keep a secret code.
About The Things That You've Done
Dean/Gordon | 1370 words | NC17
Disclaimer: Yeah, whatever. Don't own, don't sue.
Note(s): "Missing scene" from "Bloodlust" (episode 2.03). About as close to PWP as I ever get. Title/summary from "Don't Stop" by Fleetwood Mac. I recommend listening to it while reading, if you can, in order to get the full effect. It's a multimedia experience. If you feel like talking at/to me about what little racial stuff there is in this story, I'm down with that (I'm just going to blame estrellada for all the bad shit anyway).
*
The floor was white linoleum once, but now it's grey and brown and yellow and black around the edges. The walls are dark brown wood, same as the rest of the bar, with bent nails hanging out and ragged pieces of paper stuck to it with tape.
You lock the pitted, rickety door and steady yourself in front of the toilet with one hand on the wall.
On the walls around the toilet there's Sharpie and ballpoint graffiti of over-sized breasts and penises and initials, phone numbers carved deep and illegible. The grain of the wood is reassuring against your hand. The toilet is dusty and crusted, except for the seat and the flusher. The water is startlingly blue, the bowl is strangely clean. Everyone's obsessive about something. Your piss turns the water algae green and foamy. You almost feel like you're sobering up as your bladder empties.
Two shakes, tuck, flush, turn.
The mirror is scratched; the backing is coming off too, so there are spots of clear glass, where you can see the wall showing through. It's better than looking at your reflection, anyway. The sink is chipped, with little shaving hairs and dried streams of blood, spit, beer running down to the rusty drain. You can see the big black plunger and the plastic package of no-name industrial toilet paper sitting under it. There's a lone white bottle of Toilet Duck under there too, with greasy grey fingerprints on each side.
The water is cold, no matter how many times you turn the hot tap. You put your freezing wet hands over your face. The last of the beer-whiskey fuzziness around the edges of your eyes fades away, leaving you stone-cold alert with an illusion of sobriety. You get that from your mother.
There isn't any paper towel, just a cloth loop that hangs almost to the floor. It's stained brown and pink and black in places. You wipe your hands on the ass of your jeans, and unlock the door.
You're in the hall before you notice Gordon waiting, just at the edge of the bar's patchy light, some Springsteen song fading in the background.
It takes you a minute to register "eyes, face, Gordon," and that you should say something. You shouldn't say that his skin tone is great camouflage. One of your mother's favourite songs turns over on the jukebox with a hiss and pop.
You're staring at him, and he's staring back. He steps into the wedge of light spilling from the open bathroom door. You should say something.
"This was Clinton's campaign song, did you know that?" you ask, smiling awkwardly.
He steps closer, still staring, sizing you up again. He's just close enough for you to feel his confidence, start calculating how hard and fast you can hit.
"Never paid much attention to politics," he says.
The whiskey keeps your arms and knees loose, your muscles relaxed. You don't want to fight him. He steps closer and you step away, like those endless mirror games you and Sam played when he was little, matching movements and echoing each other until you drove Dad nuts. Gordon's scarred hands drift to his belt as you back into the bathroom.
Standing dumb in the middle of the room, you watch him close the door and lean against it. He locks it with one hand as he loosens his belt with the other. You should say something. You shouldn't say that being ambidextrous is probably pretty useful.
Your mouth is dry when you open it. You look up at his face and he tilts his head, staring at you. He smiles a little.
"Okay," you say, and you'd swear on a stack of bibles that it's a good idea. You just don't know why.
Your knees hit the sticky floor and his hand cradles the back of your head, where you're thinking vague explanations like drunk and been too long and finally something meaningless, useless, stupid and secret--you haven't smoked a joint, fucked a girl in the ass, or sucked a cock since your father died, like giving up everything he didn't know about you for mourning, like making room for this thing with Sam--shit, fuck it; Gordon guides you closer to his lowering fly. White flashes in the gap of the zipper and you can smell sweat.
He's hard enough so you catch him easily as he hitches his briefs down. You suck him rock hard, pulling the blood further into his cock. You slip your tongue between his soft foreskin and slick head, his precum thready like spit. He gasps, and you smirk around him. Cocksucking is as useful as being ambidextrous.
You lean into his leg, rubbing your stiffening cock against his shin, like a fucking puppy, hands holding his thighs for balance. Your jaw stretches down and out, the taste of him like adrenaline in the back of your throat. Soft, rubbery cock against your lips; you want to make him come. He knows the fear-spike of a hunt, knows the empty roads, and you've told him everything else of your own free will.
