping bag was pulled up to his ears, everything hidden except for one closed eye, the eyelashes sweeping over a freckled cheek. Seth felt warmth pooling in his stomach at the sight. He was so fucking beautiful. He’d been so fucking beautiful the night before, writhing and whimpering, face flushed, legs quivering in Seth’s grip. Apparently Seth’s cock was thinking the same thing, half hard already and digging into his hip. He could crawl under the covers and wake Dean up. Somehow he didn’t think Dean would mind. But it had been a long day yesterday for both of them and judging by the light, it was still early morning.

He crawled off the mattress carefully, noticing it had deflated slightly in the night. Not surprising, considering what sort of use it got. Whoever designed it probably didn’t factor in all the vigorous movement of mind blowing sex.

He dressed quietly, grabbed a bottle of orange juice out of the fridge and padded over to the nearest window. Everything looked calm and peaceful. Overcast and windless. No demons in sight. He leaned his forehead against the cool glass and tried to remember.

Dust, road, town. It wasn’t an actual memory of a dream, it was a memory of a memory. Deja vu. A road he’d walked before. That was all. And even that was barely visible though thick fog. In an hour or so, even that would be gone and it would become a faint unsettled feeling in his stomach. It wasn’t the first time but it had been years now since the last one. Or at least, it had been years since the last one he remembered.

Mom had had a field day with it, trying to draw out more details, trying to interpret it in a logical manner. The road meant one thing, the dust another. The town frustrated her to no end because he couldn’t remember what it looked like. He knew it was a town, not a city, not a village. But anything else aside from that was gone. Houses, landmarks, there was nothing he could corner for her inspection. Eventually she’d given up and he’d forgotten about it. She would’ve gone nuts over this one, although he was pretty sure he could interpret it all on his own. In the past, he’d only had the dream when he was unsettled. And there was hardly anything in the world more unsettling than all the shit he’d been thorough in the last few days. He didn’t need a PhD in Psychology to figure that one out.

An old dream and nothing to worry about. But the faint beginning of a headache in the very back of his head was new. He rarely ever got headaches and when he did, they were usually related to something obvious. Lack of sleep, forgetting to eat, allergies and similar crap. And then there was the pain he’d felt in the cabin. Not exactly a headache, more of an ice pick digging into his eyes, his temples. This one would probably turn out to be your everyday exhaustion headache. Nothing a few Advil wouldn’t fix.

He glanced back at Dean and smiled. He’d love to wake him up with a good cup of coffee. But the local market hadn't been stocked to accommodate people who had no pots, pans, coffee maker or kitchenware in general. Still, he would bet that he could come up with something Dean would enjoy, lack of kitchenware or no.

--

Litchfield, Ohio, house that was for sale. Smell of eggs and bacon. Slow shuffle of Seth’s feet drifting in from the kitchen. No other unwelcome sounds from the rest of the house, no creaks, no groans, nothing to be worried about.

He exhaled a deep, relieved breath. He hadn’t expected to sleep so well. He hadn’t expected to sleep at all with the fucking sling in his way. But despite all his worrying, despite firmly believing that the morning would find him still staring at the ceiling, he’d actually drifted off. And slept so soundly that he never even heard Seth get up. He tried to think back to the last time that’s happened to him, and couldn’t.

He shifted slightly and was forced to reassess the condition his body was in. The collar bone hurt, his ribs were fucking howling again, the arm seemed okay but that would probably change once he sat up. He felt no urge to open his eyes. There was something soothing about knowing he didn’t have to yet, that he was in a safe place and in no rush. That he could just lie there and enjoy the comfortable sound of Seth moving around the kitchen, baking something that smelled like heaven, his socks making soft sounds against the wooden floors. What would it feel like to wake up like this every morning? What would it feel like to have that kind of life?

Stupid. He was edging into the territory of impossible things.

He sat up slowly and bit his lip. Yup, he was right about the arm. He could practically feel the blood rushing to it, the collar bone rebelling at being moved, the ribs turning their howl up a notch, as if asking what the fuck he thought he was doing. It would be a long, painful day without the morphine, but he might as well start getting used to it now. Of course, he did move around quite a bit last night. Probably more than he should have. Seth had held him down in the end because Dean couldn’t stop rocking his hips, arching into Seth’s fingers.

