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This story is No. 11 in the series "The Adventures of John Winchester and Illyria". You may wish to read the series introduction and the preceeding stories first.

Summary: Just one of those unacknowledged power-struggles every couple has. John Winchester/Illyria Interlude. Sexual situations.

Categories Author Rating Chapters Words Recs Reviews Hits Published Updated Complete
Supernatural > Fred/Illyria-CenteredZanneSFR1811,282192,0561 Mar 071 Mar 07Yes
Disclaimer: I do not own these characters. Kripke owns the Winchesters and Whedon owns Illyria. No copyright infringement is intended and I make no money from this story. Thanks to my beta hakirby!


There was an on-going dispute over who wore the pants in this family – a literal argument over metaphorical pants that had lasted centuries, beginning with an off-hand comment by John when Illyria was being particularly irritating in not following orders (luckily, pie charts and graphs had yet to be involved, but the same could not be said of the occasional weapon).

John, of course, insisted that it was him – he was the man and was used to being the leader of any Winchesters that were wandering in his vicinity and he didn’t feel the need for change at this juncture, Demon-God or not.

Illyria pointed out that while Fred never seemed to wear pants, her carapace was bi-pedally favorable so that meant, no matter what form she took, that Fred was always wearing pants on the inside. Illyria stated that mathematically this meant she wore pants 100% of the time as compared to John’s 76%, making her the unequivocal pants wearing leader.

Depending upon their moods, these disagreements ended in one of several ways – an extensive lecture on metaphors and their meanings (Illyria usually ignored them), quiet sulking on opposite ends of the room (John usually cleaned weapons), an all-out sparring session with the winner declared Master of the Pants for the interim between bouts (Illyria always won because she was, in fact, Illyria, but John usually declared the results invalid because pitting a human against a demon warrior-king just wasn’t fair), or in bed (John leading a prolonged expedition looking for the inside pants because he said he needed proof if he were going to concede).

2098 …an extensive lecture on metaphors and their meanings…

“Illyria….Illyria! Pay attention when I’m talking to you!” John growled. “I’m not walking another step unless you stop and listen to what I’m saying.” John planted himself firmly on the side of the road, crossing his arms and frowning at her retreating back. “Metaphors aren’t to be taken literally, dammit! Pants are not always actual pants and take a hike doesn’t mean you run off in the middle of nowhere because you don’t want to listen!” John was another second closer to stomping his foot like a two-year-old. “Illyria!”

Illyria paused several yards away, turning to face him with an obstinate set to her jaw. John relaxed slightly, hoping she’d at least be willing to listen when he saw her pointedly raise her foot and lean back, her eyes narrowing in something like triumph.

“No!” he shouted threateningly, gauging the distance between them with an eye that had grown amazingly acute over the past century. “You will not take another step! I’m warning you, Illyria!”

With a sudden tightening of her jaw, she completed the motion, causing John to fall forward on his face when the boundary finally reached its inelastic limit. “I think I might understand them now, Hunter,” Illyria called out stoically. “That one was ‘Eat dirt’, was it not?”

2179 …quiet sulking on opposite ends of the room…

John sat at the small table in the apartment, his weapons laid out before him as he steadfastly honed the blade to a razor sharp edge, his back turned to the still form of Illyria facing the opposite wall. He ground his teeth together, the sound audible to the silent figure across the room. With his ingrained precision, John tested the sharpness of the blade before picking up the next, arranging the knives according to height.

At the top of hour two-hundred eighteen in the sulking standoff, Illyria calmly reminded him, “I am not talking to you.”

John, still focused on polishing the revolver that had been shined more in the past few days than it had existed as a weapon, replied, “Keep up the good work,” and returned to his persistent cleaning as if nothing had interrupted him.

2352 …an all-out sparring session…

John landed with a resounding thud against the hull of the ship, the sound reverberating through the steel siding still clinging tenaciously to the wreckage. “Point for me,” Illyria said, gloating in her understated way.

John lay stunned on the dirt for a moment, trying to catch his breath before unsteadily rising to his knees, using the wall to brace his attempt at standing.

“I’m not gonna let you win this time,” he panted weakly, a trickle of blood smudged along his hairline. “Demon-God or not, this human has to stand up for his place in this partnership.” John got to his feet, weaving a little as he approached her.

Illyria frowned. “Do not make me kill you again. It is not fun. Just admit to the facts.”

John shook his head, the motion making him dizzy. “A man has to do what a man has to do.”

Illyria nearly smiled, her expression flickering as she watched him stagger closer. “You can be amusing when you refuse to surrender,” Illyria almost purred. “Maybe I will let you win this time.”

2413 …or in bed…

John peered at her from between her legs, his eyes dark with lust as he gave another teasing lick. “Nope,” he said in feigned defeat, rising to crawl up her body. “Didn’t find anything there. You must’ve hidden them somewhere really interesting.”

Illyria lay beneath him, pliant from his ministrations, her hands lazily reaching up to stroke his back as he buried his face in the curve of her throat. “Maybe here?” he purred in her ear, tracing his tongue along the delicate blue shading decorating her throat. His hand swept down over her hip, cupping her body to his as he growled softly, “Or here?” sliding inside her as she welcomed him with the cut of sharp teeth on his shoulder.

He closed his eyes, nestling his face in her hair as he moved within her, the sensation of her resilient skin something he had yet to tire of, even after so very long. His grip grew more firm the closer he came to completion, his fingers digging into the deceptively tough flesh that seemed to mold to his hands. “I think,” he gasped softly, “I’m on to something here…. Need to mark this on the map….”

Illyria growled, biting down as she shuddered beneath him – an instinctive response she could not break, coded into her primal essence since before the dawn of time. With that, John knew he’d done his work and he gave in to his own pleasure, burying his cock between her legs as he emptied himself inside her, soft groans being torn from him as he surrendered at last.

John curled up beside her, panting hotly against her shoulder as he managed to say, “Didn’t find them there this time, either. Looks like the search isn’t over.”

Illyria slid her leg over his belly, straddling him as she stated boldly. “I can think of one place you have not explored, yet.”

John grinned up at her, his hair sticking in dark curls to his sweat-dampened skin. “Really?” he asked with overly innocent curiosity. “Give me a couple minutes and I’ll mount another investigation.”

So, with eyes and mouth and hands and what Illyria once dubbed his divining rod for pants (John had replied quite seriously – and breathlessly – that, yes, yes it was), he set about thoroughly mapping all possible hiding places for these theoretical inner pants, staking claim on any territory he discovered. He announced that the pants must be mythical – much like El Dorado – since he never found them, but, oh, yes, maybe they were just a little deeper and he always redoubled his efforts till they both collapsed in a sweaty heap, disagreement forgotten.

The pants dispute has yet to be resolved.

The End

You have reached the end of "Pants". This story is complete.

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