Burn out the Night
Title: Burn out the Night
Pairing: Dean/Eliot
Warnings/Spoilers: none
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Dean and Eliot meet, fight monsters, and fuck, more or less in that order. Leverage/Supernatural crossover, set pre-series for both shows.
A/N: So, a couple of years ago I wrote this fic. And when I finally decided to write a prequel, it somehow turned into 3K of porn. IDEK.
They’re tracking a pack of chupacabras over the Mexico border the first time Dean meets him. Nasty sons of bitches tore four or five hikers to pieces already--and that’s just the ones they found--and Dad has the kind of dangerous quiet he always gets after they stop up at Stanford. Dean’s been avoiding him, as much as he can when they’re living motel room to motel room and two cars behind each other. He kind of wants to suggest splitting up, but there’s no real reason to, and Dad will calm down eventually. He always does.
They’re in Baja California, and it’s August. That right there would be enough to put him in a bad mood, even without the rest of it.
“West,” Dad grunts, and Dean shades his eyes to squint toward the setting sun. The ground is bare rock, mostly, and they’ve been losing the trail all day, but the monsters’ claws make a distinctive impression. Makes things a little easier, anyway.
There’s a set of boot-prints there, too, underneath the claw-tracks. If they’re lucky, the trail’s old, but it hasn’t been a lucky kind of day.
Dean swears and breaks into a jog, Dad two steps behind him. The sun’s beating down on his shoulders, his shirt soaked through and the grip of his gun sticky against the palm of his hand. He can feel the impact of every step on the hard-packed dirt, and Dad’s measured breathing behind him as they eat up the ground. Normally, he’d get on Dad’s case about getting old and slow, but he can’t find the energy. His joints feel stiff and swollen from the heat, and all he wants to do is kill the fucking things before they eat somebody else, and get the hell back to the motel. There’s air-conditioning there. And beer.
He hears the shrill yipping before the monsters are in sight, and the sound of it makes him swear again. Sounds like a damn chorus of the things. Fifteen at least, way more than he thought.
He’s shooting as soon as they’re in sight, skinny scaly bodies falling under the hail of iron shot. Dad’s .45 thunders to the right of him, and he ejects the clip, slaps a new one in, and keeps firing, allowing his momentum to carry him forward. The chupacabras are at the base of a rocky cliff, and the ones that aren’t dead or dying are still throwing themselves at it. There’s a stocky figure perched on a ledge about halfway up, swinging what looks like a tree branch with surprising accuracy and force. As Dean watches, one of the skinnier monsters launches itself at the guy’s foot, and he sends it flying with a single blow. It falls with a scream, and Dean unloads his last three rounds into its skull.
Dad fires again, once, and there’s a resounding silence.
Dean steps forward, kicking one of the bodies out of the way, and squints up at the guy on the ledge. “You okay, man? Gonna puke, or anything?”
The guy looks mildly unsettled, but there isn’t that look of freaked-out wall-eyed panic that Dean’s used to seeing on civilians after a close encounter. He swings off the ledge he’s standing on to land lightly on the balls of his toes. “I’m fine,” he says, low voice raspy and suspicious. “Who the hell are you?”
Hunter, Dean thinks, but that isn’t right. A hunter would know what to do about chupacabras, especially one hanging around this area. He’s a couple of inches shorter than Dean, powerfully built, with shaggy hair and a week’s growth of beard. His eyes are startlingly blue in his tanned face.
Dean makes a split-second decision, based on an instinct he can’t quite put his finger on. “I’m Dean Winchester.” Hell, it’s Mexico. Nobody here knows their names. “This is my dad, John.”
He can see Dad go still out of the corner of his eye, but he avoids the glare that he knows is directed his way. Puts his gun away, wipes his hand off on the front of his jeans and holds it out.
After a moment, the guy takes it. His expression is still a long way off from friendly, but there’s a glimmer of a smile there. His grip is strong. “Name’s Eliot. Guess I owe you a beer.”
