Fic: my father moved through dooms of feel (Dean/young!John, NC-17)
blindfold_spn fills! Starting with the...most unexpected pairing first? I wrote this because my_daroga prompted it and then subtly told me she had. :D ♥ Yep, I have hit rock bottom for you, bb. ;)
Title: my father moved through dooms of feel
Pairing: Dean/young!John
Rating: NC-17
Summary: In 1970s Kansas, Dean comes across a young man who's going to turn into someone he knows all too well. And Dean's gonna give him what he deserves.
It was never meant to end this way. Dean was the good son, diligent, uncomplaining, and John had rewarded him in the end, hadn't he? Son, here is my life. Take it. Let the guilt of it bear you down like an anchor.
John had never meant it that way, not really -- he just hadn't thought. That was John all over, acting, not thinking, and Dean left behind to do his thinking and his loving and his parenting for him. Dean was his own father, his brother's mother, but John had been a good man all the same. Dean could never hate him.
It wasn't meant to end like this, Dean's hands flat on John's thighs, splaying him open. It's not like Dean bears a grudge, or anything, and besides, John's into it, duplicitous hypocritical John with his soft, knowing eyes, the coy dip of his eyelashes. Shit. Dean hooks his fingers tight around John's hipbones, slams in deep, and John rears beneath him, breath tight in his throat, misting against the hood of the car that has always been, will soon be, Dean's home, the place where he grew up (will grow up), began (will begin) and ends. This isn't Dean's father, this clean-cut Army boy, perfect comma of hair fallen dark across his face, mess-me-up demeanour. Sure, he can take apart and refit a gun already, but he won't be Dean's father for a few years yet, and maybe there's something in the way Dean fucks him that makes Dean hope that, after this, John never will be.
John didn't trust queers. He always said it like that -- sometimes those people, or fags if he was particularly pissed off. Dean's father would never have spread like this across the hood of his car for some handsome stranger's cock, would never have flattened his cheek to the metal and presented himself like a whore. Maybe, if Dean can fuck him hard enough, he'll hook him in the thrall of it so tight that he'll leave his beautiful Mary for some guy who can pound him like the green-eyed guy once did, and Dean will be a memory of a man who never existed, the boy who'll never be born. Maybe it's this memory that made John the way he was, self-loathing and distrustful, remembering how much he loved it and unable to forgive himself for it. Those people, storming into his podunk town, think they can tell him what car to buy, seduce him with a broken-glass voice and a slow smile. Jesus, maybe.
Dean's head is spinning with it, hips jackhammering in, and the feeling at the base of his chest is anger, boiling over into lust. Jesus, the fucking bastard. He's shoving back, meeting Dean's every thrust, breath coming quick and wet with want against the back of his hand as Dean jars his prostate. He's taking it like a pro, all god there and shit, harder and Dean's seeing red, fingers digging crescents of blood into John's flesh and he doesn't even seem to notice. Between them, Dean's amulet swings in erratic figure-eights, the token Dean's brother gave him because their father didn't deserve it. Their father. Dean's gonna give him what the fuck he deserves.
It's messy, Dean slip-sliding easy, though he didn't pay much heed to prep. Dean's leaking like crazy, anger and the shallow place at the small of John's back getting tangled up in his head and making him hot, and God, it's wrong, but yeah. This guy, he's got to be younger than Dean, if only by five minutes; widens his eyes like an innocent, like Jimmy fucking Stewart, but the cant of his hips says different, the way his fingers brush Dean's arm. Dean can't, he can't take a moment to process that, can't let himself linger on just how often John's done that before, or he'll go insane with it, mind running a constant loop of whys= and what the fuck. Besides, John's tight, the clench of his body hot and slick with lube and Dean's precome, and Dean's not immune to the low sounds he's making in his throat, the way his spine shifts under the sweaty skin of his back.
"Shit," John spits, "yeah. Harder." The curse word sounds weird in his mouth, like an unexpected swear in a 1950s movie. Dad cursed like a trooper, though he'd clip the boys' ears if they tried to. Dean grits his teeth, digs in his fingers, and complies.
