supernatural fic: spare parts edition (dean/omc)
so a week or two ago, i read onelittlesleep's supernatural futurefic, Someday, The Mountain Lion Get Him, which completely and totally ate my brain.
it's got Sammy raising Dean's kids and sleeping with Dean's ex-wife (perfect), it's got Dean out on the devil hunt on his own (of course), and it's got a kid who thinks maybe Dean has a thing or two to teach him about how the world works (boy does he). it's scorchingly hot and so true to the characters that, as i told her in my exuberant comment, it's the kind of thing that makes you reverse engineer everything else you learn from here on out, expecting that eventually we'll end up back there.
but still, with the brain sucking, and the total inability to stop thinking about the story, and the deep need to know what else happens that we don't see, especially between the last two scenes. and so, with the author's permission, here is my take on that future.
Someday, The Mountain Lion Get Him (Spare Parts Edition)
Dean/omc, NC17.
Won't make any sense if you haven't read the original. Amended here with permission from onelittlesleep.
He said come on in and pull you up a chair
You might as well since you already here
-- Dolly Parton
When he can think clear again, Dean finds himself cheek-down on a grubby floor still damp with steam. He stands up fast and Jake slides off with a grunt.
He reaches a hand down instead of looking too hard at the kid's thick shoulders or the white scar just under his ribs, a nasty fucking hole from something big, maybe a .45.
Jake puts most of his weight on Dean as he gets to his feet, fingers digging into Dean's forearm. Dean steps right back, and Jake's face sets hard when Dean grabs a clean washcloth off the rack.
"Don't you ever sneak up on me again."
The kid stares, blue eyes gone angry as Dean yanks open the shower door and turns the water on hot.
In the cramped square of the shower, yellow tiles like a smoker's teeth, Dean can hear Jake running water in the sink, cleaning up. The kid sighs, and his shadow leans against the counter. Dean shakes his head and it slams it into the low faucet. Goddamn it.
Jake's found his nerve again by the time Dean comes looking for his clothes. "You're not gonna --" he says, already in third gear.
"You packed?"
The kid scowls, holds fast. "I'm not goin' any --"
"We have to be in Tulsa by dark," Dean says, and grabs his bag off the bed. And here he was, worried that the kid might have left.
He keeps the music loud the whole way there, and the only time Jake talks is to ask if Dean's got a twenty for the taco stand. His appetite hasn't faded a lick in forty years, and they eat their weight in spice-soaked meat, dripping grease on the gravel.
Jake wipes his mouth and the back of his hand comes away shiny. Dean loses track of how many arrows he'll need to take down the Ioki beast and kicks at the dirt in frustration. "Shit," he says.
"What?" the kid asks, like he doesn't understand it takes some fucking concentration to do this gig right. It's not easy shooting a thing like that in the throat.
"I hope you've got your running boots on," Dean says, and opens his creaky door.
Dean can't do the hundred-yard dash like he once could, and the Ioki sends him halfway to the finish line with one hard push. Getting his wind knocked out is about as common as Sammy calling ten minutes before trouble strikes, and he clears the edge of sacred ground with a few inches to spare.
The kid's got a steady bow hand, pulling off shots smooth and easy over Dean's shoulder. The Ioki falls with a crash and Jake takes three long strides, slinging the crossbow over his back. He hauls Dean up with an arm across his chest, piling him into the truck.
Dean blinks awake on a two-lane road. Jake's staring at the dotted yellow line, tense like he's driving a rich man's car. "You gonna puke?" he asks.
Dean licks the roof of his mouth, rolls down the window for some fresh air. "Takes more than that," he says, and closes his eyes again. He can hear the kid trying to calm down, breathe steady.
By the time they get to Springfield, he's ready for a drink.
The kid comes back from the bar with shots and beers and his lips are already wet. He catches Dean's stare and shrugs. "She gave me one on the house."
Dean cranes his neck to take a look. Redhead, black tank top. She winks and he smiles back reflexively until Jake blocks his line of sight. "Hey," Dean says, though he doesn't much care.
