fic: The War at Home (Supernatural; Dean/Jo; adult)
The War at Home
Supernatural; Dean/Jo; adult, spoilers through the 5.10 promos; 1,344 words
If Dad was alive, none of this would have happened.
~*~
Word travels fast, even without the Roadhouse for other hunters to talk--Bobby, maybe, but it really doesn't matter. They've got the Colt back, but Dean's used to expecting the worst; they're as prepared as they can be to find Lucifer and send the bastard back to Hell, and now is the time, but fucked if they're ready. Dad would've been ready, or at least more equipped for this, but he's stuck where the devil should be burning. But then again, if Dad was alive, none of this would have happened. Still, if Dean's gotta go, he's gonna go out fighting like hell not to. He cheated death--came back from the grave--though there's probably no getting out of this one.
It's midday, and the whole damn town is abandoned. It's just him and Sam, Bobby and Jo and Ellen. And Castiel. It's probably better that way--everyone else is gone. They skipped town; they'll have a little more time; they won't have to see their world come crashing down. Not yet, anyway, because they'll drag out the fight with Lucifer as long as they can. Bobby had them board up one of the empty houses real good, salt lines by all the doors and windows (like that'll do any good). He's flipping through his books, one after the other, reading and going over them for something that could make any difference. Sam's with Ellen: drinking, topic, dancing around the subject of their impending doom. Castiel is pacing, praying to the God that's dead for salvation.
It'd be safer in the house, just by a margin, but if it's his last night on Earth (and it most likely is), Dean's sleeping in the Impala. He won't be able to sleep anyway, but the car's home--he was born in the backseat on the way to the hospital, so it seems fitting that it's where he'll spend his last night. There are a few PowerBars and a can of soda in the back; blankets he can get from the trunk; Megadeth in the glove compartment.
Tap-tap-tap on the window, and Dean looks up, startled. The noise shouldn't freak him out, never has, but it does. Jo motions for him to let her in, swinging her legs into the passenger seat when he does. "Freaked?"
"Uh, yeah. 'Dying' isn't exactly on my 'to do before I turn thirty' list. 'Dying violently' isn't either."
"Sorry," he says. "You shouldn't have to."
"Neither should you," Jo replies, "but here we are."
"Yeah," Dean says, and then, "Can't sleep?"
"Mom's keeping me up." Jo runs a hand through her hair, unknotting it with her fingers. "Not like it matters, right? I'll sleep when I'm dead." She flashes a weak smile.
"Mm-hmm." He's not really sure what to say--there's no class or book or way to prepare for impending death. "So..." It's probably a good time for a joke or something, but the only ones he can think of are those fucking stupid dead baby jokes, and a few PMS and Helen Keller ones, and he doubts Jo will appreciate those.
"Kiss me," she blurts out, running fingers across his jawline, not pulling away even with the scrape of stubble.
"What?"
"Kiss me," she repeats. "You've wanted me since the day we met, and--" she licks her lip, and Dean can't help but stare at her pink tongue, the red glisten on her lower lip--"and there's no reason not to, now. My mom, well...she could kill you for sleeping with me, but if she was going to, she'd rather it'd be as painful as possible, and she couldn't do that. Not to you. Not after..." she trails off, her eyes wide with hope. "Please. It's our last goddamn night on Earth, and we should, you know, get laid one more time before we die."
She's right: he's wanted this for years, even if she is, like, six years younger than him and has been more like a little sister than a one-night stand. She's hot, though; willing--more than, actually, and he really doesn't have any better offers. He leans into her touch, parting his lips so he can slide his tongue into her mouth right off the bat. Jo's mouth is really fucking soft--she's not wearing lipstick; the only taste is the spearmint from her ChapStick and a hint of nasty-ass light beer. "Jesus," he says. "I thought you had better taste."
Her mouth curves into a smirk. "Give yourself a little credit, Dean," she teases, climbing into his lap and straddling him. "With better taste, I wouldn't be doing this."
"In beer. You taste like Corona Light or some shit."
"I could go brush my teeth, or we could fuck before my mom comes looking for me and you lose your chance."
"Fair enough." The taste disappears after Dean spends a few minutes licking it out of her mouth, palming her tits through her shirt while he nibbles down her earlobe, making her moan.
"Backseat," she says lowly. "You better have a condom."