It's rising up in the back of his throat like bile, the want of it, the good, burning in his veins like fury. John's gasping hotly now, fingers slipping on the metal, and Dean can see the patches of mist spreading white across the black where John's breath has collected there, the marks his cries make as Dean torques his hips and spears him. "Come on," Dean grits. He doesn't mean to -- doesn't know, even, what the hell he's asking for, but John presses back harder all the same, back arching, and God, yeah, this is better, lets Dean slam all the way in, balls-deep.
It's been fast-paced all along, the two of them out here illegally in eighty million senses, but after that, it's breakneck. Dean leans in, gripping John's shoulder to anchor him in place, and fucks and fucks and fucks, hips snapping like a piston, barely pulling out before he's pounding back in, and John's fucking moaning, keening low and slutty as Dean takes everything out on his ass. "God," John groans, "God," and Dean thinks that his father never knew anything of God at all.
"Shut up." Dean's voice cracks like a whip, and before he knows what he's doing, the hand on John's shoulder is shifting sideways, curling firm around the column of his throat. "Shut - the fuck - up." Punctuating with sharp, fierce stutters of his hips, and John can't breathe, now, but it doesn't stop him trying, moans spilling helpless and thin from his lips. Dean can feel the shift of it, the ripples of John's throat working against his palm, and he wants to clench harder, for a long, manic minute; wants to tighten his fingers and keep them tight until John's writhing for another reason entirely.
Jesus, Dean. The black eyes of the demon with his face stare back at him from somewhere under the orgasm banking white in his mind. No Daddy issues, huh?
"Shut the fuck up." He digs in his nails, flattens his other hand at the small of John's back, and then he's fucking in again, breaking rhythm as he chases the tail of it, the feeling overwhelming and complex and huge as he hurtles headlong into it. "Take it, fucking -- take it --"
John comes with a shout, a wrenched-out sound that breaks from his lips even as Dean's fingers slacken reflexively. His back is curved like a bow, shoulders straining, sweat pooled at the base of his spine, and he's beautiful and Dean loves him almost as much as he hates him. John murmurs "God," as he's spurting all over the hood, and Dean bites his lip almost hard enough to split the skin as he comes.
*
There's a dent on the hood, Dean notices later, in something approximating the shape of a man's body. He ponders asking Sam whether it's always been there.
Ultimately, he decides he doesn't want to know the answer.
Title: my father moved through dooms of feel
Pairing: Dean/young!John
Rating: NC-17
Summary: In 1970s Kansas, Dean comes across a young man who's going to turn into someone he knows all too well. And Dean's gonna give him what he deserves.
It was never meant to end this way. Dean was the good son, diligent, uncomplaining, and John had rewarded him in the end, hadn't he? Son, here is my life. Take it. Let the guilt of it bear you down like an anchor.
John had never meant it that way, not really -- he just hadn't thought. That was John all over, acting, not thinking, and Dean left behind to do his thinking and his loving and his parenting for him. Dean was his own father, his brother's mother, but John had been a good man all the same. Dean could never hate him.
It wasn't meant to end like this, Dean's hands flat on John's thighs, splaying him open. It's not like Dean bears a grudge, or anything, and besides, John's into it, duplicitous hypocritical John with his soft, knowing eyes, the coy dip of his eyelashes. Shit. Dean hooks his fingers tight around John's hipbones, slams in deep, and John rears beneath him, breath tight in his throat, misting against the hood of the car that has always been, will soon be, Dean's home, the place where he grew up (will grow up), began (will begin) and ends. This isn't Dean's father, this clean-cut Army boy, perfect comma of hair fallen dark across his face, mess-me-up demeanour. Sure, he can take apart and refit a gun already, but he won't be Dean's father for a few years yet, and maybe there's something in the way Dean fucks him that makes Dean hope that, after this, John never will be.
John didn't trust queers. He always said it like that -- sometimes those people, or fags if he was particularly pissed off. Dean's father would never have spread like this across the hood of his car for some handsome stranger's cock, would never have flattened his cheek to the metal and presented himself like a whore. Maybe, if Dean can fuck him hard enough, he'll hook him in the thrall of it so tight that he'll leave his beautiful Mary for some guy who can pound him like the green-eyed guy once did, and Dean will be a memory of a man who never existed, the boy who'll never be born. Maybe it's this memory that made John the way he was, self-loathing and distrustful, remembering how much he loved it and unable to forgive himself for it. Those people, storming into his podunk town, think they can tell him what car to buy, seduce him with a broken-glass voice and a slow smile. Jesus, maybe.
