Fic: Fools Who Believe (SGA/SPN)
Okay, so like I said, I was writing porn. I think this is actually the longest porn I've ever written, so you should all read it and give me pointers for future porn writing. It's a semi-sequel to We're Fools In Need.
I would like to say THANK YOU to Becky / quidditchkiss for being my one true love and muse. Without her I would never get anything written, I swear. Other than that, enjoy! Comments and everything else are more than welcome!
Fools Who Believe
1,540 words, Dean Winchester/John Sheppard, NC-17
The next time John sees Dean it’s at a small gas station in Bostwick, Georgia.
The next time John sees Dean it’s at a small gas station in Bostwick, Georgia. Summer fading out behind the hills in lazy defiance, letting the crisp tang of autumn slip in around its edges.
His truck’s been moaning since he passed Good Hope and he’s got half a mind to pull over to the shoulder and let her cool down when 83 suddenly bleeds into Bostwick Road and he can see plowed fields and fences.
It takes a bit of prodding, but the engine holds until his tires hit curb. When he shuts her down she sinks; letting out an audible groan. His t-shirt is stuck to his back, sweat collecting round his temples, and when he wipes a hand across his brow it comes back wet.
The air conditioner’s been broke for years, but John likes the old world charm, the feel of heavy heat against his skin when August spreads its wings and swallows up what’s left of July. He’s got a knack for picking out run-down shelters, and when he spots the ’67 Chevy he knows instinctively that a face of freckles and dirty boots await him.
He finds Dean stuck between a stack of American Angler and Family Handyman, a creased copy of Everyday with Rachel Ray pressed between his fingers. The cashier is humming Charlie Daniels, restocking packs of Marlboro Light. John scuffs the heel of his flip-flop against the linoleum, blinking up into the artificial lighting as he contemplates an approach.
He and Dean had departed like they met-silent and quick-and John hadn’t thought much about it since. But seeing him now kicks him back a few paces and drops him hard into a world of sensation.
“Sir, your tanks full,” The cashier’s voice is jarring and Dean looks up. John grins slow, voice thicker then he’d like when he says Dean’s name.
Dean blinks hard, like John’s a mirage, then licks his lips.
“John,” he says easy, like he’s been standing there all day waiting. John shivers.
“Sir?” The cashier calls.
“Yeah,” Dean rasps, turning to nod an affirmative before he looks back. Things stall then, Dean tense like he’s been caught mid-motion. John preempts any comment by moving towards the counter, pressing in close to Dean as he passes. The feel of his skin is searing, too brief by far and John rolls his shoulders to shake it off.
The cashier is back to humming Country’s Greatest Hits, ringing Dean up with practiced ease as she bobs her head to imaginary music. John stands a foot off, back pressed against the soda machine. Dean looks over every now and then, and John can’t help but smile. ‘Still here,’ he thinks.
Getting to the car is easy, John trailing comfortably along as Dean steps outside. His strut is bow-legged and John takes in the curves of his calves; something he knows only by touch. He studies the line of Dean’s shoulders, watches how they feed into his neck, tan skin pinched beneath cotton. John wants to trace the line of it with his tongue.
“So,” Dean starts, squinting hard into the sun as he takes John in.
“So,” John repeats, limbs liquid ease as he stuffs his hands into his jeans.
Dean’s grinning now, cocksure and pleased, like this is all some cosmic joke and they’re the only ones aware of it. “Want to see the inside of my car?” he asks, the twang of his voice hinging on giddy. He knows the line is bad.
“Back or front?” John says, more than willing to play along.
“Maybe both,” Dean winks, walking around to the other side of the car and opening the driver’s side door. John licks at the back of his gums, pushing out the stale taste of dry air, and gets inside.
If it wasn’t for the fact that he could already feel the hard edge of arousal biting into his system, John was pretty sure his inner twelve year-old would be fascinated with the car’s interior. His grandfather had been big on cars, collected everything from Cadillacs to Mustangs. John wonders what he’d think if he knew his grandson was about to get laid in one-by a guy.
