Hot Metal and Scorched Dirt
So I've sort of given up on aiming for a particular bingo and am just letting the inspiration take me where it will. AND IT SEEMS TO BE WORKING. Three fics already, yay! Bingos are less important to me than the miraculous end to my scary-long dry spell. Phew.
Title: Hot Metal and Scorched Dirt [AO3]
Fandoms: Supernatural
Wordcount: ~750
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Jo cleans her gun; Dean gets a bit uncomfortable.
Notes/Disclaimers: Kink Bingo 2012, “guns/blades”. (Click here for card.) Betad, as always, by the lovely
sophia_sol. I don’t own Supernatural or the characters, and I’m making no money from this. Fic is set ambiguously some time after 2.02 (“Everybody Loves a Clown”) but does not fit tidily into canon, and contains no major spoilers.
It’s the smell of burnt gunpowder clinging to her coat that does it. Scorched dirt and hot metal and a sort of oily sweetness, and it goes straight from his nose to his dick. Jesus. He shifts slightly in his seat, trying to ease the pressure in his jeans. Think about cold showers, he tells himself. Think about plane crashes. Think about how very, very dead Ellen is going to kill you if you so much as look too closely at anything below neck level.
Jo pops the cylinder and tips out one last, unused bullet.
Dean looks away, swallowing hard. For fuck’s sake. Five minutes ago he was doing pretty good at telling himself to think of her as a little sister, nothing more. And now this. This never happens when he’s cleaning his own guns. Sure as hell never happened with Sammy or Dad.
She unscrews a bottle in the corner of his vision, and the faint vinegar-bleach smell of ammonia reaches his nose. Bore solvent.
Dean makes up his mind. “Okay, then,” he says, snatching his own gun off the table. “I’m just gonna go - talk to Sammy about - uh - see you tomorrow!”
He bids a hasty retreat before the bemused expression on her face.
* * *
He lasts a little longer the next time. Long enough for her to start with solvent, anyways.
The scrape of the bore brush against the inner barrel of the gun sends shivers up and down his spine. It really shouldn’t be hot, but every time the damn brush moves it’s like biting tinfoil, and his dick perks up a bit more with every little shock. He clenches his jaw tighter. He’s going to sit here nice and quiet until she’s done, and counts his goddamn blessings that she’s just giving the thing a quick post-battle once-over, not a detailed clean. No big deal. He can do this.
He takes a sip of his beer, and tries to let the bitter hops occupy his mind.
A little pile of dirty cleaning patches forms in the corner of his vision, and then she sets aside the bore cleaner and picks up a toothbrush to clean around the muzzle of the gun. No big deal, no big deal. He’s cool. He’s cool.
And then she picks up a rag and a little bottle of gun oil.
Dean doesn’t like to think of it as retreating so much as advancing to the rear. “Right,” he says, tossing back the last of his beer. “Time to hit the shower.”
* * *
He can do this. He can do this. She’s just cleaning a gun. It’s no big deal.
She picks up the rag and the little bottle again.
Fuck.
Gun oil is almost worse than gunpowder. It smells like a molotov cocktail waiting to happen, which maybe shouldn’t be quite as much of a turn-on as it is. He breathes deep, tugs surreptitiously on the waistband of his pants, and reflects, not for the first time, that there’s probably something seriously wrong with him.
He risks a glance at her. She doesn’t look up. He might as well not even be in the room. All her attention is devoted to the precise movements of her hands and the gun. Her fingers move over the metal like fucking poetry or something, leaving it gleaming in her wake, and he catches glimpses of her eyes distorted in reflections off the barrel. They’re almost the same colour as the wood of the grip.
The way she’s ignoring him pretty much just makes it hotter, unfortunately.
She picks up a clean rag and starts wiping off the excess oil, which is just - son of a bitch, it’s practically obscene. Dean’s eyes flick over to the clock on the wall. Way the hell too early. He goes back to the room now, no one’s ever gonna believe he’s just going to sleep. Maybe he can sneak off to the bathroom...?
She rolls her neck, loosening the muscles, then glances his way. “Dean?”
“Uhn. I mean. Yeah?”
“You okay?” She prods the yoke back into the frame with a little click. “You look a bit... tense.”
“Long day,” he says, after a minute. “I think I’ll, uh....” He trails off, then narrows his eyes. “You’re doing this on purpose,” he accused.
“Doing what?” she asks, wide-eyed and innocent and girl-next-door. The effect is slightly ruined by the Smith and Wesson dangling casually from her hand.
