Supernatural - I Touch Myself
It numbered as probably one of the strangest ideas that had ever occurred to Dean, but he had gone over it too many times in his mind to stop now.
Technically, he could consider it masturbation. Nobody could blame him for that, right? Like the whole thing about if guys could stretch like dogs and lick their own balls. No, he had totally resolved this in his mind.
Plus, who else knew him better than himself? It was going to be mind-blowing. The best. Then maybe he could get these uncomfortably persistent feelings out of his head. Just a little bit of curiosity. No-one would have to know.
He only had a little while before his future self returned. Fortunately, the Castiel of this bleak time was not only otherwise occupied, but also drugged out of his mind. Good.
It wasn't really easy to get everything just right. Things were different here, and plenty of shortages meant that not even the glorious leader got the privilege of everything he would like. Still, Dean was never a stranger to invention.
In the bedroom, he began his preparations. First, a bowl with a few ice cubes in it and two tiny bottles of chilled beer. He hummed happily to himself as he positioned the bottles just so, and then he sat the little bowl of pretzels beside it.
It was a fight against his impulses to stop himself from eating even one. These were the rare ones: they had salt on them, and plenty of it. Most of the only pretzels left after the disaster were the no-salt ones, which didn't really surprise anyone.
"Okay, okay," Dean mumbled to himself. "Now...uh."
Oh right! He fished in his pockets and drew out a little vial, twisting the cap open and giving the curious dropper an odd look. It wasn't really so much a proper implement as it was a weirdly-angled little...stick.
"Oh well, what the hell."
With a shrug, he dabbed a little behind each ear and rubbed it in, just as Cas had told him. His formerly divine buddy may not have been actually all there anymore, but he still knew a thing or two about a thing or two -- including scented oils.
This one, he'd told Dean, increased the libido and enhanced others' attraction to a man wearing it. Good enough. He took another little sniff of it, then set the bottle down and pulled his shirt off. And that's when he paused, glancing out the window.
"Shit!" His future self had returned! He didn't have much time.
Raising an arm, Dean tucked his head down and sniffed. Hm. Deodorant was not exactly in great supply in the future either, and neither was clean water. They had purification -- thank god -- but the pathetic excuse for a shower he'd taken earlier wouldn't have equated to a sponge bath in his time.
To hell with the little wand thing, he thought, and put two fingers over the opening of the bottle, flipping it upside down for a second and then rubbing the oil under one arm, then doing the same for the other. Another sniff, and Dean was satisfied. At least for now, it would work.
Then came the time to hop on one foot, then the other, to pull off his boots. After them went the jeans, and then the underpants that had seen better days. Not being able to do regular laundry didn't help matters too much, but it had only been a couple of days anyway; normally Dean could rely on Sam to do it, since on his own he'd wear the same clothes until he found the smell offensive.
Which, according to Sam, could take a long time.
Dean adjusted himself and then, thinking again, stroked a few times. Nothing like a little fluff-up before the event. It was starting to sink in that the time had arrived, the moment was now here, and there would be no going back. Dean suppressed a shiver.
Hurrying to the stereo, he slipped the tape in and pressed play. Resisting the urge to turn it up and blast tunes, he uniquely went for subtlety and halved the volume.
Then, the bed. The plain, unexceptional bed. He had his own space at last, something he really hadn't experienced much of in his life until now apparently. But as spaces went, this wasn't exactly what he dreamed of having. Still, he pushed it to the back of his mind and slipped under the covers, lying on his side and propping his head up with a hand.
When the door opened and his older self stepped through, he froze in place, staring. Slowly he began to move, looking around: the beer, the pretzels, the surprisingly mellow music from around 1971. And then he turned on the ball of his foot and stepped back towards the door again.
"Hey!" Dean called, from the bed. "C'mere."
The older Dean breathed in deeply and let out a sigh. As if he were a man resigned to a truly labourious task, he slowly and firmly shut the door, locking it behind him, and stepped back into his bedroom. His nostrils flared as he tilted his head slightly back, setting his jaw and pursing his lips.
Dean rolled onto his back, folding his arms behind his head with a grin. "So. Come here often, handsome?" He figured if he really was doing this, he might as well go all the way.
At last, the other man spoke. "What...are you doing in here? If you're trying to play some kind of stupid prank, let me just remind you it's a few years too late for that kind of--"
"Chill! Come on." Dean pushed himself up on his elbows, sitting more upright in the bed. "I just thought maybe we could engage in a little...mutual stress relief?"
"My god." His older counterpart looked almost as if his knees might buckle at any second. "I...don't remember this happening. This can't be happening. I can't be getting propositioned for sex by myself."