He blushed remembering the noises he’d made. Had he ever before begged for anything in his life? No. Dean Winchester doesn’t beg.
Except that last night he did. Pleaded in a high pitched voice, squirmed, spread his legs as far as they would go. And Seth... Seth fucking owned him heart and soul. If he’d had any doubts about it, they were long gone now.

“Morning, sunshine,” Seth called out from the kitchen,
“Did you sleep okay?”

Dean grunted in response and tackled his jeans. It was incredible how many things required the use of both hands. Pulling them on was awkward and it took entirely too long. Zipping them up was equally as annoying. The he got to the button and started swearing under his breath. He heard Seth’s quiet chuckle moving closer and redoubled his efforts, feeling utterly ridiculous. Seth slapped his hand away. Buttoned his pants, his knuckles brushing Dean’s skin and making him shiver.

“I could’ve done it,” Dean said, wishing he didn’t sound so petulant.
“I know,” Seth said easily, his palm sliding over Dean’s stomach, his hip bone, raising goosebumps where it passed,
“but my way was faster.”

His eyes were dark green this morning, a forest after a storm. Dean found himself reaching up to touch the birth mark next to his nose, to trace his cheekbone with his thumb. He’d always thought that calling them ‘beauty marks’ was dumb. What could possibly be beautiful about an obvious flaw on someone’s skin? God, he was so far gone. He was so far gone here, he couldn’t even see the way back.

Seth smiled,
“What?”
“What?”
“I don’t know. You’ve got this look on your face.”
“I’m-- you smell like bacon.”

Seth snorted a surprised laugh which Dean effectively cut off with his mouth. Surprise or no, Seth tilted his head, lips parting, letting him in. His tongue slid against Dean’s, lazy and slow. He tasted like laughter, like happy dreams and easy, comfortable mornings.

When he pulled away he was still smiling,
“I guess you really like bacon.”

--

There was bacon. And scrambled eggs. And toast with melted cheese on top. All out of the oven and all made on fucking foil. The kid was a goddamned genius.

Dean was finishing his third sandwich when Seth asked the same question Dean had been asking himself most of the night.

“Now what?”

Their options were definitely limited. Dean would love nothing more than to find a safe place and hide out until it all blows over. There was no way in hell he could take on a demon again until his arm was back to normal. And he never, ever again wanted to see Seth do... whatever the hell he’d done back at the cabin. Whatever it was, Dean didn’t doubt that it did some damage to Seth. The kid’s nose hadn’t stopped bleeding for a good hour afterwards and even though he hadn’t complained, Dean had seen him rub his temples every once in a while and grimace while he was doing it. No, he needed to keep the demon away from Seth and Seth away from the demon. So what were their options?

“Bobby,” he said,
“Bobby-- knows stuff. He might know why the demon’s after you. And even if he doesn’t, it’s the only place you’d be safe. The only place where we’d both be safe.”
“Unless he plans on having me killed.”
“I don’t think so. One of the first things he’d asked me over the phone was whether you were safe. I think he wanted to protect you.”
“Then why didn’t he tell you that?”
“I don’t know. But I’m gonna find out.”

Seth scooted back and leaned against the kitchen cabinet, rubbing the back of his head,
“So you trust him.”
“With my life. I’d like to strangle him right now, but yeah. I trust him.”
“All right,” Seth sighed,
“Let’s do it then.”

--

A fifteen hour ride. No problem. They’d already agreed not to stop anywhere, just to drive straight through. Dean offered to switch back and forth, to give Seth a break. But Seth didn’t mind driving. Or at least, he didn’t mind driving this car. It felt comfortable, natural, like he knew the car and the car knew him. For a few hours, Dean seemed intent on cramming all the hunting knowledge he’d acquired over the years into Seth’s head. And Seth was grateful for it. But there were other things he wanted to know, things he would never ask outright. It took a while to carefully steer Dean away from dry facts and into his personal experiences, and then from there, to nudge him towards talking about other hunters, friends, and his dad.

John Winchester had been... a fascinating man.

Fascinating was the nicest description he could come up with and he decided to stick with that just to be safe. Because it was pretty clear that despite their many differences and some buried resentments, Dean had worshiped his father. And it took Seth only a matter of hours to hate the man with a passion he didn’t think was possible.

