Sexy men warrant crossover fic.
Title: Running With The Devil
Pairing: Dean Winchester/James "Sawyer" Ford
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 5,185 (I know, RIGHT?)
Spoilers: AU set during the middle of "Scarecrow" for Supernatural, pre-Island for Lost.
Summary: Dean meets a stranger on the side of the road. Then there is sex, the end. (But it's REALLY PRETTY, HOT people doin' it!)
Disclaimer: Yeah, I don't own either of these shows. But if I DID, this would totally be canon.
A/N: So, halfdutch is an absolute goddess, I want to make that very clear. Not only did she wait patiently for me to FINALLY get my ass into gear to write this as a gift fic (no, I mean, she waited for MONTHS), but she hand held and encouraged and even beta'd (AND TITLED!) it. Why yes, I AM the laziest writer ever! You are AMAZING and I feel like I should offer you something else in return for that kindness, but...yeah, I won't do that to you again. Just lotsa love!
He almost hits the guy.
I mean, really, who stands in the middle of the fucking highway on a stretch of dark, desolate road? Fucker must have a death wish.
Dean is driving down I39, letting the rhythm of his baby’s tires over the bumpy asphalt soothe the ache of leaving his brother behind. Every mile puts more distance between them, furthering the separation that has been expanding between them ever since Sam realized years ago that maybe, just maybe, he didn’t want his brother to be his keeper after all.
At any rate, he’s lost in his thoughts and the blaring chords of Thin Lizzy leaking through the tinny speakers when a figure appears, whited out in the glare of his headlights. Automatically, Dean slams on the brakes and spins the wheel, the back end of the Impala fishtailing on the slick road.
"What the fuck, man?" Dean hollers, leaping from the car and stalking over to the figure in three quick strides. Dean is shaken and enraged, overwhelmed by the fact that he not only damn near could have killed this moron but also could have dented the Impala in the process. He pulls his right arm back to swing, but the guy flinches back, stumbling a few steps backward.
"Sorry, I just..." The guy slurs, his movement slow and deliberate and thick with alcohol. He meanders back towards Dean, finger jutted towards him. "And hey. You're the one who’s driving like a maniac.”
His accent is heavy and country, but his attire lets Dean know that this guy is anything but some backwoods hillbilly that stumbled out of the surrounding woods. He’s dressed in a pale lavender dress shirt and gray suit, the material shining slightly in the headlight’s beam.
Dean takes a deep breath. “What are you doing in the middle of nowhere?” he asks, straight to the point. He flexes his fingers, unsure of which way this will pan out.
The guy peers over, strands of blonde hair catching on his lashes and sticking. He brushes them from his face, slicking his hair back, and appraises Dean with the same scrutiny. “My friend decided he didn’t agree with my stance on the current political situation so we parted ways,” he says, punctuating the statement with a smirk.
Biting back a grin, Dean scans over the guy one last time before relaxing his stance. “So you decided to just stand in the middle of the road and wait for him to come back?”
The man’s expression flickers for a fraction of a second, dark and somewhat familiar. And then, a blinding grin, all teeth and dimples and the similarity, the ease, punches Dean in the gut. “Nah. I don’t think we’re friends anymore.” Staring at the Impala, the guy gives a quick nod. “Nice car. Even prettier ‘cuz I ain’t lookin at it from underneath.”
Dean sighs. He can’t just leave this guy in the middle of the woods, though there’s always the off chance that another car could come along any minute. He can see the unspoken question in the stranger’s eyes, and he already knows he’s not a demon - would have sensed it - so he just jerks his thumb towards the vehicle.
“C’mon.”
+++
"So what are you doin' zooming through this craphole state like the devil's on your tail?" The man is settled into the passenger seat, his jacket laid across his lap. His hands are visible, though, and that allows Dean some peace of mind.
"Maybe he is," Dean mutters, emboldened by the strange circumstances and anonymity. "Or maybe I’m chasing him." He glances out of the corner of his eye at the blonde, figuring the half-drunk fool won’t realize that the words are more truth than sarcasm. The guy's eyes remain straight ahead, staring at the road before them. "How about you? You some sort of rogue demon hunter?"
"Something like that," the guy exhales, his eyes hard and glittering in the darkness. He slouches further into the passenger seat, stretching his legs.
"So..."
The man is staring out the passenger side window now, seemingly lost in his own train of thought. He shakes his head and returns his focus to Dean when he breaks the uncomfortable silence.
“Yeah. So. What's your name, boy?"
Dean scoffs. "Boy?" He bites the word out defensively. Wasn’t he giving this random stranger a ride? "First of all, I can tell you I was damn near never a boy, and second, Grandpa, I picked your ass up. Who the hell are you?"
The guy stares at Dean hard, his gaze narrowing momentarily before his face smoothes out, that dimpled grin breaking across his features once more. "Alright there, Freckles."
Dean whips his attention from the road, offering up an icy glare. The man chuckles.
"You don't take no shit, do ya? I like that." He offers his left hand to Dean. "Sawyer. The name's Sawyer."
Dean removes one hand from the wheel and takes Sawyer's hand, shaking it awkwardly due to the angle, but the grip is firm and sure. He feels something unclench inside. "See, now how difficult was that? I'm Dean, by the way." He'd already offered up his profession, why the hell lie now?
The mood in the vehicle lifts noticeably and the road stretches out before them, smooth and long with random bumps. Dean finds he is glad for the company and it seems, somehow, that their conversation runs the same way as the asphalt beneath the tires.
+++
So it all seems to be going fine and then Sawyer has to go and shock the hell out of Dean by leaning across the car and placing his hand in Dean’s lap.
“What the…” Dean jumps, and his hip bucks against Sawyer’s palm with the movement.
All the times Dean had been on the road alone, all the rides he’s provided because he just couldn’t leave someone alone out there in the darkness, knowing what could lay in wait. All he wanted to do was help the guy out, and yeah, okay, maybe not travel alone for the space of time because he’d grown accustom to having Sam along for the ride and…now he had gone an picked up a prostitute. A fucking gigolo.
Totally Sam’s fault.
“Listen, I…I think you’ve got the wrong idea,” Dean stutters, trying in vain to shrink away from Sawyer’s touch. Sawyer is crowding his space, and Dean presses on hand against his chest, pushing him back.
Sawyer laughs, a low, irritating roll that has Dean annoyed at how much he wants to keep hearing it. Shifting back towards Dean again, he defiantly returns his hand to the same position. “I don’t think I do.” His breath is hot against the shell of Dean’s ear, his words liquid honey, and Dean wants to beat him away because really, he didn’t intend for this and really, that actually felt pretty good and fuck.
God damn Sam.
“Look.” Sawyer is speaking against the crook of Dean’s neck and Dean, well, he’s trying diligently to ignore the rush of electricity tingling along his spine. “I had a crap day, all right? And you, Speed Racer, didn’t seem to be having the best one yourself.”