Dean rolled out his most charming, winning grin. It was the kind that always got him what he wanted.
"No. I'm not doing it with...with myself! That's just...that's just sad!"
"Come on. Why is it sad?" Dean shrugged his shoulders, easing back down under the covers. "You're hot, I'm hot. We both got needs. This way, it's just like jerking off, but more participation!"
"You did not arrange this," the older man motioned to the refreshments, then the music, and settled his gesture on the bed, "to trade handjobs."
Running a hand through his hair, Dean chuckled and pushed his chest out a bit, arching his back to wiggle into a more comfortable position. "Yeah, well. So what? You know we've got curiosities. This way, we take care of 'em and never have to speak about 'em again, we keep our manly man cred, nobody has to know!"
"We'll know." The other man pursed his lips again, flattening his brow.
"Yeah, but that's kinda the point!" Dean slipped an arm out from under the sheets and held his hand out. "Come on. I'll be gentle."
"We have never been gentle in our life." Older Dean reached out after a moment's hesitation and lowered himself onto the bed. "So how we gonna do this?"
In all his musings about how things would unfold, Dean had neglected to consider exactly how sex with another man would work. He wasn't really sure it did work, but he presumed it must, somehow.
"You have no idea, do you."
Dean cleared his throat, wiggling a little bit again. "I, uh, thought I'd give you the option." A thin smile indicated that he was lying through his teeth. And of course, being Dean, his older self noticed.
"Uh huh."
"Okay, look. You don't know how to do it either."
"Like hell I don't." He shrugged off the flannel overshirt, then tugged his threadbare t-shirt up and tossed it aside. "A lot of stuff's gone down in the past few years you don't know jack about."
The words stunned Dean into silence. Really? He wondered how he learned about this topic in particular, and from whom the knowledge came.
Maybe Sam looked it up on the internet.
Before he could ask, though, his older self mashed lips with him. He had to give himself the credit: he always was a good kisser. He could feel the stirring between his legs, helped along by the other man reaching down and roughly grabbing, blankets and all.
At last, the kiss broke. The older man pulled the covers back in one swift, decisive movement. Dean reached down to unfasten the jeans his older self wore, and as he began to work them down, he felt hot, wet skin against his fingers.
It shocked him. At first he drew his hands suddenly back, until it dawned on him that his older self didn't wear anything under his jeans. Maybe that had changed, too, in the years between his own native time and the one he currently found himself stranded in.
He returned to working the jeans down, with the other man helping by pulling his legs up and out of them, leaning down to press one erection to its twin. The two lengths stood exactly the same, curved in just the same way, leaking slickness mingling together.
It really was much better than Dean had ever expected. But something just didn't feel right. He was aroused, undeniably, but then that wasn't unsurprising: above all, he should know what made him go.
He looked up into his own eyes. Maybe a few more lines around them, a little darker, a little sadder than his own. And colder, much colder. It wasn't like looking in a mirror. And even now, with ecstasy plastered in them and hot, quick breaths puffed against his mouth, Dean couldn't shake the feeling. He swallowed hard and flicked his tongue over his lips.
"Uh...give me a minute."
"What?" His older self rolled his eyes back, grunting and rolling off Dean, taking the opportunity to kick his boots into the floor and finish shedding his jeans.
"I, uh." Dean's heart thumped in his chest. Everything else seemed right enough. "I dunno. It's just like...something...something's not all right."
The older man stroked himself absently, rocking his hips against his fist. "What's wrong? Am I not doing something you like? Maybe I forgot I liked it. Remind me."
Dean wilted and then surged again as he took in the sight. He turned himself on. Maybe that was the problem. Maybe he felt guilty. Narcissistic. The pangs of a conscience that slept more than occasionally.
"Okay. That's it." The older Dean suddenly lunged across and shoved his younger self over, stomach against the mattress. "We're gonna be here all night if you keep having 'issues'."
Dean struggled, but he was in no position to get out from under himself. "Hey! I didn't -- let me up! Asshole!"
"Good idea!" His older self took two fingers and put them in his mouth, suckling on them for a moment before reaching down, working between Dean's buttocks, and rubbing over his hole.
An instant later, as the pleasure washed over him, Dean felt a twinge of pain stabbing at him as his tight entrance suddenly spread to accommodate both fingers at once. He opened his mouth to say something, to bark something over his shoulder that the other man pushed into the bed, but at that moment surges of electric pleasure stole any ability to speak. Before he could catch himself, he dripped drool on the sheets.