Dimly, you can hear the rattle of the door's loose hinges as he fucks your face gently, and then less gently, and your breath in your ears and your blood in your veins as you take it, and still that song playing, leaking under the door, between the fingers Gordon's got wrapped around your head, over your ears, it'll be better than before, yesterday's gone, yesterday's gone thrusting in rhythm. Yesterday's gone, yesterday's gone, this was your mother's favourite song. Sharply, you can hear Gordon panting and the brief explosions of half-words. "Bay--boy--fuc--;" you wonder, swallowing slick and salt, if he's following the bass line on purpose, or just instinctively, or--
A noise like a groan is punched from his chest and you feel it, feel his cock jerk between your tongue and teeth and the first hard, hot spray of his come in the back of your mouth. You moan and clutch at his leg with one hand, press your right hand between his shin and your dick and rub into it, push into it, but you can't get there before he's done and shrinking fast, slipping out of your mouth.
This is the worst part; as good as all of that was, as much as you did it because you wanted to and you couldn't think of a reason not to and you couldn't think of a way to say no; this is as bad as it was good.
You sit back on your heels a little and watch him tuck and zip and button and fasten his belt. You creak to your feet, joints stiff and cold and you suddenly hate the pull and jump of your dick as it shifts against your fly.
You can't meet his eyes--bullshit. You look him in the eye and smirk, just a little, just enough to get him smirking back, and clapping you on the upper arm. His hand moves to your shoulder, and then he pats your cheek roughly and nods at you.
"I like you, Dean Winchester; you're a good one," he says, when he's not looking at you, when he's unlocking the door and pushing it open and can't see you struggle and fail to maintain your goddamn smirk.
"Takes one," you say, roughly, and smile and shrug like a laugh when he looks over his shoulder, eyebrows raised. He laughs back for real. He leaves.
The door bangs shut behind him and you don't bother locking it again.
The head of his cock tapped against your chin twice, accidentally, as he was putting himself away, and the sticky, warm traces cooling make your skin crawl, make your stomach turn, make you lose your hard-on completely.
You wash your face again, barely glancing into the mirror to make sure you're standing in one of the blank spots. You wipe your hands on the still-damp ass of your jeans. When you open the door, Mellencamp's plaintive growl greets you; you hit the light switch on your way out.
End.
Dean/Gordon | 1370 words | NC17
Disclaimer: Yeah, whatever. Don't own, don't sue.
Note(s): "Missing scene" from "Bloodlust" (episode 2.03). About as close to PWP as I ever get. Title/summary from "Don't Stop" by Fleetwood Mac. I recommend listening to it while reading, if you can, in order to get the full effect. It's a multimedia experience. If you feel like talking at/to me about what little racial stuff there is in this story, I'm down with that (I'm just going to blame estrellada for all the bad shit anyway).
*
The floor was white linoleum once, but now it's grey and brown and yellow and black around the edges. The walls are dark brown wood, same as the rest of the bar, with bent nails hanging out and ragged pieces of paper stuck to it with tape.
You lock the pitted, rickety door and steady yourself in front of the toilet with one hand on the wall.
On the walls around the toilet there's Sharpie and ballpoint graffiti of over-sized breasts and penises and initials, phone numbers carved deep and illegible. The grain of the wood is reassuring against your hand. The toilet is dusty and crusted, except for the seat and the flusher. The water is startlingly blue, the bowl is strangely clean. Everyone's obsessive about something. Your piss turns the water algae green and foamy. You almost feel like you're sobering up as your bladder empties.
Two shakes, tuck, flush, turn.
The mirror is scratched; the backing is coming off too, so there are spots of clear glass, where you can see the wall showing through. It's better than looking at your reflection, anyway. The sink is chipped, with little shaving hairs and dried streams of blood, spit, beer running down to the rusty drain. You can see the big black plunger and the plastic package of no-name industrial toilet paper sitting under it. There's a lone white bottle of Toilet Duck under there too, with greasy grey fingerprints on each side.
The water is cold, no matter how many times you turn the hot tap. You put your freezing wet hands over your face. The last of the beer-whiskey fuzziness around the edges of your eyes fades away, leaving you stone-cold alert with an illusion of sobriety. You get that from your mother.
There isn't any paper towel, just a cloth loop that hangs almost to the floor. It's stained brown and pink and black in places. You wipe your hands on the ass of your jeans, and unlock the door.
You're in the hall before you notice Gordon waiting, just at the edge of the bar's patchy light, some Springsteen song fading in the background.