***
Dad begs off the beer, and gives Dean a look that says he hasn’t heard the last of this. Dean doesn’t really care at the moment. There’s a little cantina down the street from the motel. It’s smoky and dim and he can see at least three illegal deals going down in dark corners; the only difference between this and the pool halls he hangs around back in the States is the language in the background.
His Spanish is plenty good enough to order a beer, and Eliot slides a couple of crumpled bills across the counter to pay. “So, what brings you down to Mexico?”
“Oh, you know.” Dean smiles and drinks. “Seeing the sights. You?”
Eliot’s grin creases the corners of his eyes, and Dean still can’t get a read on him. Military, maybe; definitely not a hunter, even though that’s still his first instinct. “I’m here on business.”
He picks up his beer, sips it, and sets it back down, turns so that their knees are bumping in the space between their barstools. Neither of them moves away. Dean is pretty sure they’re flirting, here. He’s better at it with women--has more practice--but a guy makes for a nice change of pace. Especially the kind of guy who doesn’t flip out over almost getting eaten by a pack of venomous half-snake, half-dog hybrids. “Yeah? What kind of business?”
“The kind with a confidentiality contract,” Eliot says, but he’s still smiling, and Dean smiles back.
***
Talking turns to pool, three games, and for the first time in a long time Dean actually loses when he’s not trying to hustle somebody. Eliot moves like his body’s a weapon, moves like no kind of civilian Dean’s ever met, and there are knife scars on his arms when he pushes up his sleeves, leans against the edge of the table, hair in his eyes and laughter creasing his face.
It’s a slow burn building under his skin, easy and warm, and when they’re laughing outside the bar and Eliot pulls him in for a kiss, Dean goes easily. It’s rough in a way this almost never is with women, strong hands on either side of his face and a hard thigh pushing between his legs, a warm, solid body pushed up against him, but it all feels damn good and several minutes pass before it occurs to Dean that the alley of some dive bar in Mexico might not actually be the best place to be doing this. He pulls away, reluctantly, and licks his lips. “I’m, uh, sharing a room, but--”
“I got a place,” Eliot says, eyes glinting with amusement. He tilts his head toward the street. “Close by, if you feel like walking.”
“I do love a walk in the moonlight,” Dean says, grinning, and he’s rewarded with a sharp bark of laughter and a shove in the direction of the sidewalk.
***
The smog is bad enough that the moon is only visible as a hazy crescent above the hills. It’s waxing gibbous, still a few days before they’d have to worry about werewolves, if they even have werewolves around here. Dad would know.
Dad’s gonna tear him a new one when he gets back to the motel, but he doesn’t really feel like thinking about that now. He glances over at Eliot, who is walking with purpose, a tense awareness to him that Dean knows, down to his bones. “You never did ask about those nasties we wasted.”
“Fast, mean, venomous,” Eliot says succinctly. When Dean raises his eyebrows, he adds, “It’s the fangs. Escaped genetic experiment, freak of nature, either way I don’t really need to know anything more.”
“Simple as that?”
“I like to keep things simple,” Eliot says, smiles, nods toward the nondescript stucco building they’re standing outside of. It’s nicer than the one he’s staying at with Dad--almost anything would be--but nothing too fancy. Nothing that might attract attention. “This is it.”
“Lead the way,” Dean says, and Eliot does.
They’re kissing again as soon as the door is closed behind them, the cool room swathed in shadows and smelling faintly of dust. Eliot’s close and warm and Dean can smell the sweat on his skin, the beer and cigarette residue of the cantina they were just at. His hands are quick and sure even in the dark, and Dean’s shirt dragged up and over his head almost before he knows what’s going on. He steps back just long enough to yank it the rest of the way off. Eliot’s button-down takes a little bit longer, but then that’s gone too and they’re skin-to-skin and kissing hard enough to bruise.
Dean gets his hands between them to start working on Eliot’s belt buckle, and Eliot takes advantage of his distraction to pull him away from the door and back him farther into the room. “I do have a bed,” he murmurs, and then proves it by tripping Dean neatly and tumbling him backward onto a springy mattress.
“I am totally in favor of beds,” Dean says honestly, lifting his hips to kick his jeans off.