Dean makes it halfway down Apalachee before he pulls off and stops the engine. There isn’t much time for John to consider the fact that he hasn’t made out in a car since he was fourteen before Dean has a hand fisted in his t-shirt and his lips on John’s skin. The familiarity makes him moan, hips canting forward as Dean drags him closer. The contact is limited and John pulls away, reaching across Dean’s lap to pull back the seat. Dean sucks in air fast,
“Oh, fuck,” John’s climbing into his lap, clenching his jaw as he grinds down, muscles taut with want. Dean moves his hands to John’s belt, unbuckling it blindly as he licks up John’s throat.
The car's windows are down, sweet Georgia air cool against John’s sweat slick skin. He rucks up the hem of Dean’s t-shirt, tilting down to nip at the exposed skin. His tongue follows, fingers feather light against Dean’s belly. Dean watches intently, hands clenching and unclenching against John’s thighs.
John let’s the fabric fall, opting instead to tongue Dean’s nipple through his t-shirt. He breathes out against it, using teeth and tongue to trace its outline in the fabric. Dean digs his fingers a little deeper into John’s legs, re-positioning his feet so he can push up and pull John down.
His teeth scrape against the underside of John’s jaw, hips straining to some inner rhythm. John catches on fast, meets the thrust and pull with a beat of his own. He bows down to catch Dean’s lips and licks his way inside, curling his tongue until Dean groans. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”
Dean’s hands are back at John’s buckle, pulling the belt apart and tugging it loose. He moves on to John’s pants then, unzipping his fly and pulling the denim down over John’s hips. He wiggles free in compliance, laughing as Dean struggles to remove them. “Off,” he says, and John lifts up helpfully. They make it to John’s ankles before he actually has to ease off Dean and shed them himself.
Dean stares mesmerized, mouth open and breath coming quick. He moves from his seat, pressing into John’s space until John’s back is up against the door; boxer’s riding low from where they stick to the leather. Dean grins down at him, splaying his hand against John’s belly and leaving an imprint of heat behind.
He arches up in response, hands grasping the hem of Dean’s shirt and pulling it up and over his head. He can see Dean shiver; watch his skin pull taut as he shifts over John’s body. The next to go is Dean’s pants, then his boxers, they make it somewhere around his shins before John gives up and tilts his head back to give Dean better access to his throat. Dean bites at the soft area of John’s shoulder and removes the last of John’s clothes.
John watches as his t-shirt and boxers are tossed to the back of the car and then as Dean sucks in two fingers, still shifting restlessly against his body. They disappear between the two of them as soon as they’re free of his mouth, his tongue, his teeth, and then John can feel them pressing at his entrance.
He relaxes, arching slightly as they slide in. Dean let’s out a quiet sigh, eyes flicking to meet John’s own, asking for permission. John nods, as ready as he cares to be and mouths wordlessly as Dean replaces his fingers with his cock. It’s tight, and John has to remind himself to breathe.
Dean waits, hips steady until John pushes back and then he’s rocking. Thrusting slow and speeding up as John’s eyes glaze over. He has to put his hands above his head, holding himself in place as his sweat slicks the seat and he moves with every press of Dean’s hips.
The amulet around Dean’s neck clinks softly, rhythm a counterpoint to Dean’s thrusts. John threads a hand into Dean’s hair and pulls him down to taste his lips. The inside of his mouth is hot, tangy with sweat and something else John can’t identify.
They move silently, uninterrupted on a stretch of road that no one seems to travel. John curls his toes instinctively, close to the edge. Dean’s hand has moved to the side of his head, unsteady as his movements stutter. John closes his eyes and picks up speed, determined to get Dean off before he comes.
“C’mon” he whispers, eyes slitted.
“Fuck,” Dean says again, tensing up, he feeds his other hand between their bodies and grabs John’s cock, fisting him in time to his thrusts. John hisses, letting air out through his teeth. Things go white then, orgasm hitting hard enough to make him blind.