Dean isn’t into guys. Really, he isn’t. But here he is, this random guy's hand sliding up the inseam of his jeans and fuck if it doesn’t feel better than moping about the fact that his brother was a pain in the ass and now he was out there on his own where he might get hurt and...he’s distracting himself, that’s all. Dean has always been good at rationalizing his actions.
Hey. It’s not really his actions anyways.
The slow drag of Sawyer's nose along his neck brings Dean back to the present. Hot lips travel along his flesh, Sawyer’s wandering palm creeping higher. "You know, I'd rather have it be the other way around, that lush, cocksucking mouth of yours wrapped around my dick, but seeing as how you're doing me a favor..."
Dean's hands flex on the steering wheel. It’s slippery under his palms and he swallows back a groan.
"Keep your eyes on the road," Sawyer orders, tugging the lobe of Dean's ear between his teeth. “I don't plan on meeting my maker because of a fiery crash." He chuckles, and Dean shivers at the contrast between the wet trail of his lips and the heat radiating from him in waves.
"Oh, believe me, I don't want it bad enough to crash my car."
Sawyer cups him through denim and Dean lets out a hiss. Then Sawyer’s laughing against his neck again, stubble scratching the smooth skin. "Well, well. Glad that's settled then."
+++
The darkness fades away as civilization begins to creep back up upon them, and really, going 90 miles an hour down the road because your foot keeps slamming on the accelerator because some guy has his fingers wrapped around your dick and his lips attached to your neck, branding it with bruises and open-mouthed nips…not the best idea.
Dean pulls into the first motel lot he sees, panting with the effort of keeping Sawyer at bay, at not giving in, but fuck all because he knows it’s too late to go back. This is happening, shit, he wants it - the release, the company, the independence - and he groans as he struggles to push Sawyer off.
“Get us a room,” Dean pants. His lungs feel full of fire, his mouth watering at the sight of Sawyer, his eyes black with lust. “Go. Quick, before I change my mind.”
Sawyer smirks, the sight so achingly familiar that it pulls Dean forward. He knows that grin, he’s used that grin, and he wants to crush it from Sawyer’s lips.
He fists his hands into Sawyer’s shirt, closing the gap, sliding over those bared teeth with a clack. The taste of whiskey and cigarettes bites at his tongue and Dean probes deeper, angling his head to increase the pressure of slightly chapped lips along his own. Sawyer’s lips part, and he slides inside, the fierce need bubbling up from within and twisting, hot and heavy and it’s rough, so much rougher than he’s ever known. Kissing Sawyer is a struggle, an absolute play for dominance and neither are backing down, so Dean pulls away, trembling as Sawyer nips at his lower lip.
The wolfish grin is still in place.
“Now don’t you go leavin’ me here, Sonny.”
Dean swallows, frustration and annoyance pounding inside, but he just laughs, letting it shake through him.
“’Git,” he teases, drenching the single syllable with his best down-home twang. He shoves Sawyer towards the door and gnaws at his lip as he watches him leisurely saunter, the asshole, towards the motel office.
+++
Dean only notices the gun tucked into the back of Sawyer’s pants as they’re walking through the room door. He can’t imagine how is missed it before, the outline certain and on instinct, Dean reaches out, tugging the weapon free. He pins Sawyer against the wall.
“What’s this?” Dean extends his arm to the side, keeping the weapon out of reach. He doesn’t point it at Sawyer.
Sawyer’s face is drawn tight, brows knotted and menacing. “It’s my gun.” He says, gasping when Dean presses his forearm up, tight against Sawyer’s throat.
“I know that, smartass.” Anger flares through Dean, most of it directed at himself. How could he have been so stupid, so trusting? “But why?”
Blue eyes flash, icy and hard, and Sawyer presses back. “So I have a gun. You’re gonna play like you don’t?” The chill of his glare flickers and melts away as Dean pauses to consider, lowers his hold the slightest bit. If Sawyer had wanted to rob him, hurt him, he’d had ample opportunity. And it hadn’t really seemed to be pain that the older man had been so intent on wringing from him.
“Besides,” Sawyer continues, licking his lips and melting back against the wall. “I ain’t got no bag, smartass. Where exactly do ya suppose I shoulda hid it?”
Dean eyes him warily, shaking his head as he steps away, placing the gun on the table. The door to the room is still wide open, but Sawyer remains against the wall, leaning casually now, his thumb drawing lazy circles at the hollow of his throat. “You always play so rough, boy?”
Dean laughs, just fucking laughs, plopping down on the bed and scrubbing his face with his hands. “Naw. I just…I feel off is all. And yeah..” He rolls up the hem of his jeans, revealing the thick black strap wrapped around his calf and grins back at Sawyer. “I have a gun too.”
The smile that spreads over Sawyer’s features is slow and wide, and he pushes away from the wall, quietly closing the door to the room. He leans against the doorframe and Dean takes a moment to soak it all in. The room is suddenly too quiet, charged with awkwardness and anticipation and there’s this guy, this complete and utter stranger who evidently wanders around in the middle of the night armed, possibly dangerous, who happens to be willing to share his bed with the first piece of ass he meets along the way.
If the description didn’t so easily fit Dean as well, it might have been laughable.
“Two peas in a pod, eh?” Sawyer smirks at him and there it is. Dean does the only thing he can.
He just fucking laughs.
+++
So maybe he’s a little nervous. Dean hears the damn near hysterical giggles falling from his own lips and wants to just cringe.
Sawyer is watching him, his bemused expression darkening, one hand idly scratching his stomach. The movement catches Dean’s attention, and the laughter dies on his lips, but he forces his smile to remain.
Sawyer is lean, his shoulders broad and the fabric of his dress shirt pulls between them, clinging just tight enough to reveal strong lines. A predatory grin reaches his eyes, crinkles them, and Dean feels his stomach roll. He lets out a long breath.
Slowly striding across the room, Sawyer closes the gap between them. Dean shrugs out of his jacket, tossing it rather ineffectually towards a nearby chair. Then he twists his upper body, stretching along the length of the bed to place his cell phone on the nightstand table, right with in reach. He hopes halfheartedly that it will ring, draw him out of this. Sam might need him…someone might need him, and this? This is all new and exciting but kinda fucking frightening. An out might be nice.
But then Sawyer is right there, planted between Dean’s spread legs. Dean is eye level with Sawyer’s crotch and can see the press of his erection through the thin material of his slacks. Swallowing around the lump in his throat, Dean moistens his lips and peers up. There is a ball of anxiety growing in his chest, but he refuses to back down. He’s Dean Winchester, damn it, and it’s just…sex.
He’s startled by Sawyer’s palm cupping his chin, angling his head up. Sawyer swipes his thumb across Dean’s lower lip, gentle, and Dean exhales the breath he hadn’t even realized he had been holding.
“God, but you’re a gorgeous one,” Sawyer drawls, his voice pitched low. It rumbles through Dean’s system, and he tentatively palms Sawyer’s hips. “What I would give to see that mouth wrapped around my cock. Like a fucking angel.”
