Fic: The Black Horse
Title: The Black Horse
Fandom: Supernatural
Pairing: Dean/War
Rating: NC-17
Spoilers: 5x10
Word Count: 1950
Disclaimer: In no way mine, or anything to do with me, I own nothing.
Summary: The Impala is a different sort of animal, but they make it work.
AN: Written for the kink_bingo prompt 'leather.' Same universe as The Horse Who Never Sleeps.
The back of the Impala isn't as big as the Mustang. Or maybe it's just because Dean's car isn't as easily manipulated, can't be unnaturally twisted and folded to make room for them both. In here they're forced to obey the car's dimensions. Which is why War's a stretch of too much heat against him, leg thrown over his thigh, pressing his damp skin into the warm leather.
Neither of them are small men and Dean had to leave the door open, the edge of a breeze still slides through, lifting all the hair on his arm.
He's still breathing hard, still stretching the ache out of his thigh. War's arm is still curled round his waist, possessive in a way that sets Dean's teeth on edge. But he doesn’t move it, doesn't want to move it. He's not sure he wants to look too closely at why. He's been using the excuse that he's punishing himself for something. But that's starting to wear a little thin.
The Mustang's ten feet away, still humming gently in the darkness, she doesn't need a key as far as he can tell. War makes her breathe, War brings her to life. She's definitely not just a car, no matter what he says, no matter how much she looks like one and feels like one. Dean's been inside her, been pressed back into her seats under War, listening to the low, animal growl her engine makes, breathing in the sharp, dangerous smell of her and the way she's never cold.
Dean knows she's alive, that she's part of War in some way. He's the only human being that's ever driven her, and that's a fucking rush, in a way it probably shouldn't be. Sliding into the driver's seat and catching hold of the wheel, tight and gentle at the same time. Because she's impossible like that too, dangerous and sacred at the same time.
"Where does your brother think you are today?" War asks, curiously. Voice a rumble of sound that feels like a caress where he's pressed into Dean's skin.
War knows damn well Dean isn't going to admit to this, to what they're doing. Not to Sam at least. He grunts like it doesn't matter, like War will actually fucking drop it.
"You're going to run out of excuses," War tells him, purrs it into his ear like it's a secret.
"That's my problem." Dean still hasn't pushed his arm away. Even though everything about War is too hot and too strong, all different shades of wrong. Demon or not, Dean knows he's a thing carved out of the darkness in a way that makes him the same.
The fingertips are drifting on his hip now, slow and indulgent.
"I like that you haven't told him. It's like a storm on the horizon."
Dean tenses under his hand. "If you even think of telling him -"
"I wouldn't tell him," War says smoothly. He huffs a laugh and stretches, slowly, until their legs are shoved together. "Pretty as you'd be, all wounded and furious, I'll be greedy and have you on your knees instead."
Dean knows he should tell War to go fuck himself, at the insinuation of that. But considering that's exactly how this whole night started, with Dean on his knees, the argument isn't going to get him very far. He's running out of excuses other than the obvious and he fucking hates it. Hates how it doesn't make him want to leave.
War's fingers dig into the curve where hip meets thigh, catch at the skin like a promise.
"What about your angel? The pretty, bewildered one, far too attached to you."
"Castiel," Dean says, quick and quiet.
War hums like he'd known the name perfectly well and just wanted to hear it in Dean's mouth.
"Castiel, that's the one, he's got your best interests at heart. I'd wager he'd disapprove of all this relentless fucking in-between the hunting of monsters and the saving of poor innocent civilians."
War tuts quietly, lazy and amused.
"Always trying to save you from yourself. Doesn't approve of personal growth."
War laughs and shifts until he can look down at him.
"Did you take advantage of that, Dean? Did you fuck him?"
"No," Dean says sharply. There's still anger there, just a little, still a sense of abandonment. Though he's more than certain he deserved it. That he still deserves it.
"Did you want to?" War corrects smoothly.
"No," Dean says. It's too quick, too much of an instant denial, but it's out before he can stop it.
War laughs against the curve of his throat, and his hand tightens on Dean's waist.
"Liar," he says simply. "I bet he would have even let you. Your obedient angel would have opened up to you if you'd just asked for it. Did you picture him on his knees? All big eyes and pretty wide mouth?"
Dean swallows roughly.
"Shut up," he says. Soft under his breath and cracked at the edges. There's an edge of guilty anger there now.
"I think I'd like to watch that," War decides.
The hand on Dean's waist has shifted in, fingers straying through the hair at his groin to slide against where his cock is slowly filling again. Too soon, like he's a dozen years younger than he is. Like it doesn't care how bad this is for him. There's nothing slow about it when War slides his fingers round him, makes it feel like a threat rather than a suggestion. Always makes it feel like a threat, like it's only the lust and the amusement keeping him from tearing the world apart. But they've done this enough times that Dean grunts and pushes into his hand.