It takes you a minute to register "eyes, face, Gordon," and that you should say something. You shouldn't say that his skin tone is great camouflage. One of your mother's favourite songs turns over on the jukebox with a hiss and pop.
You're staring at him, and he's staring back. He steps into the wedge of light spilling from the open bathroom door. You should say something.
"This was Clinton's campaign song, did you know that?" you ask, smiling awkwardly.
He steps closer, still staring, sizing you up again. He's just close enough for you to feel his confidence, start calculating how hard and fast you can hit.
"Never paid much attention to politics," he says.
The whiskey keeps your arms and knees loose, your muscles relaxed. You don't want to fight him. He steps closer and you step away, like those endless mirror games you and Sam played when he was little, matching movements and echoing each other until you drove Dad nuts. Gordon's scarred hands drift to his belt as you back into the bathroom.
Standing dumb in the middle of the room, you watch him close the door and lean against it. He locks it with one hand as he loosens his belt with the other. You should say something. You shouldn't say that being ambidextrous is probably pretty useful.
Your mouth is dry when you open it. You look up at his face and he tilts his head, staring at you. He smiles a little.
"Okay," you say, and you'd swear on a stack of bibles that it's a good idea. You just don't know why.
Your knees hit the sticky floor and his hand cradles the back of your head, where you're thinking vague explanations like drunk and been too long and finally something meaningless, useless, stupid and secret--you haven't smoked a joint, fucked a girl in the ass, or sucked a cock since your father died, like giving up everything he didn't know about you for mourning, like making room for this thing with Sam--shit, fuck it; Gordon guides you closer to his lowering fly. White flashes in the gap of the zipper and you can smell sweat.
He's hard enough so you catch him easily as he hitches his briefs down. You suck him rock hard, pulling the blood further into his cock. You slip your tongue between his soft foreskin and slick head, his precum thready like spit. He gasps, and you smirk around him. Cocksucking is as useful as being ambidextrous.
You lean into his leg, rubbing your stiffening cock against his shin, like a fucking puppy, hands holding his thighs for balance. Your jaw stretches down and out, the taste of him like adrenaline in the back of your throat. Soft, rubbery cock against your lips; you want to make him come. He knows the fear-spike of a hunt, knows the empty roads, and you've told him everything else of your own free will.
Dimly, you can hear the rattle of the door's loose hinges as he fucks your face gently, and then less gently, and your breath in your ears and your blood in your veins as you take it, and still that song playing, leaking under the door, between the fingers Gordon's got wrapped around your head, over your ears, it'll be better than before, yesterday's gone, yesterday's gone thrusting in rhythm. Yesterday's gone, yesterday's gone, this was your mother's favourite song. Sharply, you can hear Gordon panting and the brief explosions of half-words. "Bay--boy--fuc--;" you wonder, swallowing slick and salt, if he's following the bass line on purpose, or just instinctively, or--
A noise like a groan is punched from his chest and you feel it, feel his cock jerk between your tongue and teeth and the first hard, hot spray of his come in the back of your mouth. You moan and clutch at his leg with one hand, press your right hand between his shin and your dick and rub into it, push into it, but you can't get there before he's done and shrinking fast, slipping out of your mouth.
This is the worst part; as good as all of that was, as much as you did it because you wanted to and you couldn't think of a reason not to and you couldn't think of a way to say no; this is as bad as it was good.
You sit back on your heels a little and watch him tuck and zip and button and fasten his belt. You creak to your feet, joints stiff and cold and you suddenly hate the pull and jump of your dick as it shifts against your fly.
You can't meet his eyes--bullshit. You look him in the eye and smirk, just a little, just enough to get him smirking back, and clapping you on the upper arm. His hand moves to your shoulder, and then he pats your cheek roughly and nods at you.
"I like you, Dean Winchester; you're a good one," he says, when he's not looking at you, when he's unlocking the door and pushing it open and can't see you struggle and fail to maintain your goddamn smirk.
"Takes one," you say, roughly, and smile and shrug like a laugh when he looks over his shoulder, eyebrows raised. He laughs back for real. He leaves.
The door bangs shut behind him and you don't bother locking it again.
The head of his cock tapped against your chin twice, accidentally, as he was putting himself away, and the sticky, warm traces cooling make your skin crawl, make your stomach turn, make you lose your hard-on completely.
You wash your face again, barely glancing into the mirror to make sure you're standing in one of the blank spots. You wipe your hands on the still-damp ass of your jeans. When you open the door, Mellencamp's plaintive growl greets you; you hit the light switch on your way out.
End.