Dean is equally aroused and amused by the words, and he glances up again with a soft snort. “Dude, do lines like that actually work for you?”
Pointedly glancing at the hands kneading into the hard muscles of his thighs, Sawyer smirks back at Dean. He quirks an eyebrow and it vanishes behind a lock of hair. “Seems like, don’t it?”
Dean huffs. “Is that a challenge?” He hides his nerves behind false bravado, and runs his palms up the inside of Sawyer’s thigh. Sawyer’s hips hitch into the touch.
“You want it to be?” Sawyer’s voice is molten lava, seeping over Dean’s skin, searing every nerve into fight-or-flight. He trails his thumb along Dean’s cheekbone, circling back through the stubble along his jaw. Dean’s never melted into such a light touch so easily before and he mentally smacks himself in the face.
Sawyer’s treading lightly, Dean can tell, letting him make the choice. Fuck it, Dean thinks, and decides to just leap.
“Yeah.” They’re both panting now, the tension between them sparking, and they’ve yet to even really touch. Dean runs his fingertips over the supple leather of Sawyer’s belt, sliding it through the buckle. He feels like he’s moving in slow motion, hyper aware of the sound of metal parting as he slides the zipper down. His heart is pounding, and he closes his eyes briefly before pushing the material of Sawyer’s pants and boxer briefs down in one motion.
Sawyer is just standing there, pants pooled around his ankles, the tail ends of his dress shirt brushing over his cock, and when Dean looks up to check his expression, he sees slight amusement, Sawyer’s lips pulled tight in an effort to not grin.
“Something funny?” Dean challenges, nervousness crumbling and replaced by sheer fucking annoyance. This bastard is really getting under his skin.
“No, no.” Sawyer holds up his hands in a display of absolute innocence. He begins to unbutton his shirt, fingers flying deftly down the buttons. “You take your time. We’ve got,” he lifts his wrist, screwing his face up comically to peer at his watch. “All fucking night.”
“Got a little eyesight issue there, Grandpa?”
Sawyer scowls. “You really are a little asshole, ain’t ya?”
“Bastard.” Dean curls his fingers around Sawyer’s cock, pulling once with a rough, dry hand. The yelp Sawyer lets out as Dean drags him closer to the edge of the bed, making his knees slam into the side, is sweet victory.
Sawyer stumbles forward, palms landing square on Dean’s shoulders to steady himself. Dean smirks, laying one palm flat against the smooth ridges of Sawyer’s lower abdomen, fingertips stroking lightly along the thin line between tan skin and that slightly paler, unkissed by the sun. Worrying his lip between his teeth once more, Dean tilts his head, considering angles, mind wandering back to that girl in Tulsa, the one with a mouth like a Hoover and that little thing she did…
Sawyer squeezes his shoulders, staring down at him, eyes hard, but shining with a silent plea.
Dean likes that.
He drags his tongue up the length of Sawyer’s cock, his eyes still locked onto Sawyer’s. They’re almost pure black, only slivers of blue surrounding blown pupils, and when Dean slides his lips over the head, running his tongue along the underside slowly, testing, Sawyer lets out a hiss. Sawyer is hot on Dean’s tongue, salt and musk. His head tilts back and Dean has a view of nothing more than a long, hard stretch of skin, ridges and grooves that quake beneath his fingers.
He groans around the flesh as it slides past is lips, inhaling through his nose. Sawyer’s hips stutter forward and the sudden movement brings tears to Dean’s eyes, so he grips Sawyer’s hips, fingers squeezing hard enough to bruise. The motion stops, but there is a loud exhalation and Dean feels Sawyer’s hand slide up his neck, resting lightly against the short hair at the nape, not pushing or guiding, just laying there. The tingle of Sawyer’s fingers against his scalp is enough to propel Dean forward and he swirls his tongue, bobbing once, then again.
Sawyer’s making small, choked sounds in the back of his throat, continual bits of encouragement. Dean is oddly proud, though his lips ache, stretched too wide; his mouth, too full. He slides off with a wet pop, lips obscene and red, and traces the head of Sawyer’s cock over the his mouth.
"Oh, fuck," Sawyer groans, the word stretching into three syllables. He claws at the collar of Dean’s shirt, pulling him to his feet, and crushes his mouth against the swollen, spit-slicked skin of Dean’s lips. It’s hard, brutal, and the force of it steals the breath from Dean’s lungs. He’s dizzy, blood rushing south, and north, and everywhere in between.
"Jesus." Dean slides the dress shirt from Sawyer's shoulders, trailing his hands along as much skin as he can cover, mapping the play of muscle beneath flesh. Sawyer is eating at his lips, ripping his clothes from him, so frantic and hungry and intense. Barely separating, Sawyer manages to yank the last layer from Dean's torso, leaning in to catch Dean's nipple between his teeth while Dean has his arms stretched overhead, wrists still entwined by soft cotton. He curses, arching against the heat of Sawyer's mouth, the wet, steady pressure and the room just spins.
He finds himself splayed out on the comforter. The bedspread is cheap, scratches against his bare back, but Dean forgets about any discomfort the moment Sawyer's lips return to his.
The phone on the nightstand never rings and Dean forgets to care.
+++
“This is gonna hurt,” Sawyer whispers, his tongue trailing over the dip between Dean’s shoulder blades, tracing a line over the splattering of freckles. His fingers are cold and hard against the cleft of Dean’s ass, but Dean just nods, urging him on.
Sawyer had laughed when Dean directed him to dig through the pockets of his leather jacket for a condom and lube - Quite the Boy Scout, ain’t ya? - but Dean was already out of his mind with the teasing nips along his ribcage, the slide of hands down his sides. In his book, foreplay was overrated, and if Sawyer didn’t just get on with it…Dean was damn near ready to tear him a new asshole.
Bad thought.
He pushes the anxiety to the back of his mind, instead focusing on the sensation of Sawyer’s body brushing against his, the sweat pooling at the base of his spine, the slick slide of Sawyer’s fingers over and then. Oh.
“Shit.” Dean’s not prepared for the sudden intrusion and scrambles higher on the mattress, but Sawyer wraps his hand tight around Dean’s bicep.
“Breathe,” he murmurs, mouth sliding over Dean’s jaw, lips closing over Dean’s. He gasps against Sawyer, his jaw going slack as Sawyer probes deeper, sucks Dean’s tongue into his mouth, tangles them together, lips, tongue, teeth, limbs. Dean loses himself in the wet warmth of Sawyer’s mouth, allows him to explore, and very nearly bites off his own tongue when Sawyer adds another finger.
He’s being ripped open, there’s no way…only there is, he can and he will because God, the intensity in Sawyer’s eyes, the pupils blown wide with lust and need…Dean can feel the same clawing at his gut, urging him on. He spreads his legs further, drops his stomach and curves his back, biting at Sawyer’s lips, hissing through the pain.
Sawyer catches his gaze, stares deep into his eyes, silently asking. Dean nods. “Just do it.”
