Fic: Don't fear the reaper (SPN/SoA crossover, Dean/Jax)
--
The I-680 is the fastest route from Palo Alto to Sacramento, but he’s not meeting Dad until tomorrow and Winchesters don’t do toll roads, so Dean uses the I-580 and turns right at Pleasanton, taking the West Side Freeway up through Stockton and heading toward the City of Trees that way.
It’s not a bad run-lots of open road and wide green fields-and if his chest wasn’t currently a gaping chasm of misery, he would probably quite enjoy it.
Gaping chasm of misery. Jesus Christ. He’s been hanging out in student lounges listening to existential angst for way too long.
Dean sighs and punches out High Voltage, which is on its third repeat. He tosses it into his box of cassettes and reaches for a new tape, doesn’t care what. He shoves it in, turns up the volume and Blue Oyster Cult tells him that this ain’t the summer of love.
As if Dean doesn’t already know that.
He’s just coming off his third visit to Sam and he definitely ain’t feeling the love. It’s been six months now since his little brother decided he’d rather take his full ride to Stanford than run credit card scams and hunt monsters. Dean snorts and shakes his head. Go figure.
Their dad hadn’t appreciated Sam bailing on the family business and had told him that if he went, he should stay gone, but Dean swings by to visit him every couple of months.
Or at least he has been doing. The first couple times he didn’t actually see his brother, just sort of lurked in the shadows and made sure he was okay. The second time, he also broke into Sam’s dorm room and left a couple hundred bucks of hard-hustled money and a bowie knife under the kid’s pillow. He got a hang up call from a Palo Alto area code after that visit, so he figures Sammy got the money all right.
This last time though, Sam proved that he hasn’t lost his hunter’s edge by cornering him in the parking lot of a diner and, well, words were had and Dean figures he might have to give Sam some space before he tries to visit again.
Like. Six months or so maybe.
Which sucks. Because he misses his little brother like his lungs would miss oxygen if he spent too long underwater.
Dean glances at the passenger seat. Not having Sam next to him does kind of feel like being underwater. His chest is too tight, he can’t breathe properly and he feels completely out of his depth. Sam was all he had for so long. Other people came and went. Dad too; he was always leaving them in some crappy motel and taking off after some monster or other. But Sam was his one constant. They were SamandDean. The boys. A unit.
Now that he’s just Dean, he’s not sure he knows who he is any more. And he’s not sure he wants to find out either.
Dean’s just outside of Lodi now and he finds himself taking the exit onto Highway 12 and driving until he gets to the first bar. It looks exactly like his kind of place, Dean thinks, as he pulls into a parking lot that’s mostly filled with pick-up trucks, older model cars and motorcycles.
The rough brick building looks like it has seen better days and inside it’s dim and smoky, the only lighting provided by the flashing juke box, the television screens showing Keno and the big, rectangular lights over the pool tables which advertise Bud Light in fluorescent blue.
Dean pauses in the door way, his eyes narrowed and then he moves with sure purpose toward the bar.
--
The man who just walked into the bar is going to be trouble. Jax knows it the moment he lays eyes on him. And trouble is the last thing Jax Teller needs right now.
He puts his bottle of Bud to his lips and takes a long swallow, watching as the man strides toward the bar with efficient, confident steps. The man’s blue jeans are worn, his boots are scuffed and his brown leather jacket-collar turned up-is maybe one size too big. He’s also carrying; Jax can tell by the way he moves. A hand gun at the small of his back and, Jax tilts his head, something strapped to his ankle, another gun maybe, or a knife.
The dude asks the bartender for a shot of Jose, slams it back fast and asks for another. Glass in hand, he turns and surveys the bar with intent.
Jax is sitting at the far end of the bar. When he first arrived, Jax pulled his stool around sideways so that he would have a good view of the front door and the pool tables, and a clear line of sight to the restrooms and the rear exit off to his left. When Leather Jacket Dude’s eyes light on him they widen slightly and he gives Jax a thorough once over, of the clinical, assessing sort. Jax can’t help noticing that the guy is attractive, with soulful green eyes and real cock sucking lips. Jax’s cock twitches, just a little, and he twists his lips ruefully. The guy nods, like one professional to another, and then turns away. Jax isn’t sure what conclusion the guy just came to about him. He suspects that he’d prefer not to know.
Jax fishes his cigarettes out of his pocket and lights up. He watches as Leather Jacket Dude knocks back a third shot of Tequila and then rumples up his hair, slouches deliberately and ambles toward the pool tables with a suddenly unsteady gait.
Jax snorts and takes a long drag. Knew it. Trouble. With a capital T.
