FIC, A God in Wrath, NC-17
Title: A God in Wrath
Rating: NC-17
Pairings: OMC/Dean, Sam/Dean overtones
Spoilers: Spoilers for the beginning of 2x22 (All Hell Breaks Loose Part 2) and the end of 3x07 (Fresh Blood). Tiny implied spoiler for the end of 3x10 (Dream a Little Dream of Me).
Summary: Dean picks up a guy and things go horribly wrong.
Word count: 1,384 words
Warnings: Non-con, violence, and bad language.
Disclaimer: I don’t own Supernatural.
A GOD IN WRATH
WAS BEATING A MAN;
HE CUFFED HIM LOUDLY
WITH THUNDEROUS BLOWS
THAT RANG AND ROLLED OVER THE EARTH.
ALL PEOPLE CAME RUNNING.
THE MAN SCREAMED AND STRUGGLED,
AND BIT MADLY AT THE FEET OF THE GOD.
THE PEOPLE CRIED,
"AH, WHAT A WICKED MAN!"
AND-
"AH, WHAT A REDOUBTABLE GOD!"
--Stephen Crane, XIX of The Black Riders
Dean likes to think of himself as equal-opportunity: everyone gets a ride.
Don’t get me wrong, he loves pussy-fuck, does he love pussy (stickywet little cunt with panties pushed to the side, the hothot grip of it fluttering around his cock; shit yeah)-and he’s all about boobs (what he really likes is a nice round handful, perky pink tits pressed against his palm, his tongue), but a man’s got to have some variety sometimes, and, hell, being okay with fucking a guy gives him twice the chances of getting laid (not that that’s ever been a problem for him, but Dean likes to know his options aren’t limited).
The way Dean sees it, a hot piece of ass is a hot piece of ass, and he, for one, isn’t going stress over whether it’s connected to a girl or a guy or whatever.
Another compelling argument for guys is that Dean really, really likes getting fucked.
I mean, it’s not like Dean’s gonna ask for that shit from a girl, or anything (well, except that one chick in Mississippi-fuckin’ Sheila or Stacy or some shit like that-and that doesn’t really count, anyway, ’cause that bitch was crazy. Tied him up and screwed him with a ten-inch strap-on for hours and hours, made him beg, and he’d had to tell Dad he couldn’t meet him ’cause he was still laid up from a hunt).
The only thing that’s not-so-great about having sex with guys-well, besides trying to hook up with them in the types of places Dean tends to frequent-the only thing Dean doesn’t much care for is how hard it is to do when Sam is around.
It’s not that he doesn’t like having Sam with him (he loves being on the road with Sam again, God, you couldn’t even imagine-), but, he, well. He hadn’t really ever gotten around to telling Sam or Dad about how he sometimes plays for the other team, so he can’t really…y’know. He can’t pick up guys with Sam there.
He’s mostly okay with it. He sleeps with enough girls to stay pretty such satisfied, but sometimes he just wants. more.
Tonight Dean’s got an itch he wants scratched something fierce, and the guy he’s been sharking for the past few games looks like just the one to give him some relief (nice smile, six-foot tall and then some, but Dean doesn’t think too hard about that).
Dean wins the last game, sinks the eight ball in the corner pocket as smooth and easy as silk, and the guy presses a few crumpled twenties into Dean’s palm and keeps his hand out just a few seconds too long.
“You wanna get out of here?” he says, and Dean looks over at Sam (his head’s stuck in a book; Dean doesn’t stop him from looking for ways out of the deal, anymore). Surely he won’t notice if Dean’s gone ten, twenty minutes in the alley behind the bar.
“Let’s go out back,” says Dean. “I don’t have very long.”
The guy is on him just as soon as the door closes behind them, manhandling Dean up against the back wall of the bar and going for Dean’s belt.
“Your boyfriend gonna get jealous?” he asks, working open the buckle; unzippering Dean’s fly.
“What boyfriend?” says Dean, squirming when the back of the guy’s hand rubs up against his cock through his underwear.
“Big guy in the corner?” he says, yanking down Dean’s boxers. “Messy hair, young?”
“Not my-” says Dean, and groans when the guy starts jacking at his cock. “He’s not my boyfriend.”