“Fuck,” says Dean, feelingly. “You are.”
Jo begins to laugh. crossposted from Dreamwidth |
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Title: Hot Metal and Scorched Dirt [AO3]
Fandoms: Supernatural
Wordcount: ~750
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Jo cleans her gun; Dean gets a bit uncomfortable.
Notes/Disclaimers: Kink Bingo 2012, “guns/blades”. (Click here for card.) Betad, as always, by the lovely
sophia_sol. I don’t own Supernatural or the characters, and I’m making no money from this. Fic is set ambiguously some time after 2.02 (“Everybody Loves a Clown”) but does not fit tidily into canon, and contains no major spoilers.
It’s the smell of burnt gunpowder clinging to her coat that does it. Scorched dirt and hot metal and a sort of oily sweetness, and it goes straight from his nose to his dick. Jesus. He shifts slightly in his seat, trying to ease the pressure in his jeans. Think about cold showers, he tells himself. Think about plane crashes. Think about how very, very dead Ellen is going to kill you if you so much as look too closely at anything below neck level.
Jo pops the cylinder and tips out one last, unused bullet.
Dean looks away, swallowing hard. For fuck’s sake. Five minutes ago he was doing pretty good at telling himself to think of her as a little sister, nothing more. And now this. This never happens when he’s cleaning his own guns. Sure as hell never happened with Sammy or Dad.
She unscrews a bottle in the corner of his vision, and the faint vinegar-bleach smell of ammonia reaches his nose. Bore solvent.
Dean makes up his mind. “Okay, then,” he says, snatching his own gun off the table. “I’m just gonna go - talk to Sammy about - uh - see you tomorrow!”
He bids a hasty retreat before the bemused expression on her face.
* * *
He lasts a little longer the next time. Long enough for her to start with solvent, anyways.
The scrape of the bore brush against the inner barrel of the gun sends shivers up and down his spine. It really shouldn’t be hot, but every time the damn brush moves it’s like biting tinfoil, and his dick perks up a bit more with every little shock. He clenches his jaw tighter. He’s going to sit here nice and quiet until she’s done, and counts his goddamn blessings that she’s just giving the thing a quick post-battle once-over, not a detailed clean. No big deal. He can do this.
He takes a sip of his beer, and tries to let the bitter hops occupy his mind.
A little pile of dirty cleaning patches forms in the corner of his vision, and then she sets aside the bore cleaner and picks up a toothbrush to clean around the muzzle of the gun. No big deal, no big deal. He’s cool. He’s cool.
And then she picks up a rag and a little bottle of gun oil.
Dean doesn’t like to think of it as retreating so much as advancing to the rear. “Right,” he says, tossing back the last of his beer. “Time to hit the shower.”
* * *
He can do this. He can do this. She’s just cleaning a gun. It’s no big deal.
She picks up the rag and the little bottle again.
Fuck.
Gun oil is almost worse than gunpowder. It smells like a molotov cocktail waiting to happen, which maybe shouldn’t be quite as much of a turn-on as it is. He breathes deep, tugs surreptitiously on the waistband of his pants, and reflects, not for the first time, that there’s probably something seriously wrong with him.
He risks a glance at her. She doesn’t look up. He might as well not even be in the room. All her attention is devoted to the precise movements of her hands and the gun. Her fingers move over the metal like fucking poetry or something, leaving it gleaming in her wake, and he catches glimpses of her eyes distorted in reflections off the barrel. They’re almost the same colour as the wood of the grip.
The way she’s ignoring him pretty much just makes it hotter, unfortunately.
She picks up a clean rag and starts wiping off the excess oil, which is just - son of a bitch, it’s practically obscene. Dean’s eyes flick over to the clock on the wall. Way the hell too early. He goes back to the room now, no one’s ever gonna believe he’s just going to sleep. Maybe he can sneak off to the bathroom...?
She rolls her neck, loosening the muscles, then glances his way. “Dean?”
“Uhn. I mean. Yeah?”
“You okay?” She prods the yoke back into the frame with a little click. “You look a bit... tense.”
“Long day,” he says, after a minute. “I think I’ll, uh....” He trails off, then narrows his eyes. “You’re doing this on purpose,” he accused.
“Doing what?” she asks, wide-eyed and innocent and girl-next-door. The effect is slightly ruined by the Smith and Wesson dangling casually from her hand.
“Fuck,” says Dean, feelingly. “You are.”
Jo begins to laugh. crossposted from Dreamwidth |
comments on original post