"This ain't 'cause it's queer, is it?"
Dean knocks back his shot. "What're you talking about?"
"Because that's pretty old-fashioned, getting hung up on that."
It's not that. Dean usually goes where it's easy, girls half his age who appreciate a guy who knows his way around. But he's not likely to turn down a distraction in any form, assuming they look clean and aren't obviously possessed by some soul-sucking devil. Frankly he's a little surprised that hasn't happened more often.
The kid rubs at his mouth, subtle like a freight train, and Dean thinks maybe his fifties will be different.
"So that was a hell of a kill," Jake says, and grins wide and cocky. "You run pretty fast for an old man."
"I could catch you easy, you punk."
"Already did." An aw-shucks grin and a tipped head and Dean's sorry he cut the kid's hair because he knows exactly how that look's supposed to go.
Deep down beneath his bruised ribs, Dean's stomach clenches. He pushes back his chair. "Let's get out of here."
The kid puts his hand on Dean's thigh in the truck. Dean moves it away.
He puts his hand down his own jeans, and Dean says, "Wait just a minute."
He moans like a brat and kicks his heels up on the dashboard. "Get your goddamned shitkickers off my windshield, boy," and Dean slows down just to be a bitch.
By the time they get to the motel, Jake is idling high, legs twitching, hands shoved deep in his pockets like that'll keep him still.
At the door, Dean pulls the kid in front of him as he reaches around to unlock the door, pressing hard up against his back. He's solid, a couple yards of heavy resistance in worn denim that roughs Dean like worn-out sandpaper.
He whines, jutting back an elbow, and Dean almost breaks the door down trying to force the lock.
Dean strips him bare to the waist, thin checked cotton falling to the cheap carpet like a handkerchief. He's stocky, broad, and between the scars his skin's still smooth and young. Dean runs his palms up the side of Jake's ribs and the kid skitters, then tries to reel himself in.
"You want this?" Dean doesn't take his hands away, and Jake chokes, gnashes his teeth and dips his head to chew on Dean's collarbone.
"Yeah, hell yeah. Shit, Dean --"
Dean tilts his hips up, leans back against the door, and lets gravity do the rest, pulling the kid down along his chest to the floor. He looks up, eager, and damn if that isn't nearly enough on its own.
Jake tugs at the zipper, rubs his nose against Dean's cock as it comes free.
Dean stills Jake with a hand on his jaw. "We do this, you're either gonna stay or get going real quick."
The kid swallows, loud and wet against Dean's hip. "Gonna stay."
The last time Dean let himself get caught, he ended up love-stupid and married and a father twice over, and everybody knows how well that turned out. "You sure?"
"Yes," Jake says, and then his eyes darken. He slides a finger into Dean's ass and says, "Yessir."
"Aw, fuck," Dean says, and comes.
A steady collision against his knee brings him back. The kid's jacking himself off, head thrown back, his other sweaty hand still resting on Dean's thigh.
"C'mon," Dean rasps out, throat parched like he's lost in the wilderness. He grabs at the kid's ears, his neck, no hair to hold, and finally gets a grip under his armpits. "Let me get that for you."
Jake groans and unfolds himself back up along Dean's body, heaving short, shallow breaths and dragging his dick wherever it will reach. Dean takes it in hand, jerking hard and fast and rough. The kid smirks, along for the ride no matter where Dean sets the pace, and he only falls apart right at the end, stuttering, "Oh, oh --" as he comes.
He hooks his chin on Dean's shoulder, lips touching Dean's thudding pulse. Dean's still got most of his clothes on, shirt up around his ribs, jeans open, and the kid's pants are down around his ankles, ass bare and slick with sweat.
This kid, who knows what Dean needs without even asking.
He reaches up to kiss Dean's chin, his cheek, the corner of his mouth, and when Dean finally pushes his tongue in to taste, Jake whimpers.
"You little shit," Dean says. "You're a grade A pain in the ass, boy."
