Fic: I Call Him
Title: I Call Him
Fandom: Supernatural
Pairing: Dean/Johnny the Bear
Rating: R
Word Count: 1310
Spoilers: Very vague for season 6
Warnings: plushie kink
Disclaimer: In no way mine, or anything to do with me, I own nothing.
Summary: "I'm gonna call you Johnny Cash," Dean tells the giant, stuffed bear that's resting, slightly lopsidedly, against the headboard of his motel bed.
AN: Written for kink bingo for the 'plushie/furry' square.
"I'm gonna call you Johnny Cash," Dean tells the giant, stuffed bear that's resting, slightly lopsidedly, against the headboard of his motel bed.
He's stretched out next to it, scotch bottle balanced between his thighs. The bear's almost as big as he is, with long, dark fur and huge, bright yellow eyes. It'd taken a while to get him to sit up. The weight of his head had kept pulling him forward, until Dean had stuck a pillow behind him.
He'd brought him back from their last job, at a local carnival. There'd been a whole freakin' nest of vampires, and it had been hard work putting them all down. Blood had spattered pretty much everything within range. Cars, trucks, rides, cotton candy stands. Most of the stuffed toys had been soaked in the stuff when they were done. But Johnny the Bear had been at the very top of a stack of toys, and had avoided getting even a single speck of vampire guts on him. Him and only him.
There'd been a minute where Dean had been worried he wouldn't fit in the impala, and Sam had complained the whole way back. He was 'pining for his lost innocence,' he was 'trying to make up for the tragic childhood he'd never had...blah, blah, blah.' Dean had eventually told him to take his whining next door. Because he was sick to death of it.
Dean throws an arm round Johnny the Bear's shoulders, which squish under the weight of him. Fur crinkling soundlessly under the sleeve of his shirt.
"Yeah, Sam's an asshole," Dean tells him. "Seriously, if there'd been a single clown monster I can guarantee he'd be the one crying for a giant stuffed toy right about now."
Johnny the Bear stares at him.
"I know, dude, I know. You're not just a stuffed toy. You're a survivor, like us."
Dean tips up the scotch, lets it pour down his throat, and then swallows.
"We have to stick together when the bad shit happens. Because life will try and fuck you over, but you have to accept that the bad stuff will happen, and then you pick up the pieces and you move on. You can't dwell on all the shit. All the people that have betrayed you. All the people you thought had your back."
Johnny the Bear's head wobbles up and down just a little, when Dean squeezes him. He chooses to take it as a nod of solidarity.
"I know, right, fuck those guys." He jolts the bottle harder than he intends and there's a line of scotch, spotting the fur on Johnny the Bear's chest. "Sorry dude," Dude tries his best to clean it up with an edge of sleeve. "That can't be good for you. You're way too big to fit in a washer or anything, right." And now the poor guy's going to smell like booze forever. The other bears will make fun of him. Call him a hobo. But they don't know about the vampire attack. They won't understand. So screw them too.
Dean looks at the level of scotch left in the bottle. He'd drunk way more than he intended to tonight, enough to leave him warm all the way through. Though not enough to leave his eyeballs floating.
"If you smell of booze tomorrow, Sam will make that pinched, constipated face and absolutely refuse to say 'functional alcoholic' and y'know what - I don't give a shit. After what I've been through lately, a little company, and a little scotch, and a little bad, late night television is the least the world can give me. Am I right?"
Johnny the Bear's solemn eyes seem to agree.
"Right," Dean says, and taps him on one fluffy shoulder with the bottle. Watches the fur spring back into position.
It's late, late enough to be early and he's not even listening to the drone of the TV any more. Gravity has slowly taken him sideways, until he's propped against Johnny the Bear's furry arm, squashing it, mostly. Ten minutes and he's going to be gone for the night. Which is probably half a good idea at least. Because Sam, the bitch, will probably shake him awake at seven in the morning as revenge for the names he'd called him last night - tonight.
"Crap, I should go to bed." It takes him three tries to set the mostly empty bottle on the nightstand, to shove himself up and stumble his way to the bathroom, which is too cold and too bright. "Turn the TV off, Johnny," he calls. Though he expects the lazy bastard to just keep watching those late night cookery shows, while he's brushing his teeth, and taking care of business.
He's right as well. Johnny the Bear hasn't made any attempt to turn the TV off, though his head's fallen forward, leaving him staring at his own chest.