There’s a moment of stillness that seems to stretch forever, and Dean wipes at his mouth with his hand, supporting himself on one arm. He licks his lips, mentally preparing, staring at his knuckles, scars crisscrossing over them. He feels the blunted edge as Sawyer lines up and Dean takes a deep breath.
“Son of a bitch…” The curse fades from both of their lips at the same time, Sawyer stilling to allow Dean to relax around him. It burns and is motherfuck painful, but pain is something Dean knows intimately, an old friend, and so be beats back the cry threatening to crawl from his throat. He exhales, slow and deep, his neck bowed. Sawyer’s hand is crawling along his spine, sliding over one vertebrae at a time, pressing against the small of his back. Dean shifts his hips experimentally, groaning as the burn flares again under Sawyer’s touch.
The bed dips, and Sawyer’s hair brushes along the back of Dean’s neck. “Gonna make you feel so good, boy, gonna make you see stars, make you scream out my name.” Sawyer traces the shell of Dean’s ear with his tongue and Dean shifts back again, the pain fading fast, replaced by a cool chill and a knot of desire in his gut. “You do remember it, don’t ya?”
Dean swallows, lifting his head to meet Sawyer’s scorching gaze. “What? The fuck are you going on about?” He cants his hips again, inhaling the scent of bleach, starched sheets. The outward spread of heat from his spine floods through his limbs, and Dean grips the fabric, rolling his hips to refresh the waves. “And don’t,” he pants, “call me boy.”
The chuckle against his neck shoots sparks through his veins, and he whines low in his throat when Sawyer pulls his hips back, nearly withdrawing completely. “My name, boy. Hurts my feelings to think you don’t know or care.”
“Motherfucking asshole,” Dean mutters, wriggling in vain. Sawyer’s hand connects with his ass, a quick slap, and Dean gives a small cry of surprise.
“Now that ain’t proper,” Sawyer drawls, and Dean squeezes his eyes shut in agony, his chest clenching as he caves, desperate.
“You’re such a fucking…Sawyer, damn it. Just fucking…oh.”
His lips wrap around the moan, the breath knocked from his lungs when Sawyer finally, finally snaps his hips forward, burying himself inside. The pressure still knots low in Dean’s spine, but a vein of pleasure rockets through him, and he gasps when Sawyer rocks his hips once more.
“Just relax,” Sawyer pants, his hips drawing small circles as he thrusts.
It’s unlike anything Dean’s ever experienced before. It’s a flame that dances behind Dean's eyes, the muscles in his arms burning every time the momentum moves him forward. A trickle of sweat rolls down his temple, stinging his eyes, and he shakes his head, biting back a groan when Sawyer digs blunt nails into his hips.
"Shit." Dean collapses face first into the pillow, his arms giving out . He pistons his hips back, the faint slap of flesh ringing in his ears. His lungs feel as if they could burst, so much pressure, weighing him down, ripping through him.
"Yeah." He can barely hear Sawyer over the pounding of his heart. Dean gasps at the new angle, Sawyer's cock brushing deep inside and Jesus Christ.
"So. Hot." The groans are bitten out between every thrust, Sawyer cursing and praising with a litany of filth. There's a choked sob, and Dean can't even try to decide which of them it comes from, but he knows the gasp that rips through the room is all him when Sawyer brushes fingertips over the sensitive line of Dean's stomach, trailing downward to encircle the base of his cock.
There's a pulse that shoots straight from the top of his head to the tips of his toes, Sawyer stroking him gently, the faintest touch, and Dean doesn't know whether to thrust into his palm or onto his dick. His mind is a scrambled mess - This is your brain on gay sex - he thinks, somewhat hysterically, so instead he just keens into the pillow.
The movements are growing more erratic, the sheets sticking to his chest, grazing over enflamed nipples, and Dean can do little more than whimper and moan. "Jesus, god, I..." Sawyer's thumb flicks over the tip of Dean's cock, and the pressure increases again, Sawyer's hand warm and rough.
Dean's thighs are quivering, and a cool chill has him trembling, sweat slick skin icy hot. His body is wracked with sensation and pleasure and Dean shudders. Sawyer twines his free hand through Dean's hair, yanking his head back and Dean yelps. His back arches in a move he's seen contortionists perform but never, ever imagined he could pull off himself. It stretches every line of his body and Sawyer is deeper, harder, fuck, just right.
"I want to hear you. I want to hear you say my name when you come." Sawyer's order is cool and collected, but his voice is raspy, like he’s just run a marathon and is begging for the last drop of water in the desert.
Dean howls, fucking loses it, his body tearing down the middle, white-hot sparks dancing on the headboard before him. There is a sharp nip against his shoulder and he cries out, a scream and a moan and a fucking plea, just once, "Sawyer."
"Yeah, like that." The words are choked, wrapped in an awe-filled gasp, and Sawyer is coaxing him through his orgasm, fingers milking Dean's cock, light, fluttering squeezes that make Dean feel like he's about to float right off the bed.
A shuddering inhalation pumps much needed oxygen back into his brain, and Dean sighs, his lashes fluttering against his cheeks as Sawyer releases his hold on Dean's hair, drops his fingers from Dean's spent cock, and allows him to melt into the mattress.
"Dean, fuck." Sawyer leans over him, his dick stilled inside, back to the small rocking motions from before. The warmth of his body radiates down on Dean, and he's hot, so hot, burning alive. "I need to.."
"Yeah," Dean groans, his throat tight and abused. "Just...yeah." His mind is shut down upon itself, nothing but bright flickers of light dancing around the clouded haze of his vision. His body is drained, fucked out, but something inside him begs for more. Sawyer props himself up, one arm next to Dean's head, the other wrapped tightly around his hip, callused fingers brushing over the skin.
Dean turns his head on the pillow, gasping into every thrust Sawyer makes, his heart still hammering in his chest. Nonsense words fall upon his ears, sweet, honeyed moans and Dean bites his lip hard enough to taste blood. He feels like a live wire, electricity humming through him and he wraps his lips around the tanned flesh of Sawyer's forearm, clamping down to muffle his cries.
There is a strangled moan, and Sawyer pounds into him, hips slapping against the curve of his ass. Dean's whole body clenches, his lips opening in a silent cry as Sawyer shudders above him, one, two, three final thrusts and then complete stillness, nothing but a infinite length of silence as Sawyer comes apart at the seams. And then panting, huge lungfuls of air being sucked away, Sawyer collapsing on top of Dean's back.
He feels the hot flutter of Sawyer's breath against his neck, hears sated murmurs, claims of praise being etched into his skin. Sawyer rolls them both, stretched out on their sides, one leg wrapped over Dean's hip.
"You did good," Sawyer mumbles, his face buried into the crook of Dean's neck, and Dean damn near laughs. He would, if he could get enough air back into his system, but instead he just yawns and let's the darkness creeping in around him slip over him. He falls asleep, encased in heat and warmth, sweat and blood.