If he were smart, Jax would finish his beer and leave. Get on the next bus to Charming and reconnect with his crew. With his mom.
Jax pulls a face just thinking about it. He’s just finished a three year stretch in Stockton State for smuggling guns and seeing as how he celebrated his 21st birthday in prison, this is actually his first legal drink. Originally, Jax was supposed to be released a week ago, but there was some kind of snafu with the paperwork, so when he got his marching orders this morning, he figured he’d just take the bus, surprise everyone.
Only, after twenty minutes on the bus, he realized that what he was really craving was a little alone time. It’s going to be a full-on, non-stop party when he gets home and given what Opie told him last time his best friend visited, it sounds like Piney can barely sit on his bike any more, which means that Jax is likely to be made VP when he returns. It’s what he’s always wanted and a step closer to his ultimate goal of being President of the Sons of Anarchy-the Motorcycle Club founded by his father. But still…it’s a lot. A lot of action, a lot of people, when what he’s really craving is some time to reflect on his freedom; to get his head on straight. So to speak.
So when the bus stopped in Lodi he just…got out.
As luck would have it, the bus stop is just a little way up the road from The Alibi, a bar owned by a friend of the Club.
So yeah, if Jax were smart, he’d finish up this drink and head on out before Leather Jacket Dude tries to hustle the wrong guy and the bartender ends up having to call the cops.
Jax takes another drag of his cigarette; another long swallow of beer. He watches appreciatively as Leather Jacket Dude bends over a pool table.
Apparently, Jax is not smart.
--
“Oh come on now,” Dean spreads his arms out wide, one hand still gripping the pool cue tightly. “Fair’s fair.”
“Yeah,” the big guy with the ginger beard nods. “But you hustled me. Hustling ain’t fair.”
“It ain’t my fault you kept betting against me. I won that money. It’s mine. And I’m takin’ it.”
The bearded guy glowers. “Try. I dare you.”
Dean grins. It’s on. He spins the pool cue and just about loses his shit when a voice way too close behind him says, “Easy there, Friend.”
It’s the blond guy who was sitting at the bar earlier, and Dean is impressed that he managed to get up so close behind Dean without Dean noticing. He wonders if Blondie is a hunter. He’s something, all right, his position at the bar, all exits covered, told Dean that much.
“Don’t,” Blondie says, and Dean is confused for a minute until he realizes that Ginger Beard just took a step toward him.
“Fuck off, kid,” Ginger Beard growls. “This ain’t your business.”
Blondie sighs. “Am I gonna have to show you the ink? Got a reaper on my back that’s the same as the one on the cut I usually wear.”
The words mean nothing to Dean, but they obviously mean something to Ginger Beard because he holds his hands up and backs right off, muttering something about not wanting any trouble with the Sons, whatever that means.
Dean puts the cue down, picks up the money from the edge of the pool table and shoves it in his wallet. The thing is though, he actually wanted the fight more than he wanted the money and now he’s a little stumped. He’s angry; with Sam; with his dad; with the whole fucked up situation and most especially with himself for needing his family so Goddamn much. He’s got all this excess adrenaline surging through his veins and he needs to burn it out somehow.
“Come with me,” says Blondie, giving Dean his back and heading toward the door.
Dean’s anger finds a new target. “What the fuck?” he spits at Blondie. “You think you can just order me around?”
Blondie glances over his shoulder. “I get it,” he says. “You need to hit something. Fine. We’ll go a couple rounds outside. But you’re not smashing heads in here. The owner’s a friend and besides, the bartender’ll call the cops-and that’s heat I don’t need.”
The guy moves with one hell of a self-assured swagger and Dean can’t help following him through the bar, outside, and around the corner.
The guy turns then and catches Dean staring at his ass, which. It’s not. He doesn’t. He’s not. Okay, maybe sometimes. But.
The guy’s smirk is too fucking infuriating for words, so Dean just glares at him.
“See something you like?” the guy says, way too cocky.
“Fuck you,” is the witty rejoinder Dean comes up with.
The guy’s smile edges toward shark and Dean’s back slams into the brick wall, the guy’s hands fisted in Dean’s jacket.
Blondie is way too fucking close, with his head slightly tilted. He’s staring at Dean with intense blue eyes, as though Dean is a puzzle; as though he can somehow see deep into Dean’s soul.
Dean swallows. “You gonna fight me or fuck me?” he blurts.
Shit. He did not mean to say that. And he sure as shit didn’t mean to sound so fucking needy.
Dean sort of expects the guy’s smile to get even cockier, but it doesn’t. He actually dials it back a notch, which is good because Dean might’ve had to stab him on principle if he’d kept looking so smug.