“Your dirty talk could use some work,” Eliot tells him, but seeing as he’s shoving his own jeans down and his cock is hot and insistent against Dean’s thigh, Dean decides not to take that too personally.
“Hey, feel free to shut me up any time you--”
A quick, hard kiss on the mouth stops him talking, and then there are calloused hands on his hips, shoving him up until his shoulders meets the headboard. Eliot crawls up his body, bites the side of his neck, a sharp sting just on the sweet side of pain. “You pull my hair and you’ll be sorry,” he murmurs, voice gone low and rough in a way that puts a warm shiver down Dean’s spine, and then he slides back down.
He doesn’t bother with any of the preliminaries, just shoves Dean’s legs apart, palms his cock in one broad hand, and goes to town. His mouth is hot and wet and his hand is moving just the right speed and it feels like no time at all before Dean’s cursing breathlessly, hands fisted in the sheets, too far gone to even care what he looks like.
He doesn’t even register the sound of a bottle opening and then snapping shut, but then there’s a slick finger sliding back behind his balls and pushing in, and he makes an embarrassing whine in the back of his throat. Eliot pulls off and breathes a laugh into his hip. “You’re easy.”
“Shut up,” Dean gasps without rancor. And then, “Fuck, do that again.”
“Really, really easy,” Eliot says roughly, and adds another finger, stretching him open nice and slow. It’s been a long time since he’s done this, longer since he’s enjoyed it, and if he remembered it being this good he might have been a little more democratic in his sexual tastes over the past few years.
“I hope you have condoms,” he says some indeterminate time later. If the answer is no, he really thinks he might cry, or something.
“Drawer next to your head.”
He gets the drawer open, rummages through it one-handed until his fingers close around a little foil-wrapped package, which he tosses toward the other side of the bed. Eliot plucks it out of the air without looking, and Dean does not find that at all hot.
“How do you want me?” he asks, and Eliot pauses rolling the condom on. It’s too dark in here to make out any kind of detail, but there’s plenty enough light to see him swallow convulsively, to see the way his hand goes the base of his cock.
“Just like that is good,” he says after a long pause. His eyes are dark and glittering, and Dean grins and stretches out, letting him look. This, he knows he’s good at.
In the quiet moonlight, Eliot’s body is compact and solidly muscular, as scarred as Dean’s own. He reaches out without thinking to trace the outline of what looks like shrapnel burns across the curve of one hip, and maybe that’s what makes Eliot lean down, bracing himself with a hand on either side of the pillow, to kiss him on the mouth. It’s slow and deep and almost sweet, and Eliot is apparently way more coordinated than Dean would have given him credit for, because he manages to push Dean’s knees apart and maneuver himself into place without ever breaking away from the kiss. It’s a long, hot slide when he pushes in, and Dean breathes in sharply against his mouth.
“You okay?” Eliot murmurs.
“Yeah, I’m just--fuck. Give me a second.” It’s almost too much, and he has to bite his lip and breathe through it. “Okay. I’m okay.”
Eliot rolls his hips forward, still braced above him, skin sheened with sweat in the dim light. The pace he sets is slow enough to be maddening, and it isn’t long before Dean swears raggedly, reaches out with his free hand to grab at Eliot’s hip again and yank him in. “Jesus Christ, would you just fuck me already?”
“Thought that’s what I was doing,” Eliot says hoarsely against his ear, breathless and amused, and then his hands are under Dean’s hips, lifting, and when he thrusts back in the new angle is fucking perfect. Dean arches against the sheets, fingers digging into the warm curve of Eliot’s hipbones, and he barely even needs the rough curl of fingers around his cock to make him come.
He’s still coming down from it, starry lights behind his eyelids and bones gone warm and liquid, when Eliot speeds up, driving into him with fast, erratic strokes, and then goes abruptly still, cock pulsing and breath caught tight in his throat.
He collapses on top of Dean for a long moment, warm, loose-muscled and heavy, then pushes up and pulls out, laughing breathlessly when Dean winces. “Sorry.”