Picking a fight is what War does best. What he does like breathing. Dean doesn't give him the satisfaction. He shifts on the leather, the long, damp squeak of it under him when he slithers round and tries to shut up War's laughing mouth with his own.
War accepts him, all curl of arms and fingers pressed into his back, legs moving to make room, for all the fucking good it does. The damp claustrophobia of the Impala is familiar and dangerous at the same time. Dean's still moving, head bending when it hits the roof. The upholstery creases under his knees when he shoves his way into War's lap, presses him back into the seat and kisses him until the laughter goes low and deep and then stops. The scrape of his jaw burns, phantom edges of pain where he's pretending to be real, though the way War breathes and groans and makes greedy noises in his throat is real enough. It's real enough for Dean to want it, just because he can have it, because War lets him. Or maybe it's because he knows he can't fight him, and Dean's never liked to lose.
War grasps his thighs and drags him close in one movement, the soft burn of damp skin. Then his hands slide up Dean's waist, grip tight enough to hurt before dropping lower, fingers trailing down the crack of his ass, pushing just inside him. War's ready, he's always ready, all hardness and aggression the moment sex becomes a possibility.
Dean braces a hand on the back of the seat and shifts his hips in just right. He's still loose enough to take him in one steady push, groaning though his teeth because he knows he's going to feel this. It's never gentle and he rarely leaves without the ache of it still inside him. But it's good, it's that dark, red sort of good that tells Dean he's in over his head, always. He reaches up, palm flat on the roof, gets enough leverage to press down. War's hand slides round the back of his neck and drags him in with a growl, his other arm curls round Dean's waist to hold him steady for every solid thrust.
Dean can hear his own breathing, a wet, unsteady rasp, like it's a struggle. He can hear the low, dirty creak of leather under his knees, the soft, obscene wet sound of flesh meeting, rough and greedy. It's all angles and skin and sweat that makes his knees slip. The back seat smells like warm leather and sex, and something sharper. Something like blood and gunpowder and metal. His teeth bite down into War's shoulder and there's no give at all in the flesh. Without the ring War's all heat and power and weight in the world.
Dean's going to ache in so many places tomorrow. But he presses his fingers into War's neck and shifts up onto his knees, leaves War just barely inside him. Daring him to work for it.
Because he wants to be fucked, needs to be fucked.
War's eyes narrow, fingernails briefly sharp enough to make him wince, before War's slipping out of him, tipping him out of his lap and shoving him face-down into the seat, cheek pressed into the warmth of the leather while his hips are dragged up, knee knocking into the back of the driver's seat and War slides all the way back in with one hard shove.
The noise Dean makes is muffled, caught in the cramped expanse of the seat back. He's suffocating in the hot smell of it. Breathing every breath that flares back into his face and wincing at the uncomfortable drag of leather against his cheek and jaw. He's nothing but noise in this space, gasping and groaning and hissing through his teeth every time War's hips snap in too hard and too fast. It's almost impossible to breathe past all of it. He thinks he's half in danger of passing out before he comes. But that's intense too, it's like a stab of constant, desperate fucking bliss, sharp-edged and relentless.
"Fuck," he murmurs, can't help repeating it, over and over, like he's begging without the ability to form any other words, hand sliding on the seat with a squeak. A frustrated search for grip until he finds the edge of the door, the smooth metal works as a brace. Dean pushes back, gets a snarl and an angle that's perfect and vicious - Jesus - breath stuttering in his throat while his chest and shoulder rasp across the seat in uncomfortable slides. It's aggressive and dirty and exactly what he wants, and he can't fucking stand it.
He can't get any friction at all. His dick is just a heavy weight, hard enough to hurt so fucking good every time his body jerks forward.
He's so close to begging, to promising anything, to trying to move the hand that's holding him steady just to bring himself off. Until War is fucking merciful for once. He reaches round and jacks him, roughly, just enough that Dean's swallowing the smell of leather and sex and his own gasps and coming so hard the world goes dark at the edges.
He comes back braced on his hands, one leg slipped down off the seat. He's empty and uncomfortable, tired and sensitive where his skin's cooling in the breeze. The slick wet trail on his thigh is more of an accusation than anything else.
War's out in the night, sliding back into his suit like he's been wearing clothes his whole life and not just pretending. He looks at Dean like he's something he found, something he's decided belongs to him now.
"Meet me tomorrow," War says, and his teeth are sharp and white in the dark. Dean breathes into the back of the seat and swallows a protest, a curse.