It wasn’t even the big stuff. Not the whole living on the road, never knowing where they were gonna sleep or if they would get to eat, not the fact that the man had raised his only son to be a perfect killing machine. Seth couldn’t imagine growing up in the world full of monsters. John Winchester had trained his son to be capable of protecting himself against everything and anything that might come after him. After having already lost a wife and one son, Seth could understand why the man would do anything in his power to keep his last son safe. So he couldn’t blame John Winchester for the lifestyle Dean had led most of his childhood. He couldn’t judge what he didn’t understand.

No, it was the little things. The tidbits that slipped through, that Dean added almost offhandedly. How John had abandoned him for three months because Dean had gotten too sick to hunt. Numerous times John had left him behind when he would go on a hunt too dangerous for Dean. A hunt too dangerous for a fourteen year old boy was understandable. Leaving him in some hotel on the side of the highway in Texas wasn’t. Leaving him for such long stretches that Dean used to run out of food money and have to resort to shoplifting. And the one time he’d gotten caught, letting his son be transferred into a corrections home for underage boys, as if it had been Dean’s fault that he’d had no money for food.

Little things. Piles of them.

And yet Dean had loved him. It was obvious in every line of his face, in the timbre of his voice, in the small smile that appeared every time he told another story of John’s successful hunts. Seth couldn’t believe how much it hurt to listen to those stories, to know that the only person in this word that was supposed to love Dean Winchester unconditionally had fallen so short of the mark.

To hear that John had decided that Dean was fit to hunt on his own when he’d turned seventeen. Seventeen. At seventeen, Seth was still driving his daddy’s Mercedes, fighting with mom over his college choices and sweating over asking Neil Mercier to the prom. At seventeen Dean took on his first wendigo, by himself, with no one there to watch his back, with no one there to patch him up when the thing tore off a chunk of flesh. That was the scar Seth had traced with his fingers not so long ago, a scar no one had sown up. Three of those monsters. Dean had taken out three of them with no help before he’d even turned twenty one. Countless other supernatural things Seth had never heard of, including an entire nest of vampires where he’d barely escaped with his life. That was where the burn scars came from.

By the time they drove into Peoria, Illinois, some eight hours later, Seth had heard enough. He parked the car behind some small gas station that looked like it had been closed for years. And he answered Dean’s questions by crawling into his lap and kissing him until neither one of them could breathe, until the windows were covered in steam.

It took some creativity and a great deal of struggling, but he managed to undress them both from the waist down. It was cramped and tight and he had to be careful with Dean because the stubborn fucking man had refused to take anything for pain. So he ended up hitting his knee on the car door more than once and bruising his back on the dashboard, but it was worth it. Finding the lube Dean had tucked away in the glove box and grumbling how he could’ve used it the night before, watching heat spreading over Dean’s face. Sliding down on Dean’s cock, watching the expression on his face, like Seth was showing him some fucking miracle, like he was awed by him all over again. Riding him in short, quick jerks because there was barely enough space for even that much movement. Pressed up against him, both slick with sweat in moments, their breath mixing, the soft creaking of the car seat, Dean searching for his mouth every time Seth moved away even for a second, his low moans vibrating in Seth’s throat. Gripping him tightly, so tightly that Seth could hardly breathe, as if he was afraid Seth would just slip away, disappear without a warning. Pressing his face in Seth’s chest and whimpering as he came, the sharp jerks of his hips burying his cock even deeper, all that searing fucking heat spilling inside Seth. Immediately wrapping his hand around Seth’s cock, pushing him back so he could angle his hips, knowing exactly which position would press his cock against Seth’s prostate. But it was Dean’s face that pushed him over the edge, the swollen lips, the bruises under his eyes, pupils blown wide. The flush of having come only moments ago still staining his cheeks and neck, his breath still ragged and loud.

Neither one of them moved for a long time. Seth would’ve been content to just stay in Dean’s lap until he grew hard again, until they could go again. He would be happy to stay there until they both starved to death.

The clean up took a while too, struggling with putting the clothes back on in the cramped space, cleaning up the car seat which Seth kind of felt bad about even though Dean told him not to.

They were back on the road before midnight, driving out of Peoria and towards Sioux Falls.

Chapter 14 →

spn, spn fic, wincest, car sex, fluff, au, wincest fic

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