“Don’t worry about it,” Dean says, and means it. He’s had worse, and generally without orgasms to ease things along. The bed creaks on old springs as Eliot stands up, and it occurs to him, belatedly, how much noise they must have been making this whole time. He didn’t really notice, but then, he was a little bit distracted. “Jesus. I hope your neighbors are deaf.”
Eliot laughs again, genuine and infectious, as he crosses the room. “I’m leaving the country tomorrow, anyway,” he says, flicking the bathroom light on. The warm yellow glow spills across the worn carpet, illuminating a pair of boots lined up beside a neatly packed bag in the closet by the door. Army-issue, not Marine, by the looks of it, but definitely military. Doesn’t necessarily mean anything, surplus duffels are a dime a dozen, cheap and reasonably durable for life on the road, but Dean would bet every last cent to his name--a little over $26 at last count--that it’s the real deal.
Not that it matters. Eliot’s moving on tomorrow, and after what happened with Cassie, Dean damn well knows better than to get over-involved in his hookups.
He manages to get himself sitting up, the movement awaking a slow, deep ache that isn’t exactly unpleasant, by the time Eliot comes back out of the bathroom. He’s all solid muscle and working-man’s tan, unselfconsciously naked, and Dean tilts his head to appreciate the view as he leans over to dig through his duffel.
“See anything you like?” Eliot asks, coming up with a pair of clean boxers.
Dean smiles. “Just enjoying the scenery.”
“You gonna stick around? Bed’s big enough for two, and I might cook you breakfast if you ask real nice.”
Dean looks away. The bed is big enough, and it looks a damn sight more comfortable than the lumpy, mildewed mattress in the room he’s been sharing with Dad. Breakfast, a decent bed, the possibility of more sex. It sounds really damn good, but Dad’s still in one of his moods, which means they’re rolling out tonight for the next job. He’s gonna be pissed enough as it is. “Wish I could, but you know how it goes.”
“Duty calls,” Eliot says agreeably. “I do know how that goes.”
His tone is wry, and it surprises a smile out of Dean as he pushes himself off the bed and starts looking for his clothing. His jeans are crumpled in a corner, his boxers tangled in one leg. He uses them to clean himself off before pulling his jeans on, wads them up and shoves them in his pocket. His shirt is on the carpet by the door. Eliot tosses it over wordlessly, and he pulls it on. This is always the weird part of a hookup, the part Dean has never, for all his vast and varied experience, gotten quite used to. It’s just always awkward, even if Eliot isn’t likely to have a large and angry boyfriend come crashing through the door, or start asking for his phone number and home address, or anything like that.
He pushes his fingers through his hair, fully aware that it probably makes him look like a disgruntled hedgehog, and looks up. Eliot is still by the door, still watching him, still smiling like he knows exactly what’s going through Dean’s head.
He looks away, self-conscious. Usually, he’s better at the conning and charming bit. He’s not used to someone looking at him like they know him, which is exactly what Eliot is doing. “Hey, you got a pen and paper around here somewhere?”
“Nightstand by the phone,” Eliot says, and doesn’t ask what for. Dean scribbles down his cell number on the paper, which is slightly dusty and has a crude, colorful sombrero at the top of it, and crosses the room to where Eliot is standing.
“Here,” he says, holding it out. “In case you ever, you know, run across any escaped genetic experiments again.”
Eliot takes the paper, grins. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
“I should get going.”
“Sure,” Eliot says, and he’s reaching up while Dean leans down, easy and slow, for a kiss. He’s still smiling when they break apart, pats Dean’s chest with one broad palm. Dean can feel the heat of it through his thin t-shirt, even after he drops his hand and moves away from the door. “I’ll see you around, Dean.”
Dean kisses him again, and then, before he can change his mind and do something stupid, pulls open the door and ducks out into the rapidly cooling night.
He’s three blocks away when he finally notices the small, stiff shape in his pocket, and he knows what it is even before he pulls it out. Eliot must have slipped it in at some point. Man ain't a half-bad pickpocket, although to be fair Dean was distracted at the time.
It’s a plain white business card, black text, blocky font. Eliot Spencer. Retrieval Specialist. Underneath that, a number.
Dean tucks the card back into his pocket, and as he turns down the next street and breaks into a jog, he finds himself grinning.