“He know that?”
“Just-” says Dean, grabbing the guy’s belt, “just fuck me already!”
Between them they muster up a condom and a tiny packet of lube (Dean’s just glad the guy had some with him, because no fucking way was he gonna go through this dry. There’s not really enough to make things comfortable, but by that point Dean’s so fucking horny he doesn’t even care).
The guy gets the condom on and works Dean over with one slick finger-two-and then slides right on in, balls bumping up against Dean’s perineum.
It’s been a while since Dean’s done this (not since that time in Kentucky, so, what, a year? A year and a half?) and it hurts, the full deep sting of it too painful, too abrupt.
Dean says, “Fuck,” and squirms around some, tries to get used to it, but the guy isn’t giving him any time, he’s going at it and it’s too rough, it’s too fuckin’ much.
“Hey-” says Dean, “hey, shit, hey, take it easy, man, I can’t-”
But the guy only shoves Dean forward so his chest is flush against the wall (his cheek scrapes against a brick, bleeds, and, shit, how’s he gonna explain that one to Sammy?); tells him, “Shut up, bitch, shut up, shut up, take it,” and Dean is thinking that he’s-well, he’s pretty literally fucked.
Dean’s not just gonna stand there and accept that, though-he’s just gonna have to tell Sam he got into a fight (shit, man, this is nothing. You shoulda seen the other guy)-so he throws his elbow back, hard, says, “Get the fuck off me!” and tries to twist outta the guy’s grasp, but he can’t, he can’t, the fucker’s too goddamn big (Jesus Christ, Dean’s such a dumbass; shouldn’t’ve gone for someone who could overpower him), and he’s thinking, shit, shit, you sure know how to pick ’em, when the man’s heavy weight against his back-his tightbruising grip, his cock-just…disappears.
Dean’s knocked to the ground and he has a second to take in the cool air on his ass and the gravel biting into his palms (he thinks, huh?) before a shoulder bumps into him and he turns around and
OhfuckfuckFUCK he thinks, hoping he’s just imagining things, but he blinks his eyes a few times and, no, Sam’s still there, pummeling the shit out of the dude that was just fucking him.
“Sam-” he says, grabbing at the back of Sam’s shirt, and Sam shakes him off and just keeps on punching (methodical, thwapthwapthwap of his knuckles into flesh, his face frozen in a snarl), and Dean says Sam! again, and Jesus, just-no, c’mon, Sammy, let it go, c’mon man, we’ve gotta go, and Sam says, I’ll kill the sonuvabitch, I’ll kill him, I will, and the guy’s handsome face is like ground beef under Sam’s hands already, and Dean doesn’t think-Dean doesn’t think Sam’s gonna stop.
Dean says, “Chill, Sam, Sam, stop it-I wanted it, okay? Okay? C’mon, Sam, let him go, just stop this,” and he scrambles in close on his knees and pets at Sam’s face, his hair, calms Sam down a little, and it’s only when he’s in that close does he see that Sam’s eyes have gone a pure, molten yellow.
“He touched you. He’s not allowed to touch you!” says Sam-angry little-boy voice: righteous, possessive-and Dean jerks back and lands on his bare ass on the asphalt, every instinct screaming at him to get away (God, how fucked up is it that Dean’s more afraid of his baby brother than he is of the guy that was just fucking raping him?), but it’s clear that Sam isn’t himself, Sam needs him and Dean needs to keep his shit together and get them both out of there right the fuck now.
Dean scrabbles to his feet and pulls his pants up, doesn’t even bother with zippering it before he’s hauling Sam away towards the car (Dean gets the uneasy feeling that Sam only lets him; Sam could’ve stopped him, if he’d wanted to).
When Dean looks back, the guy isn’t moving. Isn’t even breathing. His face is ruined; mutilated. It looks like someone has smashed it in with rocks. (Dean is reminded, suddenly and uncomfortably, of Gordon. Of how Sam had killed him with just a piece of wire-no resistance, no hesitation at all.)
Dean gets them to the car and calls for an ambulance, and doesn’t stop driving till they’re three hundred miles and a state line away.