Dean's head is spinning with it, hips jackhammering in, and the feeling at the base of his chest is anger, boiling over into lust. Jesus, the fucking bastard. He's shoving back, meeting Dean's every thrust, breath coming quick and wet with want against the back of his hand as Dean jars his prostate. He's taking it like a pro, all god there and shit, harder and Dean's seeing red, fingers digging crescents of blood into John's flesh and he doesn't even seem to notice. Between them, Dean's amulet swings in erratic figure-eights, the token Dean's brother gave him because their father didn't deserve it. Their father. Dean's gonna give him what the fuck he deserves.
It's messy, Dean slip-sliding easy, though he didn't pay much heed to prep. Dean's leaking like crazy, anger and the shallow place at the small of John's back getting tangled up in his head and making him hot, and God, it's wrong, but yeah. This guy, he's got to be younger than Dean, if only by five minutes; widens his eyes like an innocent, like Jimmy fucking Stewart, but the cant of his hips says different, the way his fingers brush Dean's arm. Dean can't, he can't take a moment to process that, can't let himself linger on just how often John's done that before, or he'll go insane with it, mind running a constant loop of whys= and what the fuck. Besides, John's tight, the clench of his body hot and slick with lube and Dean's precome, and Dean's not immune to the low sounds he's making in his throat, the way his spine shifts under the sweaty skin of his back.
"Shit," John spits, "yeah. Harder." The curse word sounds weird in his mouth, like an unexpected swear in a 1950s movie. Dad cursed like a trooper, though he'd clip the boys' ears if they tried to. Dean grits his teeth, digs in his fingers, and complies.
It's rising up in the back of his throat like bile, the want of it, the good, burning in his veins like fury. John's gasping hotly now, fingers slipping on the metal, and Dean can see the patches of mist spreading white across the black where John's breath has collected there, the marks his cries make as Dean torques his hips and spears him. "Come on," Dean grits. He doesn't mean to -- doesn't know, even, what the hell he's asking for, but John presses back harder all the same, back arching, and God, yeah, this is better, lets Dean slam all the way in, balls-deep.
It's been fast-paced all along, the two of them out here illegally in eighty million senses, but after that, it's breakneck. Dean leans in, gripping John's shoulder to anchor him in place, and fucks and fucks and fucks, hips snapping like a piston, barely pulling out before he's pounding back in, and John's fucking moaning, keening low and slutty as Dean takes everything out on his ass. "God," John groans, "God," and Dean thinks that his father never knew anything of God at all.
"Shut up." Dean's voice cracks like a whip, and before he knows what he's doing, the hand on John's shoulder is shifting sideways, curling firm around the column of his throat. "Shut - the fuck - up." Punctuating with sharp, fierce stutters of his hips, and John can't breathe, now, but it doesn't stop him trying, moans spilling helpless and thin from his lips. Dean can feel the shift of it, the ripples of John's throat working against his palm, and he wants to clench harder, for a long, manic minute; wants to tighten his fingers and keep them tight until John's writhing for another reason entirely.
Jesus, Dean. The black eyes of the demon with his face stare back at him from somewhere under the orgasm banking white in his mind. No Daddy issues, huh?
"Shut the fuck up." He digs in his nails, flattens his other hand at the small of John's back, and then he's fucking in again, breaking rhythm as he chases the tail of it, the feeling overwhelming and complex and huge as he hurtles headlong into it. "Take it, fucking -- take it --"
John comes with a shout, a wrenched-out sound that breaks from his lips even as Dean's fingers slacken reflexively. His back is curved like a bow, shoulders straining, sweat pooled at the base of his spine, and he's beautiful and Dean loves him almost as much as he hates him. John murmurs "God," as he's spurting all over the hood, and Dean bites his lip almost hard enough to split the skin as he comes.
*
There's a dent on the hood, Dean notices later, in something approximating the shape of a man's body. He ponders asking Sam whether it's always been there.
Ultimately, he decides he doesn't want to know the answer.