Pairing: Dean/Eliot
Warnings/Spoilers: none
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Dean and Eliot meet, fight monsters, and fuck, more or less in that order. Leverage/Supernatural crossover, set pre-series for both shows.
A/N: So, a couple of years ago I wrote this fic. And when I finally decided to write a prequel, it somehow turned into 3K of porn. IDEK.
They’re tracking a pack of chupacabras over the Mexico border the first time Dean meets him. Nasty sons of bitches tore four or five hikers to pieces already--and that’s just the ones they found--and Dad has the kind of dangerous quiet he always gets after they stop up at Stanford. Dean’s been avoiding him, as much as he can when they’re living motel room to motel room and two cars behind each other. He kind of wants to suggest splitting up, but there’s no real reason to, and Dad will calm down eventually. He always does.
They’re in Baja California, and it’s August. That right there would be enough to put him in a bad mood, even without the rest of it.
“West,” Dad grunts, and Dean shades his eyes to squint toward the setting sun. The ground is bare rock, mostly, and they’ve been losing the trail all day, but the monsters’ claws make a distinctive impression. Makes things a little easier, anyway.
There’s a set of boot-prints there, too, underneath the claw-tracks. If they’re lucky, the trail’s old, but it hasn’t been a lucky kind of day.
Dean swears and breaks into a jog, Dad two steps behind him. The sun’s beating down on his shoulders, his shirt soaked through and the grip of his gun sticky against the palm of his hand. He can feel the impact of every step on the hard-packed dirt, and Dad’s measured breathing behind him as they eat up the ground. Normally, he’d get on Dad’s case about getting old and slow, but he can’t find the energy. His joints feel stiff and swollen from the heat, and all he wants to do is kill the fucking things before they eat somebody else, and get the hell back to the motel. There’s air-conditioning there. And beer.
He hears the shrill yipping before the monsters are in sight, and the sound of it makes him swear again. Sounds like a damn chorus of the things. Fifteen at least, way more than he thought.
He’s shooting as soon as they’re in sight, skinny scaly bodies falling under the hail of iron shot. Dad’s .45 thunders to the right of him, and he ejects the clip, slaps a new one in, and keeps firing, allowing his momentum to carry him forward. The chupacabras are at the base of a rocky cliff, and the ones that aren’t dead or dying are still throwing themselves at it. There’s a stocky figure perched on a ledge about halfway up, swinging what looks like a tree branch with surprising accuracy and force. As Dean watches, one of the skinnier monsters launches itself at the guy’s foot, and he sends it flying with a single blow. It falls with a scream, and Dean unloads his last three rounds into its skull.
Dad fires again, once, and there’s a resounding silence.
Dean steps forward, kicking one of the bodies out of the way, and squints up at the guy on the ledge. “You okay, man? Gonna puke, or anything?”
The guy looks mildly unsettled, but there isn’t that look of freaked-out wall-eyed panic that Dean’s used to seeing on civilians after a close encounter. He swings off the ledge he’s standing on to land lightly on the balls of his toes. “I’m fine,” he says, low voice raspy and suspicious. “Who the hell are you?”
Hunter, Dean thinks, but that isn’t right. A hunter would know what to do about chupacabras, especially one hanging around this area. He’s a couple of inches shorter than Dean, powerfully built, with shaggy hair and a week’s growth of beard. His eyes are startlingly blue in his tanned face.
Dean makes a split-second decision, based on an instinct he can’t quite put his finger on. “I’m Dean Winchester.” Hell, it’s Mexico. Nobody here knows their names. “This is my dad, John.”
He can see Dad go still out of the corner of his eye, but he avoids the glare that he knows is directed his way. Puts his gun away, wipes his hand off on the front of his jeans and holds it out.
After a moment, the guy takes it. His expression is still a long way off from friendly, but there’s a glimmer of a smile there. His grip is strong. “Name’s Eliot. Guess I owe you a beer.”
***
Dad begs off the beer, and gives Dean a look that says he hasn’t heard the last of this. Dean doesn’t really care at the moment. There’s a little cantina down the street from the motel. It’s smoky and dim and he can see at least three illegal deals going down in dark corners; the only difference between this and the pool halls he hangs around back in the States is the language in the background.