He knows damn well he'll do as he's told.
Fandom: Supernatural
Pairing: Dean/War
Rating: NC-17
Spoilers: 5x10
Word Count: 1950
Disclaimer: In no way mine, or anything to do with me, I own nothing.
Summary: The Impala is a different sort of animal, but they make it work.
AN: Written for the kink_bingo prompt 'leather.' Same universe as The Horse Who Never Sleeps.
The back of the Impala isn't as big as the Mustang. Or maybe it's just because Dean's car isn't as easily manipulated, can't be unnaturally twisted and folded to make room for them both. In here they're forced to obey the car's dimensions. Which is why War's a stretch of too much heat against him, leg thrown over his thigh, pressing his damp skin into the warm leather.
Neither of them are small men and Dean had to leave the door open, the edge of a breeze still slides through, lifting all the hair on his arm.
He's still breathing hard, still stretching the ache out of his thigh. War's arm is still curled round his waist, possessive in a way that sets Dean's teeth on edge. But he doesn’t move it, doesn't want to move it. He's not sure he wants to look too closely at why. He's been using the excuse that he's punishing himself for something. But that's starting to wear a little thin.
The Mustang's ten feet away, still humming gently in the darkness, she doesn't need a key as far as he can tell. War makes her breathe, War brings her to life. She's definitely not just a car, no matter what he says, no matter how much she looks like one and feels like one. Dean's been inside her, been pressed back into her seats under War, listening to the low, animal growl her engine makes, breathing in the sharp, dangerous smell of her and the way she's never cold.
Dean knows she's alive, that she's part of War in some way. He's the only human being that's ever driven her, and that's a fucking rush, in a way it probably shouldn't be. Sliding into the driver's seat and catching hold of the wheel, tight and gentle at the same time. Because she's impossible like that too, dangerous and sacred at the same time.
"Where does your brother think you are today?" War asks, curiously. Voice a rumble of sound that feels like a caress where he's pressed into Dean's skin.
War knows damn well Dean isn't going to admit to this, to what they're doing. Not to Sam at least. He grunts like it doesn't matter, like War will actually fucking drop it.
"You're going to run out of excuses," War tells him, purrs it into his ear like it's a secret.
"That's my problem." Dean still hasn't pushed his arm away. Even though everything about War is too hot and too strong, all different shades of wrong. Demon or not, Dean knows he's a thing carved out of the darkness in a way that makes him the same.
The fingertips are drifting on his hip now, slow and indulgent.
"I like that you haven't told him. It's like a storm on the horizon."
Dean tenses under his hand. "If you even think of telling him -"
"I wouldn't tell him," War says smoothly. He huffs a laugh and stretches, slowly, until their legs are shoved together. "Pretty as you'd be, all wounded and furious, I'll be greedy and have you on your knees instead."
Dean knows he should tell War to go fuck himself, at the insinuation of that. But considering that's exactly how this whole night started, with Dean on his knees, the argument isn't going to get him very far. He's running out of excuses other than the obvious and he fucking hates it. Hates how it doesn't make him want to leave.
War's fingers dig into the curve where hip meets thigh, catch at the skin like a promise.
"What about your angel? The pretty, bewildered one, far too attached to you."
"Castiel," Dean says, quick and quiet.
War hums like he'd known the name perfectly well and just wanted to hear it in Dean's mouth.
"Castiel, that's the one, he's got your best interests at heart. I'd wager he'd disapprove of all this relentless fucking in-between the hunting of monsters and the saving of poor innocent civilians."
War tuts quietly, lazy and amused.
"Always trying to save you from yourself. Doesn't approve of personal growth."
War laughs and shifts until he can look down at him.
"Did you take advantage of that, Dean? Did you fuck him?"
"No," Dean says sharply. There's still anger there, just a little, still a sense of abandonment. Though he's more than certain he deserved it. That he still deserves it.
"Did you want to?" War corrects smoothly.
"No," Dean says. It's too quick, too much of an instant denial, but it's out before he can stop it.
War laughs against the curve of his throat, and his hand tightens on Dean's waist.
"Liar," he says simply. "I bet he would have even let you. Your obedient angel would have opened up to you if you'd just asked for it. Did you picture him on his knees? All big eyes and pretty wide mouth?"
Dean swallows roughly.
"Shut up," he says. Soft under his breath and cracked at the edges. There's an edge of guilty anger there now.
"I think I'd like to watch that," War decides.
The hand on Dean's waist has shifted in, fingers straying through the hair at his groin to slide against where his cock is slowly filling again. Too soon, like he's a dozen years younger than he is. Like it doesn't care how bad this is for him. There's nothing slow about it when War slides his fingers round him, makes it feel like a threat rather than a suggestion. Always makes it feel like a threat, like it's only the lust and the amusement keeping him from tearing the world apart. But they've done this enough times that Dean grunts and pushes into his hand.