When he comes to he can feel Dean’s weight heavy against him, hear Dean breathing raggedly on his left. He lifts a hand and runs it through Dean’s hair, letting his limbs relax against the seat as summer continues to flit through the windows.
I would like to say THANK YOU to Becky / quidditchkiss for being my one true love and muse. Without her I would never get anything written, I swear. Other than that, enjoy! Comments and everything else are more than welcome!
Fools Who Believe
1,540 words, Dean Winchester/John Sheppard, NC-17
The next time John sees Dean it’s at a small gas station in Bostwick, Georgia.
The next time John sees Dean it’s at a small gas station in Bostwick, Georgia. Summer fading out behind the hills in lazy defiance, letting the crisp tang of autumn slip in around its edges.
His truck’s been moaning since he passed Good Hope and he’s got half a mind to pull over to the shoulder and let her cool down when 83 suddenly bleeds into Bostwick Road and he can see plowed fields and fences.
It takes a bit of prodding, but the engine holds until his tires hit curb. When he shuts her down she sinks; letting out an audible groan. His t-shirt is stuck to his back, sweat collecting round his temples, and when he wipes a hand across his brow it comes back wet.
The air conditioner’s been broke for years, but John likes the old world charm, the feel of heavy heat against his skin when August spreads its wings and swallows up what’s left of July. He’s got a knack for picking out run-down shelters, and when he spots the ’67 Chevy he knows instinctively that a face of freckles and dirty boots await him.
He finds Dean stuck between a stack of American Angler and Family Handyman, a creased copy of Everyday with Rachel Ray pressed between his fingers. The cashier is humming Charlie Daniels, restocking packs of Marlboro Light. John scuffs the heel of his flip-flop against the linoleum, blinking up into the artificial lighting as he contemplates an approach.
He and Dean had departed like they met-silent and quick-and John hadn’t thought much about it since. But seeing him now kicks him back a few paces and drops him hard into a world of sensation.
“Sir, your tanks full,” The cashier’s voice is jarring and Dean looks up. John grins slow, voice thicker then he’d like when he says Dean’s name.
Dean blinks hard, like John’s a mirage, then licks his lips.
“John,” he says easy, like he’s been standing there all day waiting. John shivers.
“Sir?” The cashier calls.
“Yeah,” Dean rasps, turning to nod an affirmative before he looks back. Things stall then, Dean tense like he’s been caught mid-motion. John preempts any comment by moving towards the counter, pressing in close to Dean as he passes. The feel of his skin is searing, too brief by far and John rolls his shoulders to shake it off.
The cashier is back to humming Country’s Greatest Hits, ringing Dean up with practiced ease as she bobs her head to imaginary music. John stands a foot off, back pressed against the soda machine. Dean looks over every now and then, and John can’t help but smile. ‘Still here,’ he thinks.
Getting to the car is easy, John trailing comfortably along as Dean steps outside. His strut is bow-legged and John takes in the curves of his calves; something he knows only by touch. He studies the line of Dean’s shoulders, watches how they feed into his neck, tan skin pinched beneath cotton. John wants to trace the line of it with his tongue.
“So,” Dean starts, squinting hard into the sun as he takes John in.
“So,” John repeats, limbs liquid ease as he stuffs his hands into his jeans.
Dean’s grinning now, cocksure and pleased, like this is all some cosmic joke and they’re the only ones aware of it. “Want to see the inside of my car?” he asks, the twang of his voice hinging on giddy. He knows the line is bad.
“Back or front?” John says, more than willing to play along.
“Maybe both,” Dean winks, walking around to the other side of the car and opening the driver’s side door. John licks at the back of his gums, pushing out the stale taste of dry air, and gets inside.
If it wasn’t for the fact that he could already feel the hard edge of arousal biting into his system, John was pretty sure his inner twelve year-old would be fascinated with the car’s interior. His grandfather had been big on cars, collected everything from Cadillacs to Mustangs. John wonders what he’d think if he knew his grandson was about to get laid in one-by a guy.
