Longview
TITLE: Longview
RATING: NC-17
WORD COUNT: ~1870
FANDOM: Supernatural
PAIRING: implied Dean/Castiel
SUMMARY: Dean's different.
WARNINGS: Spoilery for fic. ( skip) Public masturbation
NOTES: I'm kind of worried about myself that I wrote this fic. Spoilers for 7.17, "The Born-Again Identity." Title from Green Day. Any mistakes are my own.
DISCLAIMER: Not my characters.
“Gonna be a while,” Dean tells him, that odd distant look on his face. “Um, I gotta call the hospital, see if they have any updates on my brother, and - damn, you hungry? I’ll pick up something.”
“I’m not hungry,” Emmanuel responds, plainly.
Dean lets out a nervous laugh. “Really? It’s been a while, and you didn’t eat at the rest stop.”
Emmanuel shrugs. The motion’s strange to him, but most things are. “I nearly never eat,” he explains. “I simply don’t get hungry.”
With the work he does, strange things have become almost normal: no food, no sleep, diseases he doesn’t understand and people whose grief has warped them. But he has never seen anything like the way Dean looks at him, fright and some kind of heavy expectation in his eyes all at once.
“You got a weird life, man,” Dean says, eventually, but the levity in the words doesn’t reach his voice. He taps an unknown beat out against the steering wheel. Dean is a smooth driver, and it relaxes Emmanuel.
Daphne had offered to teach him how to drive, but he never got any farther than three blocks from their house until the inside of the car - well, somehow it bore down on him, until he felt like the roof would cave in unless he pressed the gas pedal harder and harder. Thankfully, Daphne never made him explain much, just smiled as she drove them back home.
Emmanuel can’t explain, then, why this is the best he’s ever felt in a car. Yes, his legs still feel cramped, and something about long car rides presses heavy on his back - it shouldn’t make sense, his back touches nothing but the seat, but if he is in a car for very long his shoulders and spine ache - but Dean is good company. He shouldn’t be. He’s so hardened, and he didn’t deny Emmanuel’s observation that he kills people.
But Dean is simply different from the other people Emmanuel has helped. His looks at Emmanuel punch into him. He looks at Emmanuel like he’s an actual miracle, something frightening but precious too. Emmanuel knows he does good work and saves people, but Dean’s glances make him feel like he matters for the first time.
Dean’s hurt, Emmanuel can tell. There’s something very important he’s not saying, but it’s not Emmanuel’s place to ask, and while Dean is talkative he isn’t exactly friendly. But Emmanuel is happy to sit next to him, listen to his stories about demon hunts, and catch the flick-over of his eyes every now and then.
They pull up in front of a 24-hour convenience store. “Just, uh, sit tight, okay?” Dean tells him, and Emmanuel means to. He’s bizarrely good at following orders; people have told him sit still before and he’s done it, sat stiffly in a chair until the rise and fall of his breath was the only movement on him. Truthfully, even that seemed unnecessary.
It’s just that Dean walks away, and Emmanuel watches. There’s a swagger to his stride, even as he’s weighed down by - whatever bothers him. Dean must be wearing three or four layers, and Emmanuel still recognizes the smooth dip of back under all of them.
Dean is a very attractive man. Emmanuel notices these things with others, certainly, but they never strike him so gut-deeply as Dean has. When they met, Emmanuel couldn’t stop staring, not even with Daphne’s hand clasped in his own.
Something about Dean is beautiful, even. That’s not an appropriate word for a man, but it applies to Dean. Dean, and his eyes, hard-set as they are most of the time, and his plush lips, the easy rise of his cheekbones. Emmanuel flicks his eyes over to him and, just for a second, it will be like catching a glimpse of someone backlit by a very bright spotlight. It pains him in that instant, but he cannot look away.
Truth be told, Emmanuel realizes, that’s why he’s felt so comfortable next to him, even though his first impression of the other man was throwing another body off his own and brandishing a blood-soaked knife. Emmanuel barely recognizes the ache behind his eyes - he has an extremely high pain threshold, and has not experienced much like it before - but that moment when it washes over to awe makes it worth it. The heated look in Dean’s gaze, however weary and beaten-down, settles a warm craving right into him, the likes of which he has never felt before.
Suddenly, it’s very hot in the car. No, not the car, within his body, something is hot and cramped and tight -
Emmanuel presses palm to thigh and calmly lets the warmth seep through. He knows what this is, even if he hasn’t experienced it very much. His plain gray pants push out obscenely in the front.
Cautiously, he looks out the front window of the car. The sun is setting in the quiet little town, and though other cars pass by occasionally, there are no people milling around. He pushes back against the seat, and carefully draws his zipper down, undoing the button at the top of his pants. When he pulls himself out, he’s already flushed nearly purple, like he’s been wanting it for hours. In a way, he has.