“Which would you prefer?” Blondie asks, and the question is utterly sincere.
Dean doesn’t know how to answer it. But maybe Blondie sees something of the answer in Dean’s eyes, because his thigh pushes in between Dean’s spread legs and presses up against his balls. The pressure is hard; demanding; and just the right side of painful. The guy licks his lips and leans in close and then his mouth is on Dean’s.
The kiss is brutal. It hits the knife edge between sex and violence and is everything Dean needs, leaving him breathless and bruised and hopelessly turned on. When the guy pulls back, Dean will deny to his dying day that the noise he makes is a whimper.
Blondie lets go of Dean and steps away. “I’m Jax,” he says.
It takes Dean a couple of tries to get his name out.
“You got transport, Dean?”
Dean nods.
“There’s a motel around the corner,” Jax says.
Dean nods again and Jax gestures at him to lead the way.
“Holy shit,” Jax says when he sees the Impala. “’69 model?”
“’67,”
Jax nods. “She’s beautiful. You look after her yourself?”
“I do.”
They climb inside and Jax strokes a hand reverently over the lovingly maintained original interior.
“Wow,” he says.
Dean can’t help preening. “You know cars.”
Jax nods. “I’m a mechanic by trade.”
“What do you drive?”
Jax laughs. “I’m a motorcycle enthusiast. My ride’s a Harley Davidson Dyna Glide.”
Suddenly, the comment about the cut and the way the much bigger guy in the bar backed off make sense.
“You’re part of a Club.”
It’s not a question, but Jax answers as if it was. “Yeah. Sons of Anarchy, down in Charming.”
“Seems like that means something around here,” Dean says. “So I guess your bike’ll be safe in the bar’s parking lot?” He’s fishing and he knows it.
“It would be,” Jax acknowledges, “only it’s not there.”
“Okay,” Dean says.
Jax raises an eyebrow. “That’s it? Not gonna ask what a biker’s doing twenty miles from home without his bike?”
“Nope. Right here or left?”
Jax directs him to the motel and then goes in and gets them a room.
While he’s doing that, Dean transfers a few weapons and various other tools of his trade into his clothes duffel and he’s leaning on Baby’s hood waiting when Jax comes out with a room key.
Once they’re inside there’s an awkward moment and then Jax says that he’s going to take a shower. He doesn’t bother to shut the bathroom door.
The room is small with one king-sized bed. Dean still routinely asks for two queens, despite the fact that he’s almost always alone these days.
He takes a box of condoms from his duffel and puts it on the nightstand. He pulls his Glock out from the back of his jeans and puts it in the nightstand’s top drawer and then he unstraps the knife at his ankle and puts it under the pillow.
And then he strips off his clothes and follows Jax into the bathroom.
The shower’s on, but Jax is still waiting for the water to heat up, standing naked, side on to the bathroom door.
Dean comes up beside him and as Jax turns to face him, Dean realizes that the two of them are exactly the same height and pretty much the same build.
Dean has a moment to wonder just what the fuck he’s doing here and then Jax turns his back and opens the shower door and Dean’s mouth goes dry.
“Holy fuck,” he says, reaching out and tracing a fingertip down the length of the grim reaper’s scythe, from just below Jax’s shoulder blade to his lower back. “That’s incredible. How long did it take?”
Jax smirks and steps under the water. “A while.”
Dean follows right in behind him and can’t help running his hands over the amazing tattoo. The whole thing is black, with the words SONS OF ANARCHY stencilled at the top of Jax’s back in a downward curve. Below that is a skeletal hooded reaper, carrying a scythe and a crystal ball with the anarchy symbol on it, and the letters MC are inked just below and to the right of it. Below that, in an upward curve, the word CALIFORNIA is stencilled.
“This is your club logo?”
Jax huffs. “Patch. We’re bikers, not bankers.”
Jax takes the wrapped bar of soap from the dish in the wall and tears the wrapper off. He begins to lather up his front. There’s a miniature bottle of shampoo standing next to where the soap was and Dean picks it up.
“You want me to wash your hair?”
He realizes what he just said a heartbeat later and groans. “Ah, man. That’s gotta be the gayest thing I ever said.”
Jax sniggers. “Don’t sweat it. Pretty soon you’re gonna be saying, fuck my ass harder, Jax, which’ll be even gayer.”
Dean snorts. “Debatable.”
Jax bends forward to wash his legs and Dean can’t help pressing up behind him and rutting against his ass. “Do I make a joke here about not dropping the soap?” he quips.