His Spanish is plenty good enough to order a beer, and Eliot slides a couple of crumpled bills across the counter to pay. “So, what brings you down to Mexico?”
“Oh, you know.” Dean smiles and drinks. “Seeing the sights. You?”
Eliot’s grin creases the corners of his eyes, and Dean still can’t get a read on him. Military, maybe; definitely not a hunter, even though that’s still his first instinct. “I’m here on business.”
He picks up his beer, sips it, and sets it back down, turns so that their knees are bumping in the space between their barstools. Neither of them moves away. Dean is pretty sure they’re flirting, here. He’s better at it with women--has more practice--but a guy makes for a nice change of pace. Especially the kind of guy who doesn’t flip out over almost getting eaten by a pack of venomous half-snake, half-dog hybrids. “Yeah? What kind of business?”
“The kind with a confidentiality contract,” Eliot says, but he’s still smiling, and Dean smiles back.
***
Talking turns to pool, three games, and for the first time in a long time Dean actually loses when he’s not trying to hustle somebody. Eliot moves like his body’s a weapon, moves like no kind of civilian Dean’s ever met, and there are knife scars on his arms when he pushes up his sleeves, leans against the edge of the table, hair in his eyes and laughter creasing his face.
It’s a slow burn building under his skin, easy and warm, and when they’re laughing outside the bar and Eliot pulls him in for a kiss, Dean goes easily. It’s rough in a way this almost never is with women, strong hands on either side of his face and a hard thigh pushing between his legs, a warm, solid body pushed up against him, but it all feels damn good and several minutes pass before it occurs to Dean that the alley of some dive bar in Mexico might not actually be the best place to be doing this. He pulls away, reluctantly, and licks his lips. “I’m, uh, sharing a room, but--”
“I got a place,” Eliot says, eyes glinting with amusement. He tilts his head toward the street. “Close by, if you feel like walking.”
“I do love a walk in the moonlight,” Dean says, grinning, and he’s rewarded with a sharp bark of laughter and a shove in the direction of the sidewalk.
***
The smog is bad enough that the moon is only visible as a hazy crescent above the hills. It’s waxing gibbous, still a few days before they’d have to worry about werewolves, if they even have werewolves around here. Dad would know.
Dad’s gonna tear him a new one when he gets back to the motel, but he doesn’t really feel like thinking about that now. He glances over at Eliot, who is walking with purpose, a tense awareness to him that Dean knows, down to his bones. “You never did ask about those nasties we wasted.”
“Fast, mean, venomous,” Eliot says succinctly. When Dean raises his eyebrows, he adds, “It’s the fangs. Escaped genetic experiment, freak of nature, either way I don’t really need to know anything more.”
“Simple as that?”
“I like to keep things simple,” Eliot says, smiles, nods toward the nondescript stucco building they’re standing outside of. It’s nicer than the one he’s staying at with Dad--almost anything would be--but nothing too fancy. Nothing that might attract attention. “This is it.”
“Lead the way,” Dean says, and Eliot does.
They’re kissing again as soon as the door is closed behind them, the cool room swathed in shadows and smelling faintly of dust. Eliot’s close and warm and Dean can smell the sweat on his skin, the beer and cigarette residue of the cantina they were just at. His hands are quick and sure even in the dark, and Dean’s shirt dragged up and over his head almost before he knows what’s going on. He steps back just long enough to yank it the rest of the way off. Eliot’s button-down takes a little bit longer, but then that’s gone too and they’re skin-to-skin and kissing hard enough to bruise.
Dean gets his hands between them to start working on Eliot’s belt buckle, and Eliot takes advantage of his distraction to pull him away from the door and back him farther into the room. “I do have a bed,” he murmurs, and then proves it by tripping Dean neatly and tumbling him backward onto a springy mattress.
“I am totally in favor of beds,” Dean says honestly, lifting his hips to kick his jeans off.