It's as comfortable as anything.
Pairing: Dean Winchester/James "Sawyer" Ford
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 5,185 (I know, RIGHT?)
Spoilers: AU set during the middle of "Scarecrow" for Supernatural, pre-Island for Lost.
Summary: Dean meets a stranger on the side of the road. Then there is sex, the end. (But it's REALLY PRETTY, HOT people doin' it!)
Disclaimer: Yeah, I don't own either of these shows. But if I DID, this would totally be canon.
A/N: So, halfdutch is an absolute goddess, I want to make that very clear. Not only did she wait patiently for me to FINALLY get my ass into gear to write this as a gift fic (no, I mean, she waited for MONTHS), but she hand held and encouraged and even beta'd (AND TITLED!) it. Why yes, I AM the laziest writer ever! You are AMAZING and I feel like I should offer you something else in return for that kindness, but...yeah, I won't do that to you again. Just lotsa love!
He almost hits the guy.
I mean, really, who stands in the middle of the fucking highway on a stretch of dark, desolate road? Fucker must have a death wish.
Dean is driving down I39, letting the rhythm of his baby’s tires over the bumpy asphalt soothe the ache of leaving his brother behind. Every mile puts more distance between them, furthering the separation that has been expanding between them ever since Sam realized years ago that maybe, just maybe, he didn’t want his brother to be his keeper after all.
At any rate, he’s lost in his thoughts and the blaring chords of Thin Lizzy leaking through the tinny speakers when a figure appears, whited out in the glare of his headlights. Automatically, Dean slams on the brakes and spins the wheel, the back end of the Impala fishtailing on the slick road.
"What the fuck, man?" Dean hollers, leaping from the car and stalking over to the figure in three quick strides. Dean is shaken and enraged, overwhelmed by the fact that he not only damn near could have killed this moron but also could have dented the Impala in the process. He pulls his right arm back to swing, but the guy flinches back, stumbling a few steps backward.
"Sorry, I just..." The guy slurs, his movement slow and deliberate and thick with alcohol. He meanders back towards Dean, finger jutted towards him. "And hey. You're the one who’s driving like a maniac.”
His accent is heavy and country, but his attire lets Dean know that this guy is anything but some backwoods hillbilly that stumbled out of the surrounding woods. He’s dressed in a pale lavender dress shirt and gray suit, the material shining slightly in the headlight’s beam.
Dean takes a deep breath. “What are you doing in the middle of nowhere?” he asks, straight to the point. He flexes his fingers, unsure of which way this will pan out.
The guy peers over, strands of blonde hair catching on his lashes and sticking. He brushes them from his face, slicking his hair back, and appraises Dean with the same scrutiny. “My friend decided he didn’t agree with my stance on the current political situation so we parted ways,” he says, punctuating the statement with a smirk.
Biting back a grin, Dean scans over the guy one last time before relaxing his stance. “So you decided to just stand in the middle of the road and wait for him to come back?”
The man’s expression flickers for a fraction of a second, dark and somewhat familiar. And then, a blinding grin, all teeth and dimples and the similarity, the ease, punches Dean in the gut. “Nah. I don’t think we’re friends anymore.” Staring at the Impala, the guy gives a quick nod. “Nice car. Even prettier ‘cuz I ain’t lookin at it from underneath.”
Dean sighs. He can’t just leave this guy in the middle of the woods, though there’s always the off chance that another car could come along any minute. He can see the unspoken question in the stranger’s eyes, and he already knows he’s not a demon - would have sensed it - so he just jerks his thumb towards the vehicle.
“C’mon.”
+++
"So what are you doin' zooming through this craphole state like the devil's on your tail?" The man is settled into the passenger seat, his jacket laid across his lap. His hands are visible, though, and that allows Dean some peace of mind.
"Maybe he is," Dean mutters, emboldened by the strange circumstances and anonymity. "Or maybe I’m chasing him." He glances out of the corner of his eye at the blonde, figuring the half-drunk fool won’t realize that the words are more truth than sarcasm. The guy's eyes remain straight ahead, staring at the road before them. "How about you? You some sort of rogue demon hunter?"
"Something like that," the guy exhales, his eyes hard and glittering in the darkness. He slouches further into the passenger seat, stretching his legs.
"So..."
The man is staring out the passenger side window now, seemingly lost in his own train of thought. He shakes his head and returns his focus to Dean when he breaks the uncomfortable silence.
“Yeah. So. What's your name, boy?"
Dean scoffs. "Boy?" He bites the word out defensively. Wasn’t he giving this random stranger a ride? "First of all, I can tell you I was damn near never a boy, and second, Grandpa, I picked your ass up. Who the hell are you?"
The guy stares at Dean hard, his gaze narrowing momentarily before his face smoothes out, that dimpled grin breaking across his features once more. "Alright there, Freckles."
Dean whips his attention from the road, offering up an icy glare. The man chuckles.
"You don't take no shit, do ya? I like that." He offers his left hand to Dean. "Sawyer. The name's Sawyer."
Dean removes one hand from the wheel and takes Sawyer's hand, shaking it awkwardly due to the angle, but the grip is firm and sure. He feels something unclench inside. "See, now how difficult was that? I'm Dean, by the way." He'd already offered up his profession, why the hell lie now?
The mood in the vehicle lifts noticeably and the road stretches out before them, smooth and long with random bumps. Dean finds he is glad for the company and it seems, somehow, that their conversation runs the same way as the asphalt beneath the tires.
+++
So it all seems to be going fine and then Sawyer has to go and shock the hell out of Dean by leaning across the car and placing his hand in Dean’s lap.
“What the…” Dean jumps, and his hip bucks against Sawyer’s palm with the movement.
All the times Dean had been on the road alone, all the rides he’s provided because he just couldn’t leave someone alone out there in the darkness, knowing what could lay in wait. All he wanted to do was help the guy out, and yeah, okay, maybe not travel alone for the space of time because he’d grown accustom to having Sam along for the ride and…now he had gone an picked up a prostitute. A fucking gigolo.
Totally Sam’s fault.
“Listen, I…I think you’ve got the wrong idea,” Dean stutters, trying in vain to shrink away from Sawyer’s touch. Sawyer is crowding his space, and Dean presses on hand against his chest, pushing him back.
Sawyer laughs, a low, irritating roll that has Dean annoyed at how much he wants to keep hearing it. Shifting back towards Dean again, he defiantly returns his hand to the same position. “I don’t think I do.” His breath is hot against the shell of Dean’s ear, his words liquid honey, and Dean wants to beat him away because really, he didn’t intend for this and really, that actually felt pretty good and fuck.
God damn Sam.
“Look.” Sawyer is speaking against the crook of Dean’s neck and Dean, well, he’s trying diligently to ignore the rush of electricity tingling along his spine. “I had a crap day, all right? And you, Speed Racer, didn’t seem to be having the best one yourself.”