Picking a fight is what War does best. What he does like breathing. Dean doesn't give him the satisfaction. He shifts on the leather, the long, damp squeak of it under him when he slithers round and tries to shut up War's laughing mouth with his own.
War accepts him, all curl of arms and fingers pressed into his back, legs moving to make room, for all the fucking good it does. The damp claustrophobia of the Impala is familiar and dangerous at the same time. Dean's still moving, head bending when it hits the roof. The upholstery creases under his knees when he shoves his way into War's lap, presses him back into the seat and kisses him until the laughter goes low and deep and then stops. The scrape of his jaw burns, phantom edges of pain where he's pretending to be real, though the way War breathes and groans and makes greedy noises in his throat is real enough. It's real enough for Dean to want it, just because he can have it, because War lets him. Or maybe it's because he knows he can't fight him, and Dean's never liked to lose.
War grasps his thighs and drags him close in one movement, the soft burn of damp skin. Then his hands slide up Dean's waist, grip tight enough to hurt before dropping lower, fingers trailing down the crack of his ass, pushing just inside him. War's ready, he's always ready, all hardness and aggression the moment sex becomes a possibility.
Dean braces a hand on the back of the seat and shifts his hips in just right. He's still loose enough to take him in one steady push, groaning though his teeth because he knows he's going to feel this. It's never gentle and he rarely leaves without the ache of it still inside him. But it's good, it's that dark, red sort of good that tells Dean he's in over his head, always. He reaches up, palm flat on the roof, gets enough leverage to press down. War's hand slides round the back of his neck and drags him in with a growl, his other arm curls round Dean's waist to hold him steady for every solid thrust.
Dean can hear his own breathing, a wet, unsteady rasp, like it's a struggle. He can hear the low, dirty creak of leather under his knees, the soft, obscene wet sound of flesh meeting, rough and greedy. It's all angles and skin and sweat that makes his knees slip. The back seat smells like warm leather and sex, and something sharper. Something like blood and gunpowder and metal. His teeth bite down into War's shoulder and there's no give at all in the flesh. Without the ring War's all heat and power and weight in the world.
Dean's going to ache in so many places tomorrow. But he presses his fingers into War's neck and shifts up onto his knees, leaves War just barely inside him. Daring him to work for it.
Because he wants to be fucked, needs to be fucked.
War's eyes narrow, fingernails briefly sharp enough to make him wince, before War's slipping out of him, tipping him out of his lap and shoving him face-down into the seat, cheek pressed into the warmth of the leather while his hips are dragged up, knee knocking into the back of the driver's seat and War slides all the way back in with one hard shove.
The noise Dean makes is muffled, caught in the cramped expanse of the seat back. He's suffocating in the hot smell of it. Breathing every breath that flares back into his face and wincing at the uncomfortable drag of leather against his cheek and jaw. He's nothing but noise in this space, gasping and groaning and hissing through his teeth every time War's hips snap in too hard and too fast. It's almost impossible to breathe past all of it. He thinks he's half in danger of passing out before he comes. But that's intense too, it's like a stab of constant, desperate fucking bliss, sharp-edged and relentless.
"Fuck," he murmurs, can't help repeating it, over and over, like he's begging without the ability to form any other words, hand sliding on the seat with a squeak. A frustrated search for grip until he finds the edge of the door, the smooth metal works as a brace. Dean pushes back, gets a snarl and an angle that's perfect and vicious - Jesus - breath stuttering in his throat while his chest and shoulder rasp across the seat in uncomfortable slides. It's aggressive and dirty and exactly what he wants, and he can't fucking stand it.
He can't get any friction at all. His dick is just a heavy weight, hard enough to hurt so fucking good every time his body jerks forward.
He's so close to begging, to promising anything, to trying to move the hand that's holding him steady just to bring himself off. Until War is fucking merciful for once. He reaches round and jacks him, roughly, just enough that Dean's swallowing the smell of leather and sex and his own gasps and coming so hard the world goes dark at the edges.
He comes back braced on his hands, one leg slipped down off the seat. He's empty and uncomfortable, tired and sensitive where his skin's cooling in the breeze. The slick wet trail on his thigh is more of an accusation than anything else.
War's out in the night, sliding back into his suit like he's been wearing clothes his whole life and not just pretending. He looks at Dean like he's something he found, something he's decided belongs to him now.
"Meet me tomorrow," War says, and his teeth are sharp and white in the dark. Dean breathes into the back of the seat and swallows a protest, a curse.
He knows damn well he'll do as he's told.