"Box in the glove compartment." She tears one packet from the strip, climbing easily into the backseat and kicking off her shoes. "I have a blanket in the trunk, do you want--"
"Get back here already."
Dean follows, lowering himself down on top of her; he can feel the heat of her cunt even through the thick denim of her jeans, especially as she arches up against him. Her tank top is thin enough that he can feel the nipple as he sucks on it through the fabric, and then there's nothing but skin under his mouth, but he has to pull back so the shirt can go over her head.
"Dean," she says, threading her fingers in his hair and tugging hard enough that his scalp stings. He takes his time, though--wants to make this last as long as he can, draw it out, fuck her nice and slow and maybe do it again in the morning, too. "Come on," she whines when he's trailing kisses on the smooth, winter-pale skin of her belly down to her pussy.
"I want to lick you." He pitches his voice low against her. "I want to make you come before I'm even inside you, and then I want to--" fuck you into next week left unspoken on his tongue.
When she comes, her pussy clenches around his fingers and her thighs around his head. Jo's loud, moaning please and Dean and God, yes, harder, and he really hopes Sam or Ellen don't come outside to see what's going on. When she starts murmuring things like, "Come on, fuck me already," he pulls back, shucks his own clothes, tears the condom from the package so he can slide into her, slow and easy. The tight, wet heat around his dick is the best thing he's felt in a damn long time.
"Fuck," he pants. "Jesus...Jo."
"Where's the fire?" she teases, shifting under him so her heels are pressed to his ass, letting him slip in deeper, and he bottoms out; it's a minor miracle that he doesn't thrust so hard her head slams into the door. "That's more like it."
Dean fucks her hard and fast, bracing himself on the seat for support, thumbing at her clit when he pulls back. The pressure at the base of his spine and in his balls builds to an almost-uncomfortable level, making him dizzy, light-headed. Just when he thinks he's about to lose it, Jo squeezes around him again, shuddering and clutching at his shoulders. That's what sends him over the edge, vision whiting out as he groans, riding out the waves of pleasure as long as he can.
Her clothes are back on before he knows it, but she doesn't bother re-lacing her boots; the brush of her feet is cold against his thigh. She kisses him again, before leaving the car. It's soft and slow and sweet--everything a goodbye kiss should be.
Supernatural; Dean/Jo; adult, spoilers through the 5.10 promos; 1,344 words
If Dad was alive, none of this would have happened.
~*~
Word travels fast, even without the Roadhouse for other hunters to talk--Bobby, maybe, but it really doesn't matter. They've got the Colt back, but Dean's used to expecting the worst; they're as prepared as they can be to find Lucifer and send the bastard back to Hell, and now is the time, but fucked if they're ready. Dad would've been ready, or at least more equipped for this, but he's stuck where the devil should be burning. But then again, if Dad was alive, none of this would have happened. Still, if Dean's gotta go, he's gonna go out fighting like hell not to. He cheated death--came back from the grave--though there's probably no getting out of this one.
It's midday, and the whole damn town is abandoned. It's just him and Sam, Bobby and Jo and Ellen. And Castiel. It's probably better that way--everyone else is gone. They skipped town; they'll have a little more time; they won't have to see their world come crashing down. Not yet, anyway, because they'll drag out the fight with Lucifer as long as they can. Bobby had them board up one of the empty houses real good, salt lines by all the doors and windows (like that'll do any good). He's flipping through his books, one after the other, reading and going over them for something that could make any difference. Sam's with Ellen: drinking, topic, dancing around the subject of their impending doom. Castiel is pacing, praying to the God that's dead for salvation.
It'd be safer in the house, just by a margin, but if it's his last night on Earth (and it most likely is), Dean's sleeping in the Impala. He won't be able to sleep anyway, but the car's home--he was born in the backseat on the way to the hospital, so it seems fitting that it's where he'll spend his last night. There are a few PowerBars and a can of soda in the back; blankets he can get from the trunk; Megadeth in the glove compartment.
Tap-tap-tap on the window, and Dean looks up, startled. The noise shouldn't freak him out, never has, but it does. Jo motions for him to let her in, swinging her legs into the passenger seat when he does. "Freaked?"
"Uh, yeah. 'Dying' isn't exactly on my 'to do before I turn thirty' list. 'Dying violently' isn't either."
"Sorry," he says. "You shouldn't have to."
"Neither should you," Jo replies, "but here we are."
