(no subject)
Title: Freezing Hands and Bloodless Veins
Pairing/Characters: Dean/Death, Tessa
Rating: R
Summary: Death’s hands are very cold and Dean is still warm.
Missing scene from “Appointment in Samarra.”
Spoilers: Nothing past 6.11.
Warning: Groping, of the dub con variety.
Word Count: 1,455
Disclaimer: This stuff is made up.
Notes: Title stolen from Neko Case’s “I Wish I Was The Moon.”
Originally posted in response to a blindfold_spn prompt here.
"I want you to be me for one day," Death says.
Tessa can hardly believe it, any more than she can believe Dean's questioning of Death. Are you serious? As if Death would be anything but.
She almost laughs when Death says, "No, I'm being incredibly sarcastic." But she doesn't, because suddenly Death is turning back to Dean and curling his long fingers under the hem of Dean's t-shirt - a move that startles both of them, her and Dean.
Dean sputters, stomach sucking in as Death yanks his shirt up, recoiling though his feet stay planted as if frozen in place.
The pad of Death's first finger traces five white half moon scars on Dean's chest, which rises and falls rapidly. Tessa can see the fight within him, the way Dean breathes through his nose. She can practically hear him counting in his head to calm himself.
Death pays his panic no mind.
"Remember all those times you cheated me, Dean?" His finger nails fit over the scars, a close match. "All those times you were meant to go with Tessa. But what did you do?" He seems to be looking at his own hand, like the answer to his question is in the lines of blue veins, the brown spots aging papery skin.
"You got away," Death tells Dean, looking up at him with a crow-quick tilt of his head. He flattens his palm to Dean's chest, his gaze following it. His teeth click beak-like when he enunciates. "You got away."
The words are nearly swallowed up by Dean's sharp inhale. Death doesn't react to Dean's breathing, but Tessa notices a shift in Death's attention. His hand lifts a fraction of an inch from Dean's skin, his fingers graceful and steady, hovering without a place to rest.
"I suppose my hands are very cold," he muses, as one long pinky extends and taps at Dean's nipple. Tessa can see the already taut nub harden and pucker tighter under Death's light touch. His pinky circles the peak, raising the light hairs around it.
Curious, Tessa glances at the back of Dean's neck and sees those short hairs on end too. Her fingers itch to feel, imagining the goose bumps she would find under there. When she looks back, Death is studying Dean's nipple, fingers forked around it and rolling slowly with deliberate friction. The skin there is a deep red, redder than the other nipple. Tessa guesses it's from Death's cold skin as much as it's from his twisting fingers bringing blood to the surface.
Dean is panting now, but not protesting. His eyes are wide in a fearful reverence that Tessa knows quite well. All reapers know the fear that brings everyone to their knees.
"Your warmth, Dean." Death ceases at Dean's nipple, curling his hand into a loose fist that he strokes down Dean's chest, knuckles riding over ribs. "I can barely feel it."
Death lets his left hand fall to his side, and Dean's shirt drops, draping over Death's right hand, shrouding it where it lingers in the hollow of Dean's belly. Death's wrist pivots, the shape beneath Dean's t-shirt changing. Tessa hears Dean's high gasp, pictures Death's fingers spread wide over Dean's stomach, not forceful but no longer light. Possessing. Her suspicions are confirmed when she sees Death's hand slide out from beneath the shirt, still pressed to Dean, going lower.
"Not even," Death continues, never losing his train of thought. All the time in the world, his to take. "In those places where you're warmest." The heel of his hand skirts over Dean's belt buckle. "Where the blood converges." His palm curves to cup the front of Dean's pants. "Pumping through you." His hand turns, upside down now, tips of his fingers slipping into the juncture between Dean's legs. "Fast and strong." He rubs with his palm, there's no mistaking it. Nor is there any mistaking the way his fingers extend to accommodate the length of Dean, nothing left to the imagination.
Tessa presses her lips tight together, not daring to move in any other way.
Death holds onto Dean firmly, his grip belying the frailty of his frame. "All that warmth, all that blood in you," he says, finally looking Dean in the eyes. Dean meets his gaze when Death squeezes, fingers disappearing behind the bulge in Dean's pants, up into the space behind Dean's testicles. Death's face closes in on Dean's, hooked nose nearly catching on Dean's lips. His sallow cheek brushes against Dean's stubbled cheek as he leans in further and opens his lips next to Dean's ear.
"All that life waiting to be jump-started by that back room physician of yours. All that life still hanging on in there. Tell me, how does it feel when it's met with all this coldness? All this inescapable death?"
Tessa watches as Death's left hand comes up under Dean's shirts, moving up his side. Dean's shoulder jerks, a slight tremor showing that his fear hasn't waned. From the flutter of cloth, Tessa thinks she can see what Death is doing to Dean - cold, cold fingers sinking into the heat under Dean's arm. Then, shifting, his fingers seem to grip Dean's shoulder, hold it still while he strokes into the snug, warm pit with his thumb.
Dean shivers outright, head to toes.
"Hmmm?" Death hums in his ear.