He doesn’t pick up any more guys, after that.
Rating: NC-17
Pairings: OMC/Dean, Sam/Dean overtones
Spoilers: Spoilers for the beginning of 2x22 (All Hell Breaks Loose Part 2) and the end of 3x07 (Fresh Blood). Tiny implied spoiler for the end of 3x10 (Dream a Little Dream of Me).
Summary: Dean picks up a guy and things go horribly wrong.
Word count: 1,384 words
Warnings: Non-con, violence, and bad language.
Disclaimer: I don’t own Supernatural.
A GOD IN WRATH
WAS BEATING A MAN;
HE CUFFED HIM LOUDLY
WITH THUNDEROUS BLOWS
THAT RANG AND ROLLED OVER THE EARTH.
ALL PEOPLE CAME RUNNING.
THE MAN SCREAMED AND STRUGGLED,
AND BIT MADLY AT THE FEET OF THE GOD.
THE PEOPLE CRIED,
"AH, WHAT A WICKED MAN!"
AND-
"AH, WHAT A REDOUBTABLE GOD!"
--Stephen Crane, XIX of The Black Riders
Dean likes to think of himself as equal-opportunity: everyone gets a ride.
Don’t get me wrong, he loves pussy-fuck, does he love pussy (stickywet little cunt with panties pushed to the side, the hothot grip of it fluttering around his cock; shit yeah)-and he’s all about boobs (what he really likes is a nice round handful, perky pink tits pressed against his palm, his tongue), but a man’s got to have some variety sometimes, and, hell, being okay with fucking a guy gives him twice the chances of getting laid (not that that’s ever been a problem for him, but Dean likes to know his options aren’t limited).
The way Dean sees it, a hot piece of ass is a hot piece of ass, and he, for one, isn’t going stress over whether it’s connected to a girl or a guy or whatever.
Another compelling argument for guys is that Dean really, really likes getting fucked.
I mean, it’s not like Dean’s gonna ask for that shit from a girl, or anything (well, except that one chick in Mississippi-fuckin’ Sheila or Stacy or some shit like that-and that doesn’t really count, anyway, ’cause that bitch was crazy. Tied him up and screwed him with a ten-inch strap-on for hours and hours, made him beg, and he’d had to tell Dad he couldn’t meet him ’cause he was still laid up from a hunt).
The only thing that’s not-so-great about having sex with guys-well, besides trying to hook up with them in the types of places Dean tends to frequent-the only thing Dean doesn’t much care for is how hard it is to do when Sam is around.
It’s not that he doesn’t like having Sam with him (he loves being on the road with Sam again, God, you couldn’t even imagine-), but, he, well. He hadn’t really ever gotten around to telling Sam or Dad about how he sometimes plays for the other team, so he can’t really…y’know. He can’t pick up guys with Sam there.
He’s mostly okay with it. He sleeps with enough girls to stay pretty such satisfied, but sometimes he just wants. more.
Tonight Dean’s got an itch he wants scratched something fierce, and the guy he’s been sharking for the past few games looks like just the one to give him some relief (nice smile, six-foot tall and then some, but Dean doesn’t think too hard about that).
Dean wins the last game, sinks the eight ball in the corner pocket as smooth and easy as silk, and the guy presses a few crumpled twenties into Dean’s palm and keeps his hand out just a few seconds too long.
“You wanna get out of here?” he says, and Dean looks over at Sam (his head’s stuck in a book; Dean doesn’t stop him from looking for ways out of the deal, anymore). Surely he won’t notice if Dean’s gone ten, twenty minutes in the alley behind the bar.
“Let’s go out back,” says Dean. “I don’t have very long.”
The guy is on him just as soon as the door closes behind them, manhandling Dean up against the back wall of the bar and going for Dean’s belt.
“Your boyfriend gonna get jealous?” he asks, working open the buckle; unzippering Dean’s fly.
“What boyfriend?” says Dean, squirming when the back of the guy’s hand rubs up against his cock through his underwear.
“Big guy in the corner?” he says, yanking down Dean’s boxers. “Messy hair, young?”
“Not my-” says Dean, and groans when the guy starts jacking at his cock. “He’s not my boyfriend.”