"I knew it." Dean flicks the set off and tosses the remote on the chair, before sprawling out on the bed in his boxers, half over the stuffed bear.
The slide and press of fluff against his arm is tickly and warm. He inhales and shifts over a little more, pulling on an errant furry limb until he can lay haphazardly on top of him.
Johnny the Bear smells clean and new. Soft against his face in a way he has to rub against, just a little bit.
"Seriously, don't tell anyone about this," Dean hisses drunkenly in one huge curving ear. The brush-shift of felt against his cheek sounds a little like a whisper. He sighs out a breath. It feels like he's buried, like he could sink all the way in, body supported by Johnny's fur and nothing else. The slow buzz of alcohol in his brain is making everything warmer, sensations crawling along his skin.
He doesn't even really think about, just slips a hand underneath himself and pushing his boxers out of the way. That's even better, that's downright fucking good. He grunts and then pushes them all the way down his legs, leaving him sprawled out over Johnny's soft, furry body, cock half hard where it's nestled against his belly. Naked is good, naked is really good.
He can't remember the last time he was this comfortable.
Though, ok, maybe comfortable isn't exactly the right word. Because he's not so much laying on him as rocking gently against him. The drag of fur on his cock is weirdly illicit.
"Fuck, that's good," Dean mumbles, into the softness of Johnny's face. There's a pleasant burn of sensation as he pushes, back and forth through the fur. He's too drunk to care, slurring out noises which are surprised and dirty-low. Grinding down hard into the soft, stuffed body, which doesn't resist at all.
It's a slow thump of arousal which stretches and then demands, and his fingers dig into the artificial fur, struggling for some sort of brace, something to push against.
Until his whole body clenches up in a tight, hard knot of pleasure.
He's pretty sure the splash of scotch is going to be the least of Johnny the Bear's worries tomorrow morning. Dean stays where he is, sprawled out and twitching with little aftershocks, bare back damp, chest impossibly warm. His fingers are still buried in Johnny's fur, tight enough to cramp.
His ass is cold.
"We're going to pretend this didn't happen in the morning, 'k?" he slurs.
Johnny the Bear stares at him, with his shiny eyes, and Dean figures if he could speak, he'd be saying 'sure, code of silence, dude.'
Dean pats him on what counts for a shoulder.
"Good job."
Fandom: Supernatural
Pairing: Dean/Johnny the Bear
Rating: R
Word Count: 1310
Spoilers: Very vague for season 6
Warnings: plushie kink
Disclaimer: In no way mine, or anything to do with me, I own nothing.
Summary: "I'm gonna call you Johnny Cash," Dean tells the giant, stuffed bear that's resting, slightly lopsidedly, against the headboard of his motel bed.
AN: Written for kink bingo for the 'plushie/furry' square.
"I'm gonna call you Johnny Cash," Dean tells the giant, stuffed bear that's resting, slightly lopsidedly, against the headboard of his motel bed.
He's stretched out next to it, scotch bottle balanced between his thighs. The bear's almost as big as he is, with long, dark fur and huge, bright yellow eyes. It'd taken a while to get him to sit up. The weight of his head had kept pulling him forward, until Dean had stuck a pillow behind him.
He'd brought him back from their last job, at a local carnival. There'd been a whole freakin' nest of vampires, and it had been hard work putting them all down. Blood had spattered pretty much everything within range. Cars, trucks, rides, cotton candy stands. Most of the stuffed toys had been soaked in the stuff when they were done. But Johnny the Bear had been at the very top of a stack of toys, and had avoided getting even a single speck of vampire guts on him. Him and only him.
There'd been a minute where Dean had been worried he wouldn't fit in the impala, and Sam had complained the whole way back. He was 'pining for his lost innocence,' he was 'trying to make up for the tragic childhood he'd never had...blah, blah, blah.' Dean had eventually told him to take his whining next door. Because he was sick to death of it.
Dean throws an arm round Johnny the Bear's shoulders, which squish under the weight of him. Fur crinkling soundlessly under the sleeve of his shirt.
"Yeah, Sam's an asshole," Dean tells him. "Seriously, if there'd been a single clown monster I can guarantee he'd be the one crying for a giant stuffed toy right about now."
Johnny the Bear stares at him.
"I know, dude, I know. You're not just a stuffed toy. You're a survivor, like us."
Dean tips up the scotch, lets it pour down his throat, and then swallows.