Slowly, Death lowers his hand, down along Dean's side then over to Dean's back. Tessa follows the trail of his touch down Dean's spine. The quiet rustling of fabric so soft against the harsh panting coming from Dean. She wants to see what Death is doing with his other hand, but they are pressed too close together now for her to tell. Dean's face is obscured by Death's own, and Death gives nothing away. He just looks down, eyes unfocused, like he's funneling all his energy into listening, waiting on reactions Tessa can't perceive.
What she can see is the creeping of Death's hand, out from under Dean's shirts, sneaking lower.
Death's voice is a dry whisper now, but sharp enough to carry to where Tessa stands. "I can almost catch your warmth, Dean, almost." His fingers curl in as he rubs hard circles over Dean's backside, a caress that could be soothing were it some place less intimate, and someone else. Then he removes his right hand from between their bodies and lays it flat in the middle of Dean's back. With his other hand, he drags two fingers right along the middle seam of Dean's pants, dipping into the cleft beneath the cotton, seeking the warmth between Dean's legs.
"Interesting," he says, head cocking to the side, angling away from Dean's face. Tessa glimpses the top of Dean's ear, flushed red from humiliation or cold or both.
Holding Dean loosely with one hand still on his back, Death snakes his left hand under the waistline of Dean's pants, and wriggles his way down.
For the first time, Dean is no longer stiff in Death's arms. "Don't," he says, voice higher and younger than Tessa's ever heard it, even counting that first time she tried to take him, when he was wearing down and pleading like a child. She watches as he tries to pull away.
"Okay, Dean," Death says, placating.
Tessa eyes the distorted stretch of denim as Death's hand withdraws.
Dean's shuddering and Death gives him a pat with his other hand. "Okay," he says again.
As soon as Death steps back, Dean's arms draw in, like he's trying to tuck himself away.
Death observes him for a moment, then says, "Your warmth is yours to keep. For now."
To Tessa, it sounds like an offering, the way Death says it. An allowance that inconveniences him. Dean simply crosses his arms, hugging his body tight.
Death looks down at himself, the thin fingers on his thin hands. "No, the cold is too deep in these old bones." He walks unhurriedly toward Tessa and stops, bony shoulders hunched under his black suit. "And these bones aren't even half as old as the last ones I wore." He spares a glance for Tessa, whose current form is young and still new. She's not even an infant compared to him, ancient by human standards but not old enough to measure against his, and she bows her head when their eyes meet.
Death turns back to Dean, back on track. "And you can keep my ring. For one more day. See what it's like to play Death. But, Dean? Take the ring off before the 24 hours are up, and you lose."
Tessa can't help but wonder if Death means Dean will lose much more than the opportunity to rescue his brother's soul.
Pairing/Characters: Dean/Death, Tessa
Rating: R
Summary: Death’s hands are very cold and Dean is still warm.
Missing scene from “Appointment in Samarra.”
Spoilers: Nothing past 6.11.
Warning: Groping, of the dub con variety.
Word Count: 1,455
Disclaimer: This stuff is made up.
Notes: Title stolen from Neko Case’s “I Wish I Was The Moon.”
Originally posted in response to a blindfold_spn prompt here.
"I want you to be me for one day," Death says.
Tessa can hardly believe it, any more than she can believe Dean's questioning of Death. Are you serious? As if Death would be anything but.
She almost laughs when Death says, "No, I'm being incredibly sarcastic." But she doesn't, because suddenly Death is turning back to Dean and curling his long fingers under the hem of Dean's t-shirt - a move that startles both of them, her and Dean.
Dean sputters, stomach sucking in as Death yanks his shirt up, recoiling though his feet stay planted as if frozen in place.
The pad of Death's first finger traces five white half moon scars on Dean's chest, which rises and falls rapidly. Tessa can see the fight within him, the way Dean breathes through his nose. She can practically hear him counting in his head to calm himself.
Death pays his panic no mind.
"Remember all those times you cheated me, Dean?" His finger nails fit over the scars, a close match. "All those times you were meant to go with Tessa. But what did you do?" He seems to be looking at his own hand, like the answer to his question is in the lines of blue veins, the brown spots aging papery skin.
"You got away," Death tells Dean, looking up at him with a crow-quick tilt of his head. He flattens his palm to Dean's chest, his gaze following it. His teeth click beak-like when he enunciates. "You got away."
The words are nearly swallowed up by Dean's sharp inhale. Death doesn't react to Dean's breathing, but Tessa notices a shift in Death's attention. His hand lifts a fraction of an inch from Dean's skin, his fingers graceful and steady, hovering without a place to rest.
"I suppose my hands are very cold," he muses, as one long pinky extends and taps at Dean's nipple. Tessa can see the already taut nub harden and pucker tighter under Death's light touch. His pinky circles the peak, raising the light hairs around it.
Curious, Tessa glances at the back of Dean's neck and sees those short hairs on end too. Her fingers itch to feel, imagining the goose bumps she would find under there. When she looks back, Death is studying Dean's nipple, fingers forked around it and rolling slowly with deliberate friction. The skin there is a deep red, redder than the other nipple. Tessa guesses it's from Death's cold skin as much as it's from his twisting fingers bringing blood to the surface.