“He know that?”
“Just-” says Dean, grabbing the guy’s belt, “just fuck me already!”
Between them they muster up a condom and a tiny packet of lube (Dean’s just glad the guy had some with him, because no fucking way was he gonna go through this dry. There’s not really enough to make things comfortable, but by that point Dean’s so fucking horny he doesn’t even care).
The guy gets the condom on and works Dean over with one slick finger-two-and then slides right on in, balls bumping up against Dean’s perineum.
It’s been a while since Dean’s done this (not since that time in Kentucky, so, what, a year? A year and a half?) and it hurts, the full deep sting of it too painful, too abrupt.
Dean says, “Fuck,” and squirms around some, tries to get used to it, but the guy isn’t giving him any time, he’s going at it and it’s too rough, it’s too fuckin’ much.
“Hey-” says Dean, “hey, shit, hey, take it easy, man, I can’t-”
But the guy only shoves Dean forward so his chest is flush against the wall (his cheek scrapes against a brick, bleeds, and, shit, how’s he gonna explain that one to Sammy?); tells him, “Shut up, bitch, shut up, shut up, take it,” and Dean is thinking that he’s-well, he’s pretty literally fucked.
Dean’s not just gonna stand there and accept that, though-he’s just gonna have to tell Sam he got into a fight (shit, man, this is nothing. You shoulda seen the other guy)-so he throws his elbow back, hard, says, “Get the fuck off me!” and tries to twist outta the guy’s grasp, but he can’t, he can’t, the fucker’s too goddamn big (Jesus Christ, Dean’s such a dumbass; shouldn’t’ve gone for someone who could overpower him), and he’s thinking, shit, shit, you sure know how to pick ’em, when the man’s heavy weight against his back-his tightbruising grip, his cock-just…disappears.
Dean’s knocked to the ground and he has a second to take in the cool air on his ass and the gravel biting into his palms (he thinks, huh?) before a shoulder bumps into him and he turns around and
OhfuckfuckFUCK he thinks, hoping he’s just imagining things, but he blinks his eyes a few times and, no, Sam’s still there, pummeling the shit out of the dude that was just fucking him.
“Sam-” he says, grabbing at the back of Sam’s shirt, and Sam shakes him off and just keeps on punching (methodical, thwapthwapthwap of his knuckles into flesh, his face frozen in a snarl), and Dean says Sam! again, and Jesus, just-no, c’mon, Sammy, let it go, c’mon man, we’ve gotta go, and Sam says, I’ll kill the sonuvabitch, I’ll kill him, I will, and the guy’s handsome face is like ground beef under Sam’s hands already, and Dean doesn’t think-Dean doesn’t think Sam’s gonna stop.
Dean says, “Chill, Sam, Sam, stop it-I wanted it, okay? Okay? C’mon, Sam, let him go, just stop this,” and he scrambles in close on his knees and pets at Sam’s face, his hair, calms Sam down a little, and it’s only when he’s in that close does he see that Sam’s eyes have gone a pure, molten yellow.
“He touched you. He’s not allowed to touch you!” says Sam-angry little-boy voice: righteous, possessive-and Dean jerks back and lands on his bare ass on the asphalt, every instinct screaming at him to get away (God, how fucked up is it that Dean’s more afraid of his baby brother than he is of the guy that was just fucking raping him?), but it’s clear that Sam isn’t himself, Sam needs him and Dean needs to keep his shit together and get them both out of there right the fuck now.
Dean scrabbles to his feet and pulls his pants up, doesn’t even bother with zippering it before he’s hauling Sam away towards the car (Dean gets the uneasy feeling that Sam only lets him; Sam could’ve stopped him, if he’d wanted to).
When Dean looks back, the guy isn’t moving. Isn’t even breathing. His face is ruined; mutilated. It looks like someone has smashed it in with rocks. (Dean is reminded, suddenly and uncomfortably, of Gordon. Of how Sam had killed him with just a piece of wire-no resistance, no hesitation at all.)
Dean gets them to the car and calls for an ambulance, and doesn’t stop driving till they’re three hundred miles and a state line away.
He doesn’t pick up any more guys, after that.