"We have to stick together when the bad shit happens. Because life will try and fuck you over, but you have to accept that the bad stuff will happen, and then you pick up the pieces and you move on. You can't dwell on all the shit. All the people that have betrayed you. All the people you thought had your back."
Johnny the Bear's head wobbles up and down just a little, when Dean squeezes him. He chooses to take it as a nod of solidarity.
"I know, right, fuck those guys." He jolts the bottle harder than he intends and there's a line of scotch, spotting the fur on Johnny the Bear's chest. "Sorry dude," Dude tries his best to clean it up with an edge of sleeve. "That can't be good for you. You're way too big to fit in a washer or anything, right." And now the poor guy's going to smell like booze forever. The other bears will make fun of him. Call him a hobo. But they don't know about the vampire attack. They won't understand. So screw them too.
Dean looks at the level of scotch left in the bottle. He'd drunk way more than he intended to tonight, enough to leave him warm all the way through. Though not enough to leave his eyeballs floating.
"If you smell of booze tomorrow, Sam will make that pinched, constipated face and absolutely refuse to say 'functional alcoholic' and y'know what - I don't give a shit. After what I've been through lately, a little company, and a little scotch, and a little bad, late night television is the least the world can give me. Am I right?"
Johnny the Bear's solemn eyes seem to agree.
"Right," Dean says, and taps him on one fluffy shoulder with the bottle. Watches the fur spring back into position.
It's late, late enough to be early and he's not even listening to the drone of the TV any more. Gravity has slowly taken him sideways, until he's propped against Johnny the Bear's furry arm, squashing it, mostly. Ten minutes and he's going to be gone for the night. Which is probably half a good idea at least. Because Sam, the bitch, will probably shake him awake at seven in the morning as revenge for the names he'd called him last night - tonight.
"Crap, I should go to bed." It takes him three tries to set the mostly empty bottle on the nightstand, to shove himself up and stumble his way to the bathroom, which is too cold and too bright. "Turn the TV off, Johnny," he calls. Though he expects the lazy bastard to just keep watching those late night cookery shows, while he's brushing his teeth, and taking care of business.
He's right as well. Johnny the Bear hasn't made any attempt to turn the TV off, though his head's fallen forward, leaving him staring at his own chest.
"I knew it." Dean flicks the set off and tosses the remote on the chair, before sprawling out on the bed in his boxers, half over the stuffed bear.
The slide and press of fluff against his arm is tickly and warm. He inhales and shifts over a little more, pulling on an errant furry limb until he can lay haphazardly on top of him.
Johnny the Bear smells clean and new. Soft against his face in a way he has to rub against, just a little bit.
"Seriously, don't tell anyone about this," Dean hisses drunkenly in one huge curving ear. The brush-shift of felt against his cheek sounds a little like a whisper. He sighs out a breath. It feels like he's buried, like he could sink all the way in, body supported by Johnny's fur and nothing else. The slow buzz of alcohol in his brain is making everything warmer, sensations crawling along his skin.
He doesn't even really think about, just slips a hand underneath himself and pushing his boxers out of the way. That's even better, that's downright fucking good. He grunts and then pushes them all the way down his legs, leaving him sprawled out over Johnny's soft, furry body, cock half hard where it's nestled against his belly. Naked is good, naked is really good.
He can't remember the last time he was this comfortable.
Though, ok, maybe comfortable isn't exactly the right word. Because he's not so much laying on him as rocking gently against him. The drag of fur on his cock is weirdly illicit.
"Fuck, that's good," Dean mumbles, into the softness of Johnny's face. There's a pleasant burn of sensation as he pushes, back and forth through the fur. He's too drunk to care, slurring out noises which are surprised and dirty-low. Grinding down hard into the soft, stuffed body, which doesn't resist at all.
It's a slow thump of arousal which stretches and then demands, and his fingers dig into the artificial fur, struggling for some sort of brace, something to push against.
Until his whole body clenches up in a tight, hard knot of pleasure.
He's pretty sure the splash of scotch is going to be the least of Johnny the Bear's worries tomorrow morning. Dean stays where he is, sprawled out and twitching with little aftershocks, bare back damp, chest impossibly warm. His fingers are still buried in Johnny's fur, tight enough to cramp.
His ass is cold.
"We're going to pretend this didn't happen in the morning, 'k?" he slurs.
Johnny the Bear stares at him, with his shiny eyes, and Dean figures if he could speak, he'd be saying 'sure, code of silence, dude.'
Dean pats him on what counts for a shoulder.
"Good job."