"Yeah," Dean says, and then, "Can't sleep?"
"Mom's keeping me up." Jo runs a hand through her hair, unknotting it with her fingers. "Not like it matters, right? I'll sleep when I'm dead." She flashes a weak smile.
"Mm-hmm." He's not really sure what to say--there's no class or book or way to prepare for impending death. "So..." It's probably a good time for a joke or something, but the only ones he can think of are those fucking stupid dead baby jokes, and a few PMS and Helen Keller ones, and he doubts Jo will appreciate those.
"Kiss me," she blurts out, running fingers across his jawline, not pulling away even with the scrape of stubble.
"What?"
"Kiss me," she repeats. "You've wanted me since the day we met, and--" she licks her lip, and Dean can't help but stare at her pink tongue, the red glisten on her lower lip--"and there's no reason not to, now. My mom, well...she could kill you for sleeping with me, but if she was going to, she'd rather it'd be as painful as possible, and she couldn't do that. Not to you. Not after..." she trails off, her eyes wide with hope. "Please. It's our last goddamn night on Earth, and we should, you know, get laid one more time before we die."
She's right: he's wanted this for years, even if she is, like, six years younger than him and has been more like a little sister than a one-night stand. She's hot, though; willing--more than, actually, and he really doesn't have any better offers. He leans into her touch, parting his lips so he can slide his tongue into her mouth right off the bat. Jo's mouth is really fucking soft--she's not wearing lipstick; the only taste is the spearmint from her ChapStick and a hint of nasty-ass light beer. "Jesus," he says. "I thought you had better taste."
Her mouth curves into a smirk. "Give yourself a little credit, Dean," she teases, climbing into his lap and straddling him. "With better taste, I wouldn't be doing this."
"In beer. You taste like Corona Light or some shit."
"I could go brush my teeth, or we could fuck before my mom comes looking for me and you lose your chance."
"Fair enough." The taste disappears after Dean spends a few minutes licking it out of her mouth, palming her tits through her shirt while he nibbles down her earlobe, making her moan.
"Backseat," she says lowly. "You better have a condom."
"Box in the glove compartment." She tears one packet from the strip, climbing easily into the backseat and kicking off her shoes. "I have a blanket in the trunk, do you want--"
"Get back here already."
Dean follows, lowering himself down on top of her; he can feel the heat of her cunt even through the thick denim of her jeans, especially as she arches up against him. Her tank top is thin enough that he can feel the nipple as he sucks on it through the fabric, and then there's nothing but skin under his mouth, but he has to pull back so the shirt can go over her head.
"Dean," she says, threading her fingers in his hair and tugging hard enough that his scalp stings. He takes his time, though--wants to make this last as long as he can, draw it out, fuck her nice and slow and maybe do it again in the morning, too. "Come on," she whines when he's trailing kisses on the smooth, winter-pale skin of her belly down to her pussy.
"I want to lick you." He pitches his voice low against her. "I want to make you come before I'm even inside you, and then I want to--" fuck you into next week left unspoken on his tongue.
When she comes, her pussy clenches around his fingers and her thighs around his head. Jo's loud, moaning please and Dean and God, yes, harder, and he really hopes Sam or Ellen don't come outside to see what's going on. When she starts murmuring things like, "Come on, fuck me already," he pulls back, shucks his own clothes, tears the condom from the package so he can slide into her, slow and easy. The tight, wet heat around his dick is the best thing he's felt in a damn long time.
"Fuck," he pants. "Jesus...Jo."
"Where's the fire?" she teases, shifting under him so her heels are pressed to his ass, letting him slip in deeper, and he bottoms out; it's a minor miracle that he doesn't thrust so hard her head slams into the door. "That's more like it."
Dean fucks her hard and fast, bracing himself on the seat for support, thumbing at her clit when he pulls back. The pressure at the base of his spine and in his balls builds to an almost-uncomfortable level, making him dizzy, light-headed. Just when he thinks he's about to lose it, Jo squeezes around him again, shuddering and clutching at his shoulders. That's what sends him over the edge, vision whiting out as he groans, riding out the waves of pleasure as long as he can.
Her clothes are back on before he knows it, but she doesn't bother re-lacing her boots; the brush of her feet is cold against his thigh. She kisses him again, before leaving the car. It's soft and slow and sweet--everything a goodbye kiss should be.