Emmanuel learned how to do this on his own. He’d wake up hard and aching, frustratingly unable to will it away. Until he drew his fingers over himself, testing out the slickness leaking out the head, and - oh.
Most marriages weren’t like theirs, Daphne told him later, her eyes wide. Usually, people who were married could take care of situations like this for each other. There was a great deal of affection and caring in their marriage, even love, but she knew he didn’t want her like that - and Emmanuel had wondered what she meant in those two words, until he met Dean - and she couldn’t take advantage of him.
It was another one of those conversations that left him feeling slightly disoriented, as if everyone had been presented with a manual on how to behave correctly at birth except for him. Or he had gotten the manual as well, but he lost it when he lost his memory, and there was no new one to find. He doesn’t mind it, most of the time, because he wasn’t lying when he told Dean he led a good life. A good, settled, safe life.
And then there was Dean, his confident stride and battered expression. He stabbed someone on his doorstep, shifted his jaw and changed the subject on most personal questions, and gave Emmanuel looks he had only seen on television and in movies; Emmanuel wanted so badly to ask the one question that would strip away his armor and leave him open.
Strip. The word sounds good, even in his head. Emmanuel’s familiar with his own clothes, the heavy Gap sweaters and button-ups he favors, but his fingers nearly spasm as he imagines Dean’s worn-in cotton against his own hands. He must have scars from all his nasty hunts, and Emmanuel wants to tongue them, learn the difference between those imperfections and the rest of his skin. Dean’s body would be more muscular than Emmanuel’s, maybe even across his stomach.
Emmanuel is careful to stroke himself slowly. He likes it like this, anyway, the buildup making him quiver, watching his cock slip into and out of his fist. Normally, he’d take time to explore, because he’s learning his body anew - how he likes ghosting fingers up the inside of his thigh and over his hips, and how he can’t squeeze his testicles too strongly. But he’s in a car, in public, his dick peeking out of his pants.
Dean said it could be a while, but maybe the hospital isn’t picking up. He could come out and find Emmanuel like this, back arching and hips thrust out, pushing into his own hand over and over.
And that - that only makes Emmanuel gasp and press down with his thumb on the sensitive little bundle of nerves, right under the head. Dean’s face, he can’t stop thinking about it, the way his eyes would go wide with shock at first, then start darkening with arousal. His mouth would go a little slack, until his tongue washed over his lips.
Emmanuel’s hand sparks pleasure through his own body, but the loll of Dean’s tongue would be so wet. He would know how to drag this act out until Emmanuel lost control, until he felt it was okay to lose that freakish control he always had and all but rattle out of his skin. Emmanuel stuffs his fingers into his mouth - it will be a poor substitution, but he can’t stop thinking about Dean’s bottom lip shiny with wetness - and startles at the salt taste of it.
It’s so much better, if that’s even possible, with his palm slick like this, and he has to clutch the door handle. He’s in a car, thinking about a man he barely knows, and it’s too good. His whole body races toward sweet orgasm, toes curling, neck and shoulders tight, throbbing everywhere.
He can’t imagine the picture he must make: the frantic jerks of his wrist, his mouth flopping open, his eyes squeezed shut. Better, then, that he thinks of Dean doing it, his body lean in some places and thick in others, sucking his bottom lip between his teeth, how Emmanuel’s eyes would flit desperately from his face to his cock -
Emmanuel cries out as he comes. Orgasm has never been like this before, the hot risky thrill of it all. He falls a bit in love with the hard crest of it, how the feeling arches up and up through his body from his cock and then crashes down, leaving him pleasantly worn out. For a few sweet seconds, yes, his control left him and filled the gaps with nothing but pure sensation, and it’s easy to imagine Dean’s hands holding his hips down firmly no matter how hard they tried to jerk back up.
And then embarrassment sinks in. Almost all of Emmanuel’s come landed on his hand and he’s thankfully able to find a tissue and wipe it off before he tucks himself back in, but he just masturbated in a car while thinking of a client. There’s something inside Dean that makes Emmanuel want, fiercely, but he feels foolish over it now.
That something doesn’t go away, though, or the heaviness in Emmanuel’s gut. He fervently hopes the orgasm didn’t tear all control from him.
As if distancing himself from the incident, Emmanuel abandons the inside of the car to lean against the hood. He leaves the passenger door open; it is a windy day, and by the time Dean returns the cramped vehicle will hopefully have aired out.
Emmanuel knows he shouldn’t, but as he settles back against the car, he waits for the flicker of Dean’s light against the horizon. When it happens, for only that second, Emmanuel will let himself believe the promise in Dean’s gaze: that Emmanuel is something holy and worthy, a wonder and a blessing, not a strange man with rumpled sweaters and a still-sticky hand.