The older Dean grinned, recognising so well the look of pleasure on his younger face. One hand continued to play upon that point inside, and the other slipped from shoulder to hip, then shoved underneath, to grasp and then pump.
It occurred to Dean that he had not become more gentle or empathic to his intimate partners in the interim between his time and this time. An urgent need to finish, and to force the other person along to make sure they do the same, still seemed to sum up the entirety of his approach. Quick but good. Or good enough. Not satisfying on the long term, but then he didn't have any long-term engagements.
Not that he could hold out much more, on a purely anatomical level. Dean grunted and then almost barked, slurring his words as he finally managed to form some.
"C'mon...let's...ungh! Let's...cross the finish line...together?" His cheeks turned a deeper pink as he uncontrollably punctuated the question with a series of little moans.
His older self just laughed and kept going. Oh man. He knew this would happen. He knew it! But he just had to have that experience. Maybe the trip through time had addled his mind. The thoughts populating his frantic mental processes suddenly sparkled and shone as he felt himself release, wet and hot and sticky, and he couldn't help himself, making tiny, high-pitched noises of pleasure.
As Dean caught his breath and tried to focus his eyes, vision flaring and surging light, he found himself rolled over and faced with...his own erection, his older self straddling his shoulders. In his exhausted state, he managed a half-frown.
"Hey, what're--"
That was as much as Dean got out before a pearly web sprayed his face, again and again. He sputtered in disbelief, looking up at...himself! His own face! And he was laughing!
"You son of a--!" Of course, Dean didn't dare move, one eye still screwed shut. Anything he could say about his older self technically would apply here; he knew when he had lost.
Absently, he noted a few things to change when he got home. Had to remember those. Maybe being less of a prick in bed could at least slightly alter this future.
"So, here's to experimentation!" The older man simply wiped his hand on Dean's chest and walked over to the bowl, picking out a bottle and shaking off the water. "Want a brew?"
"I want a friggin' towel!" Dean barked, looking down at himself. "You get off like a freakin' leaky shampoo bottle!"
"Pff." His older self took a gulp of the beer, licking his lips and walking off for a moment. When he returned, he tossed a sorry-looking powder blue towel right at Dean's face. "Bitch."
"Jerk." Dean answered, almost by reflex. Wait, that wasn't right. He frowned as he finished cleaning his face, slowly pulling the towel down and glowering at the other man in the room.
But older Dean didn't care. He was too busy cleaning out the pretzel bowl.
Technically, he could consider it masturbation. Nobody could blame him for that, right? Like the whole thing about if guys could stretch like dogs and lick their own balls. No, he had totally resolved this in his mind.
Plus, who else knew him better than himself? It was going to be mind-blowing. The best. Then maybe he could get these uncomfortably persistent feelings out of his head. Just a little bit of curiosity. No-one would have to know.
He only had a little while before his future self returned. Fortunately, the Castiel of this bleak time was not only otherwise occupied, but also drugged out of his mind. Good.
It wasn't really easy to get everything just right. Things were different here, and plenty of shortages meant that not even the glorious leader got the privilege of everything he would like. Still, Dean was never a stranger to invention.
In the bedroom, he began his preparations. First, a bowl with a few ice cubes in it and two tiny bottles of chilled beer. He hummed happily to himself as he positioned the bottles just so, and then he sat the little bowl of pretzels beside it.
It was a fight against his impulses to stop himself from eating even one. These were the rare ones: they had salt on them, and plenty of it. Most of the only pretzels left after the disaster were the no-salt ones, which didn't really surprise anyone.
"Okay, okay," Dean mumbled to himself. "Now...uh."
Oh right! He fished in his pockets and drew out a little vial, twisting the cap open and giving the curious dropper an odd look. It wasn't really so much a proper implement as it was a weirdly-angled little...stick.
"Oh well, what the hell."
With a shrug, he dabbed a little behind each ear and rubbed it in, just as Cas had told him. His formerly divine buddy may not have been actually all there anymore, but he still knew a thing or two about a thing or two -- including scented oils.
This one, he'd told Dean, increased the libido and enhanced others' attraction to a man wearing it. Good enough. He took another little sniff of it, then set the bottle down and pulled his shirt off. And that's when he paused, glancing out the window.
"Shit!" His future self had returned! He didn't have much time.
Raising an arm, Dean tucked his head down and sniffed. Hm. Deodorant was not exactly in great supply in the future either, and neither was clean water. They had purification -- thank god -- but the pathetic excuse for a shower he'd taken earlier wouldn't have equated to a sponge bath in his time.