“Not funny,” Jax says. He straightens up and turns around, his eyes hesitant for one brief moment. And then he says, “I just got out of Stockton State Prison.”
Dean may not know a lot about motorcycle culture, but he’s been around the block more than once and he’s always lived on the fringes of society, a place that’s mostly inhabited by outlaws of one kind or another. He actually does know a three-piece rocker-style patch when he sees one and he knows that Jax is most likely a one percenter. The man may be a mechanic by trade, but Dean had already figured him for an outlaw.
Still, he needs to know.
“What were you in for?”
Jax’s eyes narrow and Dean raises his hands. “Hey, man, I’m naked in a shower with you. If you slit your old lady’s throat and then ate her heart with a spoon, washed down with a nice bottle of Chianti, then I need to know.”
Jax laughs. “No. No eating hearts. Or killing old ladies. Smuggling.”
Dean nods. “Guns, people or drugs?”
“Guns,” Jax’s jaw tightens. “We’re not slavers. And as for drugs, we keep that shit out of Charming. Except for bud. Bud doesn’t count.”
“Okay.”
Jax frowns. “That’s it? Okay?”
Dean shrugs. “Hey, I do a lot of things myself that ain’t exactly on the up’n’up. But it sounds like we’re on the same page when it comes to the things that matter. So. Speaking of up’n’up,” he reaches out a hand and takes hold of Jax’s semi-hard cock.
Jax bites back a moan and leans back against the shower wall, his legs spread. Dean works him to full hardness and is just considering dropping to his knees and sucking him down when the water goes cold.
“Fuck!”
They scramble out of the shower and towel off quickly.
Jax takes control then, propelling Dean out of the bathroom and toward the bed. He spots the condoms and grins.
“Boy scout,” he teases.
Dean snorts and shakes his head and is taken by surprise when Jax tackles him like a line backer and knocks him down onto the bed.
They roll and grapple and Dean doesn’t try too hard not to end up pinned on his back, the biker sitting on his hips and pinning him down by the wrists.
“Go easy on the merchandise,” Dean says.
Jax raises an eyebrow. “Merchandise?” He glances at the box of condoms. “This a business transaction for you, Dean?”
“Fuck, no. If I have to hustle for my supper it’s pool or cards.”
Mostly.
Dean’s never stood on a street corner before, but he has been propositioned in bars and restrooms. If someone wants to pay him cash to tap his fine ass, Dean’s mostly not going to say no. Not if he’s broke. Not unless the guy’s really fugly.
But that’s not what this is, so he bucks his hips and grinds up against Jax’s ass.
“C’mon, Jax,” he goads. “You gonna take me for a ride or what?”
Jax stares down at him for a moment and then he reaches for the condoms.
--
The truth is, Jax doesn’t actually have a lot of experience with guys.
His intense relationship with Tara consumed most of his teenage years and when she left to go to college he was gutted. To prove that she didn’t have his balls in a vice, he proceeded to fuck anyone with a pussy and a pulse for the next year, and then, on an interstate run, he met a guy and learned that he wasn’t quite as straight as he’d always thought.
Not long after that he went to prison. As the step-son of the President of the Sons of Anarchy, Jax had protection, and just as well. Jax isn’t vain, but he’s not stupid either. He knows he’s pretty; knows he would’ve ended up as somebody’s bitch without his body guards. He’s smart enough to be grateful too.
Getting laid in prison is actually complicated as fuck. Jax isn’t into rape, so every sexual interaction he had inside had to be carefully thought out: What was the balance of power? Would there be political ramifications? Would it affect alliances? Would someone think he owed them a favor or vice versa?
Frankly it was usually easier to just jack off.
So while it hasn’t been that long since he last got laid, Jax is looking forward to having a simple, straightforward fuck; to sinking his dick into the willing, pliant body of a guy who wants nothing more from him than a good orgasm.
And if he’s honest with himself, he wants the rough-and-tumble fun of knocking boots with another guy one last time before he has to go home, play it completely straight, and get himself an old lady.
Jax takes a condom and a small packet of lube out of the box on the nightstand. He climbs off Dean and nudges at his hip, telling him to roll over. Dean complies, spreading his legs and tilting his hips, presenting his ass like an offering.
Jax tears open the lube packet and squeezes some of the clear gel onto his fingers. Dean’s breath hitches when Jax slides a finger into him.
“Feels good?”
“Yeah,” Dean is up on his elbows, his head hanging down between his shoulders. “I’m not gonna break you know.”
Jax gets the message. He adds a little more lube and then shoves in deep with two fingers, making Dean groan.