RATING: NC-17
WORD COUNT: ~1870
FANDOM: Supernatural
PAIRING: implied Dean/Castiel
SUMMARY: Dean's different.
WARNINGS: Spoilery for fic. ( skip) Public masturbation
NOTES: I'm kind of worried about myself that I wrote this fic. Spoilers for 7.17, "The Born-Again Identity." Title from Green Day. Any mistakes are my own.
DISCLAIMER: Not my characters.
“Gonna be a while,” Dean tells him, that odd distant look on his face. “Um, I gotta call the hospital, see if they have any updates on my brother, and - damn, you hungry? I’ll pick up something.”
“I’m not hungry,” Emmanuel responds, plainly.
Dean lets out a nervous laugh. “Really? It’s been a while, and you didn’t eat at the rest stop.”
Emmanuel shrugs. The motion’s strange to him, but most things are. “I nearly never eat,” he explains. “I simply don’t get hungry.”
With the work he does, strange things have become almost normal: no food, no sleep, diseases he doesn’t understand and people whose grief has warped them. But he has never seen anything like the way Dean looks at him, fright and some kind of heavy expectation in his eyes all at once.
“You got a weird life, man,” Dean says, eventually, but the levity in the words doesn’t reach his voice. He taps an unknown beat out against the steering wheel. Dean is a smooth driver, and it relaxes Emmanuel.
Daphne had offered to teach him how to drive, but he never got any farther than three blocks from their house until the inside of the car - well, somehow it bore down on him, until he felt like the roof would cave in unless he pressed the gas pedal harder and harder. Thankfully, Daphne never made him explain much, just smiled as she drove them back home.
Emmanuel can’t explain, then, why this is the best he’s ever felt in a car. Yes, his legs still feel cramped, and something about long car rides presses heavy on his back - it shouldn’t make sense, his back touches nothing but the seat, but if he is in a car for very long his shoulders and spine ache - but Dean is good company. He shouldn’t be. He’s so hardened, and he didn’t deny Emmanuel’s observation that he kills people.
But Dean is simply different from the other people Emmanuel has helped. His looks at Emmanuel punch into him. He looks at Emmanuel like he’s an actual miracle, something frightening but precious too. Emmanuel knows he does good work and saves people, but Dean’s glances make him feel like he matters for the first time.
Dean’s hurt, Emmanuel can tell. There’s something very important he’s not saying, but it’s not Emmanuel’s place to ask, and while Dean is talkative he isn’t exactly friendly. But Emmanuel is happy to sit next to him, listen to his stories about demon hunts, and catch the flick-over of his eyes every now and then.
They pull up in front of a 24-hour convenience store. “Just, uh, sit tight, okay?” Dean tells him, and Emmanuel means to. He’s bizarrely good at following orders; people have told him sit still before and he’s done it, sat stiffly in a chair until the rise and fall of his breath was the only movement on him. Truthfully, even that seemed unnecessary.
It’s just that Dean walks away, and Emmanuel watches. There’s a swagger to his stride, even as he’s weighed down by - whatever bothers him. Dean must be wearing three or four layers, and Emmanuel still recognizes the smooth dip of back under all of them.
Dean is a very attractive man. Emmanuel notices these things with others, certainly, but they never strike him so gut-deeply as Dean has. When they met, Emmanuel couldn’t stop staring, not even with Daphne’s hand clasped in his own.
Something about Dean is beautiful, even. That’s not an appropriate word for a man, but it applies to Dean. Dean, and his eyes, hard-set as they are most of the time, and his plush lips, the easy rise of his cheekbones. Emmanuel flicks his eyes over to him and, just for a second, it will be like catching a glimpse of someone backlit by a very bright spotlight. It pains him in that instant, but he cannot look away.
Truth be told, Emmanuel realizes, that’s why he’s felt so comfortable next to him, even though his first impression of the other man was throwing another body off his own and brandishing a blood-soaked knife. Emmanuel barely recognizes the ache behind his eyes - he has an extremely high pain threshold, and has not experienced much like it before - but that moment when it washes over to awe makes it worth it. The heated look in Dean’s gaze, however weary and beaten-down, settles a warm craving right into him, the likes of which he has never felt before.
Suddenly, it’s very hot in the car. No, not the car, within his body, something is hot and cramped and tight -
Emmanuel presses palm to thigh and calmly lets the warmth seep through. He knows what this is, even if he hasn’t experienced it very much. His plain gray pants push out obscenely in the front.
Cautiously, he looks out the front window of the car. The sun is setting in the quiet little town, and though other cars pass by occasionally, there are no people milling around. He pushes back against the seat, and carefully draws his zipper down, undoing the button at the top of his pants. When he pulls himself out, he’s already flushed nearly purple, like he’s been wanting it for hours. In a way, he has.