To hell with the little wand thing, he thought, and put two fingers over the opening of the bottle, flipping it upside down for a second and then rubbing the oil under one arm, then doing the same for the other. Another sniff, and Dean was satisfied. At least for now, it would work.
Then came the time to hop on one foot, then the other, to pull off his boots. After them went the jeans, and then the underpants that had seen better days. Not being able to do regular laundry didn't help matters too much, but it had only been a couple of days anyway; normally Dean could rely on Sam to do it, since on his own he'd wear the same clothes until he found the smell offensive.
Which, according to Sam, could take a long time.
Dean adjusted himself and then, thinking again, stroked a few times. Nothing like a little fluff-up before the event. It was starting to sink in that the time had arrived, the moment was now here, and there would be no going back. Dean suppressed a shiver.
Hurrying to the stereo, he slipped the tape in and pressed play. Resisting the urge to turn it up and blast tunes, he uniquely went for subtlety and halved the volume.
Then, the bed. The plain, unexceptional bed. He had his own space at last, something he really hadn't experienced much of in his life until now apparently. But as spaces went, this wasn't exactly what he dreamed of having. Still, he pushed it to the back of his mind and slipped under the covers, lying on his side and propping his head up with a hand.
When the door opened and his older self stepped through, he froze in place, staring. Slowly he began to move, looking around: the beer, the pretzels, the surprisingly mellow music from around 1971. And then he turned on the ball of his foot and stepped back towards the door again.
"Hey!" Dean called, from the bed. "C'mere."
The older Dean breathed in deeply and let out a sigh. As if he were a man resigned to a truly labourious task, he slowly and firmly shut the door, locking it behind him, and stepped back into his bedroom. His nostrils flared as he tilted his head slightly back, setting his jaw and pursing his lips.
Dean rolled onto his back, folding his arms behind his head with a grin. "So. Come here often, handsome?" He figured if he really was doing this, he might as well go all the way.
At last, the other man spoke. "What...are you doing in here? If you're trying to play some kind of stupid prank, let me just remind you it's a few years too late for that kind of--"
"Chill! Come on." Dean pushed himself up on his elbows, sitting more upright in the bed. "I just thought maybe we could engage in a little...mutual stress relief?"
"My god." His older counterpart looked almost as if his knees might buckle at any second. "I...don't remember this happening. This can't be happening. I can't be getting propositioned for sex by myself."
Dean rolled out his most charming, winning grin. It was the kind that always got him what he wanted.
"No. I'm not doing it with...with myself! That's just...that's just sad!"
"Come on. Why is it sad?" Dean shrugged his shoulders, easing back down under the covers. "You're hot, I'm hot. We both got needs. This way, it's just like jerking off, but more participation!"
"You did not arrange this," the older man motioned to the refreshments, then the music, and settled his gesture on the bed, "to trade handjobs."
Running a hand through his hair, Dean chuckled and pushed his chest out a bit, arching his back to wiggle into a more comfortable position. "Yeah, well. So what? You know we've got curiosities. This way, we take care of 'em and never have to speak about 'em again, we keep our manly man cred, nobody has to know!"
"We'll know." The other man pursed his lips again, flattening his brow.
"Yeah, but that's kinda the point!" Dean slipped an arm out from under the sheets and held his hand out. "Come on. I'll be gentle."
"We have never been gentle in our life." Older Dean reached out after a moment's hesitation and lowered himself onto the bed. "So how we gonna do this?"
In all his musings about how things would unfold, Dean had neglected to consider exactly how sex with another man would work. He wasn't really sure it did work, but he presumed it must, somehow.
"You have no idea, do you."
Dean cleared his throat, wiggling a little bit again. "I, uh, thought I'd give you the option." A thin smile indicated that he was lying through his teeth. And of course, being Dean, his older self noticed.
"Uh huh."
"Okay, look. You don't know how to do it either."
"Like hell I don't." He shrugged off the flannel overshirt, then tugged his threadbare t-shirt up and tossed it aside. "A lot of stuff's gone down in the past few years you don't know jack about."
The words stunned Dean into silence. Really? He wondered how he learned about this topic in particular, and from whom the knowledge came.
Maybe Sam looked it up on the internet.
Before he could ask, though, his older self mashed lips with him. He had to give himself the credit: he always was a good kisser. He could feel the stirring between his legs, helped along by the other man reaching down and roughly grabbing, blankets and all.
At last, the kiss broke. The older man pulled the covers back in one swift, decisive movement. Dean reached down to unfasten the jeans his older self wore, and as he began to work them down, he felt hot, wet skin against his fingers.
It shocked him. At first he drew his hands suddenly back, until it dawned on him that his older self didn't wear anything under his jeans. Maybe that had changed, too, in the years between his own native time and the one he currently found himself stranded in.