Dean is panting now, but not protesting. His eyes are wide in a fearful reverence that Tessa knows quite well. All reapers know the fear that brings everyone to their knees.
"Your warmth, Dean." Death ceases at Dean's nipple, curling his hand into a loose fist that he strokes down Dean's chest, knuckles riding over ribs. "I can barely feel it."
Death lets his left hand fall to his side, and Dean's shirt drops, draping over Death's right hand, shrouding it where it lingers in the hollow of Dean's belly. Death's wrist pivots, the shape beneath Dean's t-shirt changing. Tessa hears Dean's high gasp, pictures Death's fingers spread wide over Dean's stomach, not forceful but no longer light. Possessing. Her suspicions are confirmed when she sees Death's hand slide out from beneath the shirt, still pressed to Dean, going lower.
"Not even," Death continues, never losing his train of thought. All the time in the world, his to take. "In those places where you're warmest." The heel of his hand skirts over Dean's belt buckle. "Where the blood converges." His palm curves to cup the front of Dean's pants. "Pumping through you." His hand turns, upside down now, tips of his fingers slipping into the juncture between Dean's legs. "Fast and strong." He rubs with his palm, there's no mistaking it. Nor is there any mistaking the way his fingers extend to accommodate the length of Dean, nothing left to the imagination.
Tessa presses her lips tight together, not daring to move in any other way.
Death holds onto Dean firmly, his grip belying the frailty of his frame. "All that warmth, all that blood in you," he says, finally looking Dean in the eyes. Dean meets his gaze when Death squeezes, fingers disappearing behind the bulge in Dean's pants, up into the space behind Dean's testicles. Death's face closes in on Dean's, hooked nose nearly catching on Dean's lips. His sallow cheek brushes against Dean's stubbled cheek as he leans in further and opens his lips next to Dean's ear.
"All that life waiting to be jump-started by that back room physician of yours. All that life still hanging on in there. Tell me, how does it feel when it's met with all this coldness? All this inescapable death?"
Tessa watches as Death's left hand comes up under Dean's shirts, moving up his side. Dean's shoulder jerks, a slight tremor showing that his fear hasn't waned. From the flutter of cloth, Tessa thinks she can see what Death is doing to Dean - cold, cold fingers sinking into the heat under Dean's arm. Then, shifting, his fingers seem to grip Dean's shoulder, hold it still while he strokes into the snug, warm pit with his thumb.
Dean shivers outright, head to toes.
"Hmmm?" Death hums in his ear.
Slowly, Death lowers his hand, down along Dean's side then over to Dean's back. Tessa follows the trail of his touch down Dean's spine. The quiet rustling of fabric so soft against the harsh panting coming from Dean. She wants to see what Death is doing with his other hand, but they are pressed too close together now for her to tell. Dean's face is obscured by Death's own, and Death gives nothing away. He just looks down, eyes unfocused, like he's funneling all his energy into listening, waiting on reactions Tessa can't perceive.
What she can see is the creeping of Death's hand, out from under Dean's shirts, sneaking lower.
Death's voice is a dry whisper now, but sharp enough to carry to where Tessa stands. "I can almost catch your warmth, Dean, almost." His fingers curl in as he rubs hard circles over Dean's backside, a caress that could be soothing were it some place less intimate, and someone else. Then he removes his right hand from between their bodies and lays it flat in the middle of Dean's back. With his other hand, he drags two fingers right along the middle seam of Dean's pants, dipping into the cleft beneath the cotton, seeking the warmth between Dean's legs.
"Interesting," he says, head cocking to the side, angling away from Dean's face. Tessa glimpses the top of Dean's ear, flushed red from humiliation or cold or both.
Holding Dean loosely with one hand still on his back, Death snakes his left hand under the waistline of Dean's pants, and wriggles his way down.
For the first time, Dean is no longer stiff in Death's arms. "Don't," he says, voice higher and younger than Tessa's ever heard it, even counting that first time she tried to take him, when he was wearing down and pleading like a child. She watches as he tries to pull away.
"Okay, Dean," Death says, placating.
Tessa eyes the distorted stretch of denim as Death's hand withdraws.
Dean's shuddering and Death gives him a pat with his other hand. "Okay," he says again.
As soon as Death steps back, Dean's arms draw in, like he's trying to tuck himself away.
Death observes him for a moment, then says, "Your warmth is yours to keep. For now."
To Tessa, it sounds like an offering, the way Death says it. An allowance that inconveniences him. Dean simply crosses his arms, hugging his body tight.
Death looks down at himself, the thin fingers on his thin hands. "No, the cold is too deep in these old bones." He walks unhurriedly toward Tessa and stops, bony shoulders hunched under his black suit. "And these bones aren't even half as old as the last ones I wore." He spares a glance for Tessa, whose current form is young and still new. She's not even an infant compared to him, ancient by human standards but not old enough to measure against his, and she bows her head when their eyes meet.
Death turns back to Dean, back on track. "And you can keep my ring. For one more day. See what it's like to play Death. But, Dean? Take the ring off before the 24 hours are up, and you lose."
Tessa can't help but wonder if Death means Dean will lose much more than the opportunity to rescue his brother's soul.