Dean isn’t into guys. Really, he isn’t. But here he is, this random guy's hand sliding up the inseam of his jeans and fuck if it doesn’t feel better than moping about the fact that his brother was a pain in the ass and now he was out there on his own where he might get hurt and...he’s distracting himself, that’s all. Dean has always been good at rationalizing his actions.
Hey. It’s not really his actions anyways.
The slow drag of Sawyer's nose along his neck brings Dean back to the present. Hot lips travel along his flesh, Sawyer’s wandering palm creeping higher. "You know, I'd rather have it be the other way around, that lush, cocksucking mouth of yours wrapped around my dick, but seeing as how you're doing me a favor..."
Dean's hands flex on the steering wheel. It’s slippery under his palms and he swallows back a groan.
"Keep your eyes on the road," Sawyer orders, tugging the lobe of Dean's ear between his teeth. “I don't plan on meeting my maker because of a fiery crash." He chuckles, and Dean shivers at the contrast between the wet trail of his lips and the heat radiating from him in waves.
"Oh, believe me, I don't want it bad enough to crash my car."
Sawyer cups him through denim and Dean lets out a hiss. Then Sawyer’s laughing against his neck again, stubble scratching the smooth skin. "Well, well. Glad that's settled then."
+++
The darkness fades away as civilization begins to creep back up upon them, and really, going 90 miles an hour down the road because your foot keeps slamming on the accelerator because some guy has his fingers wrapped around your dick and his lips attached to your neck, branding it with bruises and open-mouthed nips…not the best idea.
Dean pulls into the first motel lot he sees, panting with the effort of keeping Sawyer at bay, at not giving in, but fuck all because he knows it’s too late to go back. This is happening, shit, he wants it - the release, the company, the independence - and he groans as he struggles to push Sawyer off.
“Get us a room,” Dean pants. His lungs feel full of fire, his mouth watering at the sight of Sawyer, his eyes black with lust. “Go. Quick, before I change my mind.”
Sawyer smirks, the sight so achingly familiar that it pulls Dean forward. He knows that grin, he’s used that grin, and he wants to crush it from Sawyer’s lips.
He fists his hands into Sawyer’s shirt, closing the gap, sliding over those bared teeth with a clack. The taste of whiskey and cigarettes bites at his tongue and Dean probes deeper, angling his head to increase the pressure of slightly chapped lips along his own. Sawyer’s lips part, and he slides inside, the fierce need bubbling up from within and twisting, hot and heavy and it’s rough, so much rougher than he’s ever known. Kissing Sawyer is a struggle, an absolute play for dominance and neither are backing down, so Dean pulls away, trembling as Sawyer nips at his lower lip.
The wolfish grin is still in place.
“Now don’t you go leavin’ me here, Sonny.”
Dean swallows, frustration and annoyance pounding inside, but he just laughs, letting it shake through him.
“’Git,” he teases, drenching the single syllable with his best down-home twang. He shoves Sawyer towards the door and gnaws at his lip as he watches him leisurely saunter, the asshole, towards the motel office.
+++
Dean only notices the gun tucked into the back of Sawyer’s pants as they’re walking through the room door. He can’t imagine how is missed it before, the outline certain and on instinct, Dean reaches out, tugging the weapon free. He pins Sawyer against the wall.
“What’s this?” Dean extends his arm to the side, keeping the weapon out of reach. He doesn’t point it at Sawyer.
Sawyer’s face is drawn tight, brows knotted and menacing. “It’s my gun.” He says, gasping when Dean presses his forearm up, tight against Sawyer’s throat.
“I know that, smartass.” Anger flares through Dean, most of it directed at himself. How could he have been so stupid, so trusting? “But why?”
Blue eyes flash, icy and hard, and Sawyer presses back. “So I have a gun. You’re gonna play like you don’t?” The chill of his glare flickers and melts away as Dean pauses to consider, lowers his hold the slightest bit. If Sawyer had wanted to rob him, hurt him, he’d had ample opportunity. And it hadn’t really seemed to be pain that the older man had been so intent on wringing from him.
“Besides,” Sawyer continues, licking his lips and melting back against the wall. “I ain’t got no bag, smartass. Where exactly do ya suppose I shoulda hid it?”
Dean eyes him warily, shaking his head as he steps away, placing the gun on the table. The door to the room is still wide open, but Sawyer remains against the wall, leaning casually now, his thumb drawing lazy circles at the hollow of his throat. “You always play so rough, boy?”
Dean laughs, just fucking laughs, plopping down on the bed and scrubbing his face with his hands. “Naw. I just…I feel off is all. And yeah..” He rolls up the hem of his jeans, revealing the thick black strap wrapped around his calf and grins back at Sawyer. “I have a gun too.”
The smile that spreads over Sawyer’s features is slow and wide, and he pushes away from the wall, quietly closing the door to the room. He leans against the doorframe and Dean takes a moment to soak it all in. The room is suddenly too quiet, charged with awkwardness and anticipation and there’s this guy, this complete and utter stranger who evidently wanders around in the middle of the night armed, possibly dangerous, who happens to be willing to share his bed with the first piece of ass he meets along the way.
If the description didn’t so easily fit Dean as well, it might have been laughable.
“Two peas in a pod, eh?” Sawyer smirks at him and there it is. Dean does the only thing he can.
He just fucking laughs.
+++
So maybe he’s a little nervous. Dean hears the damn near hysterical giggles falling from his own lips and wants to just cringe.
Sawyer is watching him, his bemused expression darkening, one hand idly scratching his stomach. The movement catches Dean’s attention, and the laughter dies on his lips, but he forces his smile to remain.
Sawyer is lean, his shoulders broad and the fabric of his dress shirt pulls between them, clinging just tight enough to reveal strong lines. A predatory grin reaches his eyes, crinkles them, and Dean feels his stomach roll. He lets out a long breath.
Slowly striding across the room, Sawyer closes the gap between them. Dean shrugs out of his jacket, tossing it rather ineffectually towards a nearby chair. Then he twists his upper body, stretching along the length of the bed to place his cell phone on the nightstand table, right with in reach. He hopes halfheartedly that it will ring, draw him out of this. Sam might need him…someone might need him, and this? This is all new and exciting but kinda fucking frightening. An out might be nice.
But then Sawyer is right there, planted between Dean’s spread legs. Dean is eye level with Sawyer’s crotch and can see the press of his erection through the thin material of his slacks. Swallowing around the lump in his throat, Dean moistens his lips and peers up. There is a ball of anxiety growing in his chest, but he refuses to back down. He’s Dean Winchester, damn it, and it’s just…sex.
He’s startled by Sawyer’s palm cupping his chin, angling his head up. Sawyer swipes his thumb across Dean’s lower lip, gentle, and Dean exhales the breath he hadn’t even realized he had been holding.
“God, but you’re a gorgeous one,” Sawyer drawls, his voice pitched low. It rumbles through Dean’s system, and he tentatively palms Sawyer’s hips. “What I would give to see that mouth wrapped around my cock. Like a fucking angel.”