“Your dirty talk could use some work,” Eliot tells him, but seeing as he’s shoving his own jeans down and his cock is hot and insistent against Dean’s thigh, Dean decides not to take that too personally.
“Hey, feel free to shut me up any time you--”
A quick, hard kiss on the mouth stops him talking, and then there are calloused hands on his hips, shoving him up until his shoulders meets the headboard. Eliot crawls up his body, bites the side of his neck, a sharp sting just on the sweet side of pain. “You pull my hair and you’ll be sorry,” he murmurs, voice gone low and rough in a way that puts a warm shiver down Dean’s spine, and then he slides back down.
He doesn’t bother with any of the preliminaries, just shoves Dean’s legs apart, palms his cock in one broad hand, and goes to town. His mouth is hot and wet and his hand is moving just the right speed and it feels like no time at all before Dean’s cursing breathlessly, hands fisted in the sheets, too far gone to even care what he looks like.
He doesn’t even register the sound of a bottle opening and then snapping shut, but then there’s a slick finger sliding back behind his balls and pushing in, and he makes an embarrassing whine in the back of his throat. Eliot pulls off and breathes a laugh into his hip. “You’re easy.”
“Shut up,” Dean gasps without rancor. And then, “Fuck, do that again.”
“Really, really easy,” Eliot says roughly, and adds another finger, stretching him open nice and slow. It’s been a long time since he’s done this, longer since he’s enjoyed it, and if he remembered it being this good he might have been a little more democratic in his sexual tastes over the past few years.
“I hope you have condoms,” he says some indeterminate time later. If the answer is no, he really thinks he might cry, or something.
“Drawer next to your head.”
He gets the drawer open, rummages through it one-handed until his fingers close around a little foil-wrapped package, which he tosses toward the other side of the bed. Eliot plucks it out of the air without looking, and Dean does not find that at all hot.
“How do you want me?” he asks, and Eliot pauses rolling the condom on. It’s too dark in here to make out any kind of detail, but there’s plenty enough light to see him swallow convulsively, to see the way his hand goes the base of his cock.
“Just like that is good,” he says after a long pause. His eyes are dark and glittering, and Dean grins and stretches out, letting him look. This, he knows he’s good at.
In the quiet moonlight, Eliot’s body is compact and solidly muscular, as scarred as Dean’s own. He reaches out without thinking to trace the outline of what looks like shrapnel burns across the curve of one hip, and maybe that’s what makes Eliot lean down, bracing himself with a hand on either side of the pillow, to kiss him on the mouth. It’s slow and deep and almost sweet, and Eliot is apparently way more coordinated than Dean would have given him credit for, because he manages to push Dean’s knees apart and maneuver himself into place without ever breaking away from the kiss. It’s a long, hot slide when he pushes in, and Dean breathes in sharply against his mouth.
“You okay?” Eliot murmurs.
“Yeah, I’m just--fuck. Give me a second.” It’s almost too much, and he has to bite his lip and breathe through it. “Okay. I’m okay.”
Eliot rolls his hips forward, still braced above him, skin sheened with sweat in the dim light. The pace he sets is slow enough to be maddening, and it isn’t long before Dean swears raggedly, reaches out with his free hand to grab at Eliot’s hip again and yank him in. “Jesus Christ, would you just fuck me already?”
“Thought that’s what I was doing,” Eliot says hoarsely against his ear, breathless and amused, and then his hands are under Dean’s hips, lifting, and when he thrusts back in the new angle is fucking perfect. Dean arches against the sheets, fingers digging into the warm curve of Eliot’s hipbones, and he barely even needs the rough curl of fingers around his cock to make him come.
He’s still coming down from it, starry lights behind his eyelids and bones gone warm and liquid, when Eliot speeds up, driving into him with fast, erratic strokes, and then goes abruptly still, cock pulsing and breath caught tight in his throat.
He collapses on top of Dean for a long moment, warm, loose-muscled and heavy, then pushes up and pulls out, laughing breathlessly when Dean winces. “Sorry.”
“Don’t worry about it,” Dean says, and means it. He’s had worse, and generally without orgasms to ease things along. The bed creaks on old springs as Eliot stands up, and it occurs to him, belatedly, how much noise they must have been making this whole time. He didn’t really notice, but then, he was a little bit distracted. “Jesus. I hope your neighbors are deaf.”