Dean makes it halfway down Apalachee before he pulls off and stops the engine. There isn’t much time for John to consider the fact that he hasn’t made out in a car since he was fourteen before Dean has a hand fisted in his t-shirt and his lips on John’s skin. The familiarity makes him moan, hips canting forward as Dean drags him closer. The contact is limited and John pulls away, reaching across Dean’s lap to pull back the seat. Dean sucks in air fast,
“Oh, fuck,” John’s climbing into his lap, clenching his jaw as he grinds down, muscles taut with want. Dean moves his hands to John’s belt, unbuckling it blindly as he licks up John’s throat.
The car's windows are down, sweet Georgia air cool against John’s sweat slick skin. He rucks up the hem of Dean’s t-shirt, tilting down to nip at the exposed skin. His tongue follows, fingers feather light against Dean’s belly. Dean watches intently, hands clenching and unclenching against John’s thighs.
John let’s the fabric fall, opting instead to tongue Dean’s nipple through his t-shirt. He breathes out against it, using teeth and tongue to trace its outline in the fabric. Dean digs his fingers a little deeper into John’s legs, re-positioning his feet so he can push up and pull John down.
His teeth scrape against the underside of John’s jaw, hips straining to some inner rhythm. John catches on fast, meets the thrust and pull with a beat of his own. He bows down to catch Dean’s lips and licks his way inside, curling his tongue until Dean groans. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”
Dean’s hands are back at John’s buckle, pulling the belt apart and tugging it loose. He moves on to John’s pants then, unzipping his fly and pulling the denim down over John’s hips. He wiggles free in compliance, laughing as Dean struggles to remove them. “Off,” he says, and John lifts up helpfully. They make it to John’s ankles before he actually has to ease off Dean and shed them himself.
Dean stares mesmerized, mouth open and breath coming quick. He moves from his seat, pressing into John’s space until John’s back is up against the door; boxer’s riding low from where they stick to the leather. Dean grins down at him, splaying his hand against John’s belly and leaving an imprint of heat behind.
He arches up in response, hands grasping the hem of Dean’s shirt and pulling it up and over his head. He can see Dean shiver; watch his skin pull taut as he shifts over John’s body. The next to go is Dean’s pants, then his boxers, they make it somewhere around his shins before John gives up and tilts his head back to give Dean better access to his throat. Dean bites at the soft area of John’s shoulder and removes the last of John’s clothes.
John watches as his t-shirt and boxers are tossed to the back of the car and then as Dean sucks in two fingers, still shifting restlessly against his body. They disappear between the two of them as soon as they’re free of his mouth, his tongue, his teeth, and then John can feel them pressing at his entrance.
He relaxes, arching slightly as they slide in. Dean let’s out a quiet sigh, eyes flicking to meet John’s own, asking for permission. John nods, as ready as he cares to be and mouths wordlessly as Dean replaces his fingers with his cock. It’s tight, and John has to remind himself to breathe.
Dean waits, hips steady until John pushes back and then he’s rocking. Thrusting slow and speeding up as John’s eyes glaze over. He has to put his hands above his head, holding himself in place as his sweat slicks the seat and he moves with every press of Dean’s hips.
The amulet around Dean’s neck clinks softly, rhythm a counterpoint to Dean’s thrusts. John threads a hand into Dean’s hair and pulls him down to taste his lips. The inside of his mouth is hot, tangy with sweat and something else John can’t identify.
They move silently, uninterrupted on a stretch of road that no one seems to travel. John curls his toes instinctively, close to the edge. Dean’s hand has moved to the side of his head, unsteady as his movements stutter. John closes his eyes and picks up speed, determined to get Dean off before he comes.
“C’mon” he whispers, eyes slitted.
“Fuck,” Dean says again, tensing up, he feeds his other hand between their bodies and grabs John’s cock, fisting him in time to his thrusts. John hisses, letting air out through his teeth. Things go white then, orgasm hitting hard enough to make him blind.
When he comes to he can feel Dean’s weight heavy against him, hear Dean breathing raggedly on his left. He lifts a hand and runs it through Dean’s hair, letting his limbs relax against the seat as summer continues to flit through the windows.