The kid laughs in his face. "Got that right."
END.
Credits: noasylumhere on drums. iamsab on demons.
it's got Sammy raising Dean's kids and sleeping with Dean's ex-wife (perfect), it's got Dean out on the devil hunt on his own (of course), and it's got a kid who thinks maybe Dean has a thing or two to teach him about how the world works (boy does he). it's scorchingly hot and so true to the characters that, as i told her in my exuberant comment, it's the kind of thing that makes you reverse engineer everything else you learn from here on out, expecting that eventually we'll end up back there.
but still, with the brain sucking, and the total inability to stop thinking about the story, and the deep need to know what else happens that we don't see, especially between the last two scenes. and so, with the author's permission, here is my take on that future.
Someday, The Mountain Lion Get Him (Spare Parts Edition)
Dean/omc, NC17.
Won't make any sense if you haven't read the original. Amended here with permission from onelittlesleep.
He said come on in and pull you up a chair
You might as well since you already here
-- Dolly Parton
When he can think clear again, Dean finds himself cheek-down on a grubby floor still damp with steam. He stands up fast and Jake slides off with a grunt.
He reaches a hand down instead of looking too hard at the kid's thick shoulders or the white scar just under his ribs, a nasty fucking hole from something big, maybe a .45.
Jake puts most of his weight on Dean as he gets to his feet, fingers digging into Dean's forearm. Dean steps right back, and Jake's face sets hard when Dean grabs a clean washcloth off the rack.
"Don't you ever sneak up on me again."
The kid stares, blue eyes gone angry as Dean yanks open the shower door and turns the water on hot.
In the cramped square of the shower, yellow tiles like a smoker's teeth, Dean can hear Jake running water in the sink, cleaning up. The kid sighs, and his shadow leans against the counter. Dean shakes his head and it slams it into the low faucet. Goddamn it.
Jake's found his nerve again by the time Dean comes looking for his clothes. "You're not gonna --" he says, already in third gear.
"You packed?"
The kid scowls, holds fast. "I'm not goin' any --"
"We have to be in Tulsa by dark," Dean says, and grabs his bag off the bed. And here he was, worried that the kid might have left.
He keeps the music loud the whole way there, and the only time Jake talks is to ask if Dean's got a twenty for the taco stand. His appetite hasn't faded a lick in forty years, and they eat their weight in spice-soaked meat, dripping grease on the gravel.
Jake wipes his mouth and the back of his hand comes away shiny. Dean loses track of how many arrows he'll need to take down the Ioki beast and kicks at the dirt in frustration. "Shit," he says.
"What?" the kid asks, like he doesn't understand it takes some fucking concentration to do this gig right. It's not easy shooting a thing like that in the throat.
"I hope you've got your running boots on," Dean says, and opens his creaky door.
Dean can't do the hundred-yard dash like he once could, and the Ioki sends him halfway to the finish line with one hard push. Getting his wind knocked out is about as common as Sammy calling ten minutes before trouble strikes, and he clears the edge of sacred ground with a few inches to spare.
The kid's got a steady bow hand, pulling off shots smooth and easy over Dean's shoulder. The Ioki falls with a crash and Jake takes three long strides, slinging the crossbow over his back. He hauls Dean up with an arm across his chest, piling him into the truck.
Dean blinks awake on a two-lane road. Jake's staring at the dotted yellow line, tense like he's driving a rich man's car. "You gonna puke?" he asks.
Dean licks the roof of his mouth, rolls down the window for some fresh air. "Takes more than that," he says, and closes his eyes again. He can hear the kid trying to calm down, breathe steady.
By the time they get to Springfield, he's ready for a drink.
The kid comes back from the bar with shots and beers and his lips are already wet. He catches Dean's stare and shrugs. "She gave me one on the house."
Dean cranes his neck to take a look. Redhead, black tank top. She winks and he smiles back reflexively until Jake blocks his line of sight. "Hey," Dean says, though he doesn't much care.
"This ain't 'cause it's queer, is it?"