Eliot laughs again, genuine and infectious, as he crosses the room. “I’m leaving the country tomorrow, anyway,” he says, flicking the bathroom light on. The warm yellow glow spills across the worn carpet, illuminating a pair of boots lined up beside a neatly packed bag in the closet by the door. Army-issue, not Marine, by the looks of it, but definitely military. Doesn’t necessarily mean anything, surplus duffels are a dime a dozen, cheap and reasonably durable for life on the road, but Dean would bet every last cent to his name--a little over $26 at last count--that it’s the real deal.
Not that it matters. Eliot’s moving on tomorrow, and after what happened with Cassie, Dean damn well knows better than to get over-involved in his hookups.
He manages to get himself sitting up, the movement awaking a slow, deep ache that isn’t exactly unpleasant, by the time Eliot comes back out of the bathroom. He’s all solid muscle and working-man’s tan, unselfconsciously naked, and Dean tilts his head to appreciate the view as he leans over to dig through his duffel.
“See anything you like?” Eliot asks, coming up with a pair of clean boxers.
Dean smiles. “Just enjoying the scenery.”
“You gonna stick around? Bed’s big enough for two, and I might cook you breakfast if you ask real nice.”
Dean looks away. The bed is big enough, and it looks a damn sight more comfortable than the lumpy, mildewed mattress in the room he’s been sharing with Dad. Breakfast, a decent bed, the possibility of more sex. It sounds really damn good, but Dad’s still in one of his moods, which means they’re rolling out tonight for the next job. He’s gonna be pissed enough as it is. “Wish I could, but you know how it goes.”
“Duty calls,” Eliot says agreeably. “I do know how that goes.”
His tone is wry, and it surprises a smile out of Dean as he pushes himself off the bed and starts looking for his clothing. His jeans are crumpled in a corner, his boxers tangled in one leg. He uses them to clean himself off before pulling his jeans on, wads them up and shoves them in his pocket. His shirt is on the carpet by the door. Eliot tosses it over wordlessly, and he pulls it on. This is always the weird part of a hookup, the part Dean has never, for all his vast and varied experience, gotten quite used to. It’s just always awkward, even if Eliot isn’t likely to have a large and angry boyfriend come crashing through the door, or start asking for his phone number and home address, or anything like that.
He pushes his fingers through his hair, fully aware that it probably makes him look like a disgruntled hedgehog, and looks up. Eliot is still by the door, still watching him, still smiling like he knows exactly what’s going through Dean’s head.
He looks away, self-conscious. Usually, he’s better at the conning and charming bit. He’s not used to someone looking at him like they know him, which is exactly what Eliot is doing. “Hey, you got a pen and paper around here somewhere?”
“Nightstand by the phone,” Eliot says, and doesn’t ask what for. Dean scribbles down his cell number on the paper, which is slightly dusty and has a crude, colorful sombrero at the top of it, and crosses the room to where Eliot is standing.
“Here,” he says, holding it out. “In case you ever, you know, run across any escaped genetic experiments again.”
Eliot takes the paper, grins. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
“I should get going.”
“Sure,” Eliot says, and he’s reaching up while Dean leans down, easy and slow, for a kiss. He’s still smiling when they break apart, pats Dean’s chest with one broad palm. Dean can feel the heat of it through his thin t-shirt, even after he drops his hand and moves away from the door. “I’ll see you around, Dean.”
Dean kisses him again, and then, before he can change his mind and do something stupid, pulls open the door and ducks out into the rapidly cooling night.
He’s three blocks away when he finally notices the small, stiff shape in his pocket, and he knows what it is even before he pulls it out. Eliot must have slipped it in at some point. Man ain't a half-bad pickpocket, although to be fair Dean was distracted at the time.
It’s a plain white business card, black text, blocky font. Eliot Spencer. Retrieval Specialist. Underneath that, a number.
Dean tucks the card back into his pocket, and as he turns down the next street and breaks into a jog, he finds himself grinning.