Emmanuel learned how to do this on his own. He’d wake up hard and aching, frustratingly unable to will it away. Until he drew his fingers over himself, testing out the slickness leaking out the head, and - oh.
Most marriages weren’t like theirs, Daphne told him later, her eyes wide. Usually, people who were married could take care of situations like this for each other. There was a great deal of affection and caring in their marriage, even love, but she knew he didn’t want her like that - and Emmanuel had wondered what she meant in those two words, until he met Dean - and she couldn’t take advantage of him.
It was another one of those conversations that left him feeling slightly disoriented, as if everyone had been presented with a manual on how to behave correctly at birth except for him. Or he had gotten the manual as well, but he lost it when he lost his memory, and there was no new one to find. He doesn’t mind it, most of the time, because he wasn’t lying when he told Dean he led a good life. A good, settled, safe life.
And then there was Dean, his confident stride and battered expression. He stabbed someone on his doorstep, shifted his jaw and changed the subject on most personal questions, and gave Emmanuel looks he had only seen on television and in movies; Emmanuel wanted so badly to ask the one question that would strip away his armor and leave him open.
Strip. The word sounds good, even in his head. Emmanuel’s familiar with his own clothes, the heavy Gap sweaters and button-ups he favors, but his fingers nearly spasm as he imagines Dean’s worn-in cotton against his own hands. He must have scars from all his nasty hunts, and Emmanuel wants to tongue them, learn the difference between those imperfections and the rest of his skin. Dean’s body would be more muscular than Emmanuel’s, maybe even across his stomach.
Emmanuel is careful to stroke himself slowly. He likes it like this, anyway, the buildup making him quiver, watching his cock slip into and out of his fist. Normally, he’d take time to explore, because he’s learning his body anew - how he likes ghosting fingers up the inside of his thigh and over his hips, and how he can’t squeeze his testicles too strongly. But he’s in a car, in public, his dick peeking out of his pants.
Dean said it could be a while, but maybe the hospital isn’t picking up. He could come out and find Emmanuel like this, back arching and hips thrust out, pushing into his own hand over and over.
And that - that only makes Emmanuel gasp and press down with his thumb on the sensitive little bundle of nerves, right under the head. Dean’s face, he can’t stop thinking about it, the way his eyes would go wide with shock at first, then start darkening with arousal. His mouth would go a little slack, until his tongue washed over his lips.
Emmanuel’s hand sparks pleasure through his own body, but the loll of Dean’s tongue would be so wet. He would know how to drag this act out until Emmanuel lost control, until he felt it was okay to lose that freakish control he always had and all but rattle out of his skin. Emmanuel stuffs his fingers into his mouth - it will be a poor substitution, but he can’t stop thinking about Dean’s bottom lip shiny with wetness - and startles at the salt taste of it.
It’s so much better, if that’s even possible, with his palm slick like this, and he has to clutch the door handle. He’s in a car, thinking about a man he barely knows, and it’s too good. His whole body races toward sweet orgasm, toes curling, neck and shoulders tight, throbbing everywhere.
He can’t imagine the picture he must make: the frantic jerks of his wrist, his mouth flopping open, his eyes squeezed shut. Better, then, that he thinks of Dean doing it, his body lean in some places and thick in others, sucking his bottom lip between his teeth, how Emmanuel’s eyes would flit desperately from his face to his cock -
Emmanuel cries out as he comes. Orgasm has never been like this before, the hot risky thrill of it all. He falls a bit in love with the hard crest of it, how the feeling arches up and up through his body from his cock and then crashes down, leaving him pleasantly worn out. For a few sweet seconds, yes, his control left him and filled the gaps with nothing but pure sensation, and it’s easy to imagine Dean’s hands holding his hips down firmly no matter how hard they tried to jerk back up.
And then embarrassment sinks in. Almost all of Emmanuel’s come landed on his hand and he’s thankfully able to find a tissue and wipe it off before he tucks himself back in, but he just masturbated in a car while thinking of a client. There’s something inside Dean that makes Emmanuel want, fiercely, but he feels foolish over it now.
That something doesn’t go away, though, or the heaviness in Emmanuel’s gut. He fervently hopes the orgasm didn’t tear all control from him.
As if distancing himself from the incident, Emmanuel abandons the inside of the car to lean against the hood. He leaves the passenger door open; it is a windy day, and by the time Dean returns the cramped vehicle will hopefully have aired out.
Emmanuel knows he shouldn’t, but as he settles back against the car, he waits for the flicker of Dean’s light against the horizon. When it happens, for only that second, Emmanuel will let himself believe the promise in Dean’s gaze: that Emmanuel is something holy and worthy, a wonder and a blessing, not a strange man with rumpled sweaters and a still-sticky hand.