Jax fucks his fingers in and out of Dean’s ass a few times, scissoring and stretching and pushing at Dean’s prostate until Dean starts to push back and try to ride his fingers. He pulls out then, wipes his fingers on the quilt, and suits up.
Jax pulls Dean up by the hips and then uses his thumbs to spread Dean’s ass checks, before carefully lining himself up with the pink puckered entrance. He places the tip of his dick right there and Dean makes an inarticulate noise of pleasure.
“C’mon,” Dean says a moment later. “You gonna fuck me or not?”
Jax smirks. “Told you you’d say something even gayer later.”
Dean raises one finger in silent salute and Jax’s grin widens.
He slides in deep in one long thrust and the yowl-like moan that punches out of Dean is almost his undoing.
“Fuck! Shit! Stop!” Dean says, and Jax freezes, his aching dick planted deep, surrounded by tight gripping heat.
“Fuckin’ burns,” Dean mumbles. “Just…gimme a sec.”
“Not gonna break, are you?” Jax goads and Dean huffs.
“Fuck you,” he says.
Jax hums. “Maybe later.”
Why not? He’s always wanted to give it a try.
Dean takes a deep breath and very obviously relaxes and Jax gives a short, experimental thrust.
Dean gasps. “Oh yeah. Right there.”
Jax figures that’s the green light and he pulls back slightly and then gives it to Dean good, his fingers gripping Dean’s hips so hard he’s sure to leave bruises.
And Dean? Dean’s fucking loving this if the breathy moans and chants of yeah, fuck, yeah are any indication. He’s gripping the quilt hard, his chest on the mattress and his ass in the air. His head is turned sideways, cheek sliding up and down with the force of Jax’s thrusts and his eyes are screwed shut, his mouth twisted in pleasure.
Jax reaches a hand around and finds Dean’s cock; rock hard, smooth as silk, bobbing up against his belly. He grips it in his fist and begins to stroke, up and down, gathering the dribbles of pre-come at the tip to help smooth the ride. Dean loses his mind, pumping his hips, and shoving his ass back to meet Jax’s thrusts.
Jax obliges Dean’s unspoken request for harder, faster, thighs quivering as he slams in deep, nailing Dean’s prostate with every thrust. Dean howls. His whole body seizes up and his ass clamps down on Jax’s dick as he comes, hard. Jax strokes him through it and then moves his hand back to Dean’s hip and fucks him deep and hard and fast, as relentless and powerful as a jackhammer. Dean’s knees collapse under him and Jax rides him down, his breath stuttering as he shoves in deep one last time and comes with a long, drawn-out groan.
It takes Jax a moment to get his breathing back under control; for his heart to stop pounding. He’s not quite there when he gets an elbow to the ribs.
“Get off me,” Dean says.
“Gimme a minute.”
Jax gets another elbow.
“I’m lying in my own fucking jizz. So get the fuck off me.”
Jax sighs and complies. “Sure thing, Princess.”
Dean snorts and rolls to his feet. “Yeah, well. You oughta lay off the cheeseburgers. Just sayin’.”
Jax grins. “Man, I’ve missed those. It’s been a while since I last had a cheeseburger.”
They clean up and then Jax fishes in the pockets of his jeans for his cigarettes. He finds them and lights up and then notices that Dean is getting dressed.
“You got somewhere you need to be?” he asks.
Dean looks surprised. “You want me to stick around?”
Jax takes a long drag, blows out smoke and nods. “Was hoping for a round two. Room’s paid for until tomorrow.”
Dean looks really surprised now and Jax wonders at it. He can’t imagine too many people voluntarily kicking Dean out of their bed.
Dean recovers quickly though, pulling on his leather jacket and picking up his car keys.
“C’mon,” he says, sitting on the edge of the bed to pull his boots on. “Get dressed.”
“Why?”
Dean’s smile is cocky. “Gonna buy you that cheeseburger you’ve been missing.”
Five minutes later they’re in Dean’s car and Dean is singing along with Buck Dharma:
Come on baby
(Don't fear the reaper)
Baby take my hand
(Don't fear the reaper)
We'll be able to fly
(Don't fear the reaper)
Baby I'm your man
Jax settles into the passenger seat, loose and easy. Dean’s singing is pretty terrible, but he sings with passion. Jax and Dean aren’t the type to hold hands and Jax isn’t under any illusions that Dean is his man, but when Dean puts his foot down and they roar down the highway, Jax thinks they might be able to fly. He feels the ghost of Dean’s fingers tracing the tattoo on his back and grins. One thing’s for certain: Dean sure as shit doesn’t fear the reaper.
The End