He returned to working the jeans down, with the other man helping by pulling his legs up and out of them, leaning down to press one erection to its twin. The two lengths stood exactly the same, curved in just the same way, leaking slickness mingling together.
It really was much better than Dean had ever expected. But something just didn't feel right. He was aroused, undeniably, but then that wasn't unsurprising: above all, he should know what made him go.
He looked up into his own eyes. Maybe a few more lines around them, a little darker, a little sadder than his own. And colder, much colder. It wasn't like looking in a mirror. And even now, with ecstasy plastered in them and hot, quick breaths puffed against his mouth, Dean couldn't shake the feeling. He swallowed hard and flicked his tongue over his lips.
"Uh...give me a minute."
"What?" His older self rolled his eyes back, grunting and rolling off Dean, taking the opportunity to kick his boots into the floor and finish shedding his jeans.
"I, uh." Dean's heart thumped in his chest. Everything else seemed right enough. "I dunno. It's just like...something...something's not all right."
The older man stroked himself absently, rocking his hips against his fist. "What's wrong? Am I not doing something you like? Maybe I forgot I liked it. Remind me."
Dean wilted and then surged again as he took in the sight. He turned himself on. Maybe that was the problem. Maybe he felt guilty. Narcissistic. The pangs of a conscience that slept more than occasionally.
"Okay. That's it." The older Dean suddenly lunged across and shoved his younger self over, stomach against the mattress. "We're gonna be here all night if you keep having 'issues'."
Dean struggled, but he was in no position to get out from under himself. "Hey! I didn't -- let me up! Asshole!"
"Good idea!" His older self took two fingers and put them in his mouth, suckling on them for a moment before reaching down, working between Dean's buttocks, and rubbing over his hole.
An instant later, as the pleasure washed over him, Dean felt a twinge of pain stabbing at him as his tight entrance suddenly spread to accommodate both fingers at once. He opened his mouth to say something, to bark something over his shoulder that the other man pushed into the bed, but at that moment surges of electric pleasure stole any ability to speak. Before he could catch himself, he dripped drool on the sheets.
The older Dean grinned, recognising so well the look of pleasure on his younger face. One hand continued to play upon that point inside, and the other slipped from shoulder to hip, then shoved underneath, to grasp and then pump.
It occurred to Dean that he had not become more gentle or empathic to his intimate partners in the interim between his time and this time. An urgent need to finish, and to force the other person along to make sure they do the same, still seemed to sum up the entirety of his approach. Quick but good. Or good enough. Not satisfying on the long term, but then he didn't have any long-term engagements.
Not that he could hold out much more, on a purely anatomical level. Dean grunted and then almost barked, slurring his words as he finally managed to form some.
"C'mon...let's...ungh! Let's...cross the finish line...together?" His cheeks turned a deeper pink as he uncontrollably punctuated the question with a series of little moans.
His older self just laughed and kept going. Oh man. He knew this would happen. He knew it! But he just had to have that experience. Maybe the trip through time had addled his mind. The thoughts populating his frantic mental processes suddenly sparkled and shone as he felt himself release, wet and hot and sticky, and he couldn't help himself, making tiny, high-pitched noises of pleasure.
As Dean caught his breath and tried to focus his eyes, vision flaring and surging light, he found himself rolled over and faced with...his own erection, his older self straddling his shoulders. In his exhausted state, he managed a half-frown.
"Hey, what're--"
That was as much as Dean got out before a pearly web sprayed his face, again and again. He sputtered in disbelief, looking up at...himself! His own face! And he was laughing!
"You son of a--!" Of course, Dean didn't dare move, one eye still screwed shut. Anything he could say about his older self technically would apply here; he knew when he had lost.
Absently, he noted a few things to change when he got home. Had to remember those. Maybe being less of a prick in bed could at least slightly alter this future.
"So, here's to experimentation!" The older man simply wiped his hand on Dean's chest and walked over to the bowl, picking out a bottle and shaking off the water. "Want a brew?"
"I want a friggin' towel!" Dean barked, looking down at himself. "You get off like a freakin' leaky shampoo bottle!"
"Pff." His older self took a gulp of the beer, licking his lips and walking off for a moment. When he returned, he tossed a sorry-looking powder blue towel right at Dean's face. "Bitch."
"Jerk." Dean answered, almost by reflex. Wait, that wasn't right. He frowned as he finished cleaning his face, slowly pulling the towel down and glowering at the other man in the room.
But older Dean didn't care. He was too busy cleaning out the pretzel bowl.