Dean is equally aroused and amused by the words, and he glances up again with a soft snort. “Dude, do lines like that actually work for you?”
Pointedly glancing at the hands kneading into the hard muscles of his thighs, Sawyer smirks back at Dean. He quirks an eyebrow and it vanishes behind a lock of hair. “Seems like, don’t it?”
Dean huffs. “Is that a challenge?” He hides his nerves behind false bravado, and runs his palms up the inside of Sawyer’s thigh. Sawyer’s hips hitch into the touch.
“You want it to be?” Sawyer’s voice is molten lava, seeping over Dean’s skin, searing every nerve into fight-or-flight. He trails his thumb along Dean’s cheekbone, circling back through the stubble along his jaw. Dean’s never melted into such a light touch so easily before and he mentally smacks himself in the face.
Sawyer’s treading lightly, Dean can tell, letting him make the choice. Fuck it, Dean thinks, and decides to just leap.
“Yeah.” They’re both panting now, the tension between them sparking, and they’ve yet to even really touch. Dean runs his fingertips over the supple leather of Sawyer’s belt, sliding it through the buckle. He feels like he’s moving in slow motion, hyper aware of the sound of metal parting as he slides the zipper down. His heart is pounding, and he closes his eyes briefly before pushing the material of Sawyer’s pants and boxer briefs down in one motion.
Sawyer is just standing there, pants pooled around his ankles, the tail ends of his dress shirt brushing over his cock, and when Dean looks up to check his expression, he sees slight amusement, Sawyer’s lips pulled tight in an effort to not grin.
“Something funny?” Dean challenges, nervousness crumbling and replaced by sheer fucking annoyance. This bastard is really getting under his skin.
“No, no.” Sawyer holds up his hands in a display of absolute innocence. He begins to unbutton his shirt, fingers flying deftly down the buttons. “You take your time. We’ve got,” he lifts his wrist, screwing his face up comically to peer at his watch. “All fucking night.”
“Got a little eyesight issue there, Grandpa?”
Sawyer scowls. “You really are a little asshole, ain’t ya?”
“Bastard.” Dean curls his fingers around Sawyer’s cock, pulling once with a rough, dry hand. The yelp Sawyer lets out as Dean drags him closer to the edge of the bed, making his knees slam into the side, is sweet victory.
Sawyer stumbles forward, palms landing square on Dean’s shoulders to steady himself. Dean smirks, laying one palm flat against the smooth ridges of Sawyer’s lower abdomen, fingertips stroking lightly along the thin line between tan skin and that slightly paler, unkissed by the sun. Worrying his lip between his teeth once more, Dean tilts his head, considering angles, mind wandering back to that girl in Tulsa, the one with a mouth like a Hoover and that little thing she did…
Sawyer squeezes his shoulders, staring down at him, eyes hard, but shining with a silent plea.
Dean likes that.
He drags his tongue up the length of Sawyer’s cock, his eyes still locked onto Sawyer’s. They’re almost pure black, only slivers of blue surrounding blown pupils, and when Dean slides his lips over the head, running his tongue along the underside slowly, testing, Sawyer lets out a hiss. Sawyer is hot on Dean’s tongue, salt and musk. His head tilts back and Dean has a view of nothing more than a long, hard stretch of skin, ridges and grooves that quake beneath his fingers.
He groans around the flesh as it slides past is lips, inhaling through his nose. Sawyer’s hips stutter forward and the sudden movement brings tears to Dean’s eyes, so he grips Sawyer’s hips, fingers squeezing hard enough to bruise. The motion stops, but there is a loud exhalation and Dean feels Sawyer’s hand slide up his neck, resting lightly against the short hair at the nape, not pushing or guiding, just laying there. The tingle of Sawyer’s fingers against his scalp is enough to propel Dean forward and he swirls his tongue, bobbing once, then again.
Sawyer’s making small, choked sounds in the back of his throat, continual bits of encouragement. Dean is oddly proud, though his lips ache, stretched too wide; his mouth, too full. He slides off with a wet pop, lips obscene and red, and traces the head of Sawyer’s cock over the his mouth.
"Oh, fuck," Sawyer groans, the word stretching into three syllables. He claws at the collar of Dean’s shirt, pulling him to his feet, and crushes his mouth against the swollen, spit-slicked skin of Dean’s lips. It’s hard, brutal, and the force of it steals the breath from Dean’s lungs. He’s dizzy, blood rushing south, and north, and everywhere in between.
"Jesus." Dean slides the dress shirt from Sawyer's shoulders, trailing his hands along as much skin as he can cover, mapping the play of muscle beneath flesh. Sawyer is eating at his lips, ripping his clothes from him, so frantic and hungry and intense. Barely separating, Sawyer manages to yank the last layer from Dean's torso, leaning in to catch Dean's nipple between his teeth while Dean has his arms stretched overhead, wrists still entwined by soft cotton. He curses, arching against the heat of Sawyer's mouth, the wet, steady pressure and the room just spins.
He finds himself splayed out on the comforter. The bedspread is cheap, scratches against his bare back, but Dean forgets about any discomfort the moment Sawyer's lips return to his.
The phone on the nightstand never rings and Dean forgets to care.
+++
“This is gonna hurt,” Sawyer whispers, his tongue trailing over the dip between Dean’s shoulder blades, tracing a line over the splattering of freckles. His fingers are cold and hard against the cleft of Dean’s ass, but Dean just nods, urging him on.
Sawyer had laughed when Dean directed him to dig through the pockets of his leather jacket for a condom and lube - Quite the Boy Scout, ain’t ya? - but Dean was already out of his mind with the teasing nips along his ribcage, the slide of hands down his sides. In his book, foreplay was overrated, and if Sawyer didn’t just get on with it…Dean was damn near ready to tear him a new asshole.
Bad thought.
He pushes the anxiety to the back of his mind, instead focusing on the sensation of Sawyer’s body brushing against his, the sweat pooling at the base of his spine, the slick slide of Sawyer’s fingers over and then. Oh.
“Shit.” Dean’s not prepared for the sudden intrusion and scrambles higher on the mattress, but Sawyer wraps his hand tight around Dean’s bicep.
“Breathe,” he murmurs, mouth sliding over Dean’s jaw, lips closing over Dean’s. He gasps against Sawyer, his jaw going slack as Sawyer probes deeper, sucks Dean’s tongue into his mouth, tangles them together, lips, tongue, teeth, limbs. Dean loses himself in the wet warmth of Sawyer’s mouth, allows him to explore, and very nearly bites off his own tongue when Sawyer adds another finger.
He’s being ripped open, there’s no way…only there is, he can and he will because God, the intensity in Sawyer’s eyes, the pupils blown wide with lust and need…Dean can feel the same clawing at his gut, urging him on. He spreads his legs further, drops his stomach and curves his back, biting at Sawyer’s lips, hissing through the pain.
Sawyer catches his gaze, stares deep into his eyes, silently asking. Dean nods. “Just do it.”
