Supernatural ficlet: waiting for the skies to open up
I wrote another snippet for setissma's SPN!Drabble Skirmish, for ggreenapple's prompt, John/Dean1, pissing! This is an expanded version of that snippet.
BTW, considering the current climate, I'd better point out that this is early Stanford era, so Dean is adult.
waiting for the skies to open up [Dean, John, hint of Dean/John, R, 629 words]
I'm waiting for the skies to open up
And let the happiness in
-- David Sylvian
Flat white light, and he can't tell which way is up or down. He stumbles, again, the dip in the snow invisible. Clouds pouring in, fast and low and acid yellow-gray, and the sun's far away small and near useless.
Freezing cold, bone cold like he's never felt before, and he needs to piss. Needs a hot drink and warm clothes, but needs to piss even more than that. Needs it so it's the only thing on his mind, tramping its need deeper into him with every clumsy step he takes. Forgets why they're out here, the two of them, or even where they are; forgets everything but the heavy ache in his too full bladder.
Can't stop though, he knows that still, somehow, that they shouldn't stop, not yet.
Calls out, and he can see his words on the air, shapeless mist that's gone in an instant. Can't hear them, not through all the layers he's wearing, but his dad turns around, so maybe the words didn't just dissolve.
"Dean," he sees his dad mouth, and then he's falling.
On the ground, fallen. Big hands cupping his face, and something stinging down his throat. Liquor, and it's cold and hot all at once, not good or bad, just there. He swallows, two quick gulps, and then the flask is gone.
The ache in his belly is worse now, tangled up inside him and making everything hurt in sympathy, cramped up like his body, too big inside him; he's small, shrunk by the cold into an echo of himself, and he misses having Sammy to be strong for, and that's another ache that he can't get rid of.
Dean blinks before salt streaks give him away, snowflakes landing heavy on his lashes until they weigh too much, and he doesn't want to keep his eyes open. He blinks again, slow and lazy and tired, and a gloved hand brushes the snow away. Gentle, and it lingers on Dean's cheek, and for a second Dean forgets the aches, forgets how much he just wants to take his prick out and let everything flow away from him, sink into the snow and vanish.
"You should have said something, Dean, earlier." Admonition, but underneath something else, softer, warmer, and it makes Dean shiver with need again. He stands up, hands helping him, but he's stupid-weak and he thinks he might fall back down - little boy learning to walk - until a strong leg is between his, bracing him.
And the pressure is too much, body against his belly, and leg pressing down on his prick, and there's wet warmth spilling between his legs, trickling slow and hot down the inside of his thigh, and he can smell the fresh stench of piss over the cold snow scent. He can't stop, not once it's started, relentless flow, and it must've soaked through his jeans by now, must be obvious, but his dad's still holding him, enclosing him.
There's the sound of a sob, his, but it's relief, overwhelming.
Whiskery-breath warm on his forehead, words that blow away in the wind. And Dean can stand now, on his own. Does so, legs firm under him, steady and determined, ignoring the wet cling of denim. Gets a nod in return, approval, and then they're both facing ahead, his dad closer this time, so Dean can tread in the same footsteps before they're covered over.
"Not far now," he hears, and he doesn't ask how his dad knows that in this endless blank landscape. Just trusts and follows.
They plod on, and Dean tries not to notice the new ache in his belly, a different one, hot thrilling not-pain right in the center of him. So many constant aches - he can learn to live with one more.
~~~
1 I feel I should have some sort of disclaimer here. Because I don't like cross-generational incest one little bit, and I avoid it like the plague. Which makes me wonder why on earth I wrote this - I guess I just skirted the edge of what I'm comfortable with, hinting at some vague desire that I'm sure is never going to be acted upon. And, somehow, I see Dean's feeling being as much due to the absence of Sam as anything. Hmm, I don't normally justify myself - I write fluff, I write all sorts of pairings, I write dirty porn sometimes, and I don't apologise for any of it - but somehow I felt the need to this time.
BTW, considering the current climate, I'd better point out that this is early Stanford era, so Dean is adult.
waiting for the skies to open up [Dean, John, hint of Dean/John, R, 629 words]
I'm waiting for the skies to open up
And let the happiness in
-- David Sylvian
Flat white light, and he can't tell which way is up or down. He stumbles, again, the dip in the snow invisible. Clouds pouring in, fast and low and acid yellow-gray, and the sun's far away small and near useless.
Freezing cold, bone cold like he's never felt before, and he needs to piss. Needs a hot drink and warm clothes, but needs to piss even more than that. Needs it so it's the only thing on his mind, tramping its need deeper into him with every clumsy step he takes. Forgets why they're out here, the two of them, or even where they are; forgets everything but the heavy ache in his too full bladder.
Can't stop though, he knows that still, somehow, that they shouldn't stop, not yet.
Calls out, and he can see his words on the air, shapeless mist that's gone in an instant. Can't hear them, not through all the layers he's wearing, but his dad turns around, so maybe the words didn't just dissolve.
"Dean," he sees his dad mouth, and then he's falling.
On the ground, fallen. Big hands cupping his face, and something stinging down his throat. Liquor, and it's cold and hot all at once, not good or bad, just there. He swallows, two quick gulps, and then the flask is gone.
The ache in his belly is worse now, tangled up inside him and making everything hurt in sympathy, cramped up like his body, too big inside him; he's small, shrunk by the cold into an echo of himself, and he misses having Sammy to be strong for, and that's another ache that he can't get rid of.
Dean blinks before salt streaks give him away, snowflakes landing heavy on his lashes until they weigh too much, and he doesn't want to keep his eyes open. He blinks again, slow and lazy and tired, and a gloved hand brushes the snow away. Gentle, and it lingers on Dean's cheek, and for a second Dean forgets the aches, forgets how much he just wants to take his prick out and let everything flow away from him, sink into the snow and vanish.
"You should have said something, Dean, earlier." Admonition, but underneath something else, softer, warmer, and it makes Dean shiver with need again. He stands up, hands helping him, but he's stupid-weak and he thinks he might fall back down - little boy learning to walk - until a strong leg is between his, bracing him.
And the pressure is too much, body against his belly, and leg pressing down on his prick, and there's wet warmth spilling between his legs, trickling slow and hot down the inside of his thigh, and he can smell the fresh stench of piss over the cold snow scent. He can't stop, not once it's started, relentless flow, and it must've soaked through his jeans by now, must be obvious, but his dad's still holding him, enclosing him.
There's the sound of a sob, his, but it's relief, overwhelming.
Whiskery-breath warm on his forehead, words that blow away in the wind. And Dean can stand now, on his own. Does so, legs firm under him, steady and determined, ignoring the wet cling of denim. Gets a nod in return, approval, and then they're both facing ahead, his dad closer this time, so Dean can tread in the same footsteps before they're covered over.
"Not far now," he hears, and he doesn't ask how his dad knows that in this endless blank landscape. Just trusts and follows.
They plod on, and Dean tries not to notice the new ache in his belly, a different one, hot thrilling not-pain right in the center of him. So many constant aches - he can learn to live with one more.
~~~
1 I feel I should have some sort of disclaimer here. Because I don't like cross-generational incest one little bit, and I avoid it like the plague. Which makes me wonder why on earth I wrote this - I guess I just skirted the edge of what I'm comfortable with, hinting at some vague desire that I'm sure is never going to be acted upon. And, somehow, I see Dean's feeling being as much due to the absence of Sam as anything. Hmm, I don't normally justify myself - I write fluff, I write all sorts of pairings, I write dirty porn sometimes, and I don't apologise for any of it - but somehow I felt the need to this time.