Dean knocks back his shot. "What're you talking about?"
"Because that's pretty old-fashioned, getting hung up on that."
It's not that. Dean usually goes where it's easy, girls half his age who appreciate a guy who knows his way around. But he's not likely to turn down a distraction in any form, assuming they look clean and aren't obviously possessed by some soul-sucking devil. Frankly he's a little surprised that hasn't happened more often.
The kid rubs at his mouth, subtle like a freight train, and Dean thinks maybe his fifties will be different.
"So that was a hell of a kill," Jake says, and grins wide and cocky. "You run pretty fast for an old man."
"I could catch you easy, you punk."
"Already did." An aw-shucks grin and a tipped head and Dean's sorry he cut the kid's hair because he knows exactly how that look's supposed to go.
Deep down beneath his bruised ribs, Dean's stomach clenches. He pushes back his chair. "Let's get out of here."
The kid puts his hand on Dean's thigh in the truck. Dean moves it away.
He puts his hand down his own jeans, and Dean says, "Wait just a minute."
He moans like a brat and kicks his heels up on the dashboard. "Get your goddamned shitkickers off my windshield, boy," and Dean slows down just to be a bitch.
By the time they get to the motel, Jake is idling high, legs twitching, hands shoved deep in his pockets like that'll keep him still.
At the door, Dean pulls the kid in front of him as he reaches around to unlock the door, pressing hard up against his back. He's solid, a couple yards of heavy resistance in worn denim that roughs Dean like worn-out sandpaper.
He whines, jutting back an elbow, and Dean almost breaks the door down trying to force the lock.
Dean strips him bare to the waist, thin checked cotton falling to the cheap carpet like a handkerchief. He's stocky, broad, and between the scars his skin's still smooth and young. Dean runs his palms up the side of Jake's ribs and the kid skitters, then tries to reel himself in.
"You want this?" Dean doesn't take his hands away, and Jake chokes, gnashes his teeth and dips his head to chew on Dean's collarbone.
"Yeah, hell yeah. Shit, Dean --"
Dean tilts his hips up, leans back against the door, and lets gravity do the rest, pulling the kid down along his chest to the floor. He looks up, eager, and damn if that isn't nearly enough on its own.
Jake tugs at the zipper, rubs his nose against Dean's cock as it comes free.
Dean stills Jake with a hand on his jaw. "We do this, you're either gonna stay or get going real quick."
The kid swallows, loud and wet against Dean's hip. "Gonna stay."
The last time Dean let himself get caught, he ended up love-stupid and married and a father twice over, and everybody knows how well that turned out. "You sure?"
"Yes," Jake says, and then his eyes darken. He slides a finger into Dean's ass and says, "Yessir."
"Aw, fuck," Dean says, and comes.
A steady collision against his knee brings him back. The kid's jacking himself off, head thrown back, his other sweaty hand still resting on Dean's thigh.
"C'mon," Dean rasps out, throat parched like he's lost in the wilderness. He grabs at the kid's ears, his neck, no hair to hold, and finally gets a grip under his armpits. "Let me get that for you."
Jake groans and unfolds himself back up along Dean's body, heaving short, shallow breaths and dragging his dick wherever it will reach. Dean takes it in hand, jerking hard and fast and rough. The kid smirks, along for the ride no matter where Dean sets the pace, and he only falls apart right at the end, stuttering, "Oh, oh --" as he comes.
He hooks his chin on Dean's shoulder, lips touching Dean's thudding pulse. Dean's still got most of his clothes on, shirt up around his ribs, jeans open, and the kid's pants are down around his ankles, ass bare and slick with sweat.
This kid, who knows what Dean needs without even asking.
He reaches up to kiss Dean's chin, his cheek, the corner of his mouth, and when Dean finally pushes his tongue in to taste, Jake whimpers.
"You little shit," Dean says. "You're a grade A pain in the ass, boy."
The kid laughs in his face. "Got that right."
END.
Credits: noasylumhere on drums. iamsab on demons.