There’s a moment of stillness that seems to stretch forever, and Dean wipes at his mouth with his hand, supporting himself on one arm. He licks his lips, mentally preparing, staring at his knuckles, scars crisscrossing over them. He feels the blunted edge as Sawyer lines up and Dean takes a deep breath.
“Son of a bitch…” The curse fades from both of their lips at the same time, Sawyer stilling to allow Dean to relax around him. It burns and is motherfuck painful, but pain is something Dean knows intimately, an old friend, and so be beats back the cry threatening to crawl from his throat. He exhales, slow and deep, his neck bowed. Sawyer’s hand is crawling along his spine, sliding over one vertebrae at a time, pressing against the small of his back. Dean shifts his hips experimentally, groaning as the burn flares again under Sawyer’s touch.
The bed dips, and Sawyer’s hair brushes along the back of Dean’s neck. “Gonna make you feel so good, boy, gonna make you see stars, make you scream out my name.” Sawyer traces the shell of Dean’s ear with his tongue and Dean shifts back again, the pain fading fast, replaced by a cool chill and a knot of desire in his gut. “You do remember it, don’t ya?”
Dean swallows, lifting his head to meet Sawyer’s scorching gaze. “What? The fuck are you going on about?” He cants his hips again, inhaling the scent of bleach, starched sheets. The outward spread of heat from his spine floods through his limbs, and Dean grips the fabric, rolling his hips to refresh the waves. “And don’t,” he pants, “call me boy.”
The chuckle against his neck shoots sparks through his veins, and he whines low in his throat when Sawyer pulls his hips back, nearly withdrawing completely. “My name, boy. Hurts my feelings to think you don’t know or care.”
“Motherfucking asshole,” Dean mutters, wriggling in vain. Sawyer’s hand connects with his ass, a quick slap, and Dean gives a small cry of surprise.
“Now that ain’t proper,” Sawyer drawls, and Dean squeezes his eyes shut in agony, his chest clenching as he caves, desperate.
“You’re such a fucking…Sawyer, damn it. Just fucking…oh.”
His lips wrap around the moan, the breath knocked from his lungs when Sawyer finally, finally snaps his hips forward, burying himself inside. The pressure still knots low in Dean’s spine, but a vein of pleasure rockets through him, and he gasps when Sawyer rocks his hips once more.
“Just relax,” Sawyer pants, his hips drawing small circles as he thrusts.
It’s unlike anything Dean’s ever experienced before. It’s a flame that dances behind Dean's eyes, the muscles in his arms burning every time the momentum moves him forward. A trickle of sweat rolls down his temple, stinging his eyes, and he shakes his head, biting back a groan when Sawyer digs blunt nails into his hips.
"Shit." Dean collapses face first into the pillow, his arms giving out . He pistons his hips back, the faint slap of flesh ringing in his ears. His lungs feel as if they could burst, so much pressure, weighing him down, ripping through him.
"Yeah." He can barely hear Sawyer over the pounding of his heart. Dean gasps at the new angle, Sawyer's cock brushing deep inside and Jesus Christ.
"So. Hot." The groans are bitten out between every thrust, Sawyer cursing and praising with a litany of filth. There's a choked sob, and Dean can't even try to decide which of them it comes from, but he knows the gasp that rips through the room is all him when Sawyer brushes fingertips over the sensitive line of Dean's stomach, trailing downward to encircle the base of his cock.
There's a pulse that shoots straight from the top of his head to the tips of his toes, Sawyer stroking him gently, the faintest touch, and Dean doesn't know whether to thrust into his palm or onto his dick. His mind is a scrambled mess - This is your brain on gay sex - he thinks, somewhat hysterically, so instead he just keens into the pillow.
The movements are growing more erratic, the sheets sticking to his chest, grazing over enflamed nipples, and Dean can do little more than whimper and moan. "Jesus, god, I..." Sawyer's thumb flicks over the tip of Dean's cock, and the pressure increases again, Sawyer's hand warm and rough.
Dean's thighs are quivering, and a cool chill has him trembling, sweat slick skin icy hot. His body is wracked with sensation and pleasure and Dean shudders. Sawyer twines his free hand through Dean's hair, yanking his head back and Dean yelps. His back arches in a move he's seen contortionists perform but never, ever imagined he could pull off himself. It stretches every line of his body and Sawyer is deeper, harder, fuck, just right.
"I want to hear you. I want to hear you say my name when you come." Sawyer's order is cool and collected, but his voice is raspy, like he’s just run a marathon and is begging for the last drop of water in the desert.
Dean howls, fucking loses it, his body tearing down the middle, white-hot sparks dancing on the headboard before him. There is a sharp nip against his shoulder and he cries out, a scream and a moan and a fucking plea, just once, "Sawyer."
"Yeah, like that." The words are choked, wrapped in an awe-filled gasp, and Sawyer is coaxing him through his orgasm, fingers milking Dean's cock, light, fluttering squeezes that make Dean feel like he's about to float right off the bed.
A shuddering inhalation pumps much needed oxygen back into his brain, and Dean sighs, his lashes fluttering against his cheeks as Sawyer releases his hold on Dean's hair, drops his fingers from Dean's spent cock, and allows him to melt into the mattress.
"Dean, fuck." Sawyer leans over him, his dick stilled inside, back to the small rocking motions from before. The warmth of his body radiates down on Dean, and he's hot, so hot, burning alive. "I need to.."
"Yeah," Dean groans, his throat tight and abused. "Just...yeah." His mind is shut down upon itself, nothing but bright flickers of light dancing around the clouded haze of his vision. His body is drained, fucked out, but something inside him begs for more. Sawyer props himself up, one arm next to Dean's head, the other wrapped tightly around his hip, callused fingers brushing over the skin.
Dean turns his head on the pillow, gasping into every thrust Sawyer makes, his heart still hammering in his chest. Nonsense words fall upon his ears, sweet, honeyed moans and Dean bites his lip hard enough to taste blood. He feels like a live wire, electricity humming through him and he wraps his lips around the tanned flesh of Sawyer's forearm, clamping down to muffle his cries.
There is a strangled moan, and Sawyer pounds into him, hips slapping against the curve of his ass. Dean's whole body clenches, his lips opening in a silent cry as Sawyer shudders above him, one, two, three final thrusts and then complete stillness, nothing but a infinite length of silence as Sawyer comes apart at the seams. And then panting, huge lungfuls of air being sucked away, Sawyer collapsing on top of Dean's back.
He feels the hot flutter of Sawyer's breath against his neck, hears sated murmurs, claims of praise being etched into his skin. Sawyer rolls them both, stretched out on their sides, one leg wrapped over Dean's hip.
"You did good," Sawyer mumbles, his face buried into the crook of Dean's neck, and Dean damn near laughs. He would, if he could get enough air back into his system, but instead he just yawns and let's the darkness creeping in around him slip over him. He falls asleep, encased in heat and warmth, sweat and blood.
It's as comfortable as anything.