BtVS: The characters here are the copyright and intellectual property of Joss Whedon. SPN: Owed by TBTB Eric Kripke, & the CW. Not mine, zero profit, written for fun/entertainment purposes only!Warnings/note:
Wip, I haven't figured out exactly where its going other than its SPN pre-series - with hopes to finish it this year ;)
Casually, Dean stood with his elbows leaning back against the bar as he observed the crowd; patiently waiting for the bartender to notice his empty bottle and the cash under it for a refill.
At the moment, he was in-between jobs, laid up in another small rural town, south of New Mexico, waiting to hear from his father with a place to meet. These days, they rarely separated, but when they did Dean tried to take advantage of his father’s absence and his watchful eyes. Not that his father denied him the freedom to socialize, or to pick up any of the willing young ladies that came his way, well at least he didn’t discourage him when they weren’t on a job. The point being off the job
, something John never had to overtly emphasize, Dean understood the message: not to mix business with pleasure. It was a standing rule he held for years, his one exception: Cassie. He had gotten too close. Had even told her the truth and that had quickly blown up in his face.
He bit the inside of his cheek, forcibly dismissing her image; he didn’t want to think about her, or the reason why he initially hooked up with her to begin with—a distraction from Sam. It didn’t work then and hadn’t worked.
However not thinking about Sam was nearly impossible. He missed him, missed having his brother around, but it was those lingering wrong
thoughts he had about his brother that held him in check. That kept him away from Stanford even now. Remembering the fight, that last night, he hated that he didn’t speak up, didn’t have Sam’s back, when Sam brought up going to Stanford to their father. Though as much as he hated himself for that, it didn’t change the fact that in the end he knew Sammy would be safer—from the family business, the hunt, him.
After Sammy left, Dean followed his father’s example and threw himself into job after job. Then after hours when he wasn’t working he’d surround himself with women. Anything to bury and drown out all of those wrong
thoughts he never should of had about his brother.
Tonight, his heart wasn’t in it; was too aware that it had been almost two years since Sammy left for Stanford.
The sudden jolt of a body colliding into him jarred Dean out of his thoughts. The stool next to him crashed to the floor. With quick reflexes Dean reached out, hands grabbing as he held and push the guy upright to keep him from falling further. “Whoa there, you ok?”
Wobbly, the guy stood, getting his bearings, shakily brushing his hands down his body before noticing the hand still on his shoulder and another on his back; abruptly shirked away swaying as he did, angrily demanding, “Hands off.”
Immediately, Dean complied and lifted his hands in a gesture of surrender. “Whoa, just trying to help.”
Dean turned at the loud thud of the bartender placing his beer down. He was older; kind of burly, tats decorating both arms as he displayed his colorful tats when he leaned threateningly on the counter, he leaned forward and asked, “Trouble here?”
Immediately Dean shook his head in denial, dropping his hands as he firmly stated. “No.”
The bartender nodded then with one hand picked up the empty bottles, his and that of the guy next to him. His other hand swiped the money Dean had left under his bottle before moving away, ignoring them to take care of another customer.
From his peripheral vision Dean eyed the man next to him, while he reached for his beer. He was tall, lanky and looked more like a kid than a man. A pang of homesickness hit. It didn’t help that the height, gawky leanness, brown hair flopping into the kids eyes, a careless hand threading through it as he weaved was familiar, too familiar. The kid wasn’t Sammy only a string of overly common recognizable attributes, but it didn’t stop the sudden ping of protectiveness that washed over him.
Slowly the kid realized his bottle was gone along with the bartender. Taking a wobbled step forward, he shouted, “Hey, wanna another one.” Pushing forward his body moving faster than necessary with only the counter stopping his sloppy forward motion.
Instinctively, Dean grabbed the back of his pants effectively stopping the awkward sideward spiral into the person sitting on the other side of the kid. He clutched tighter, steadying the drunk. Unable to hide his disgust, Dean leaned closer and asked, “Don’t you think you’ve had enough?”
Clumsily whipping his head around, the kid’s eyes narrowed once he spotted Dean’s hands. “NO! And what the fucks with the hands…”
A questioning smirk followed by small shrug, and raised brow, as Dean suddenly let go.
Unprepared for the sudden descent and the lack of stability that Dean’s grip prevent, the kid grabbled for the bar’s railing to anchor him, using it for leverage to firmly reestablish his stance. Pissed he turned and pushed away from the bar ready to blast into Dean. The rapid movement had the kid wobbling. Ignoring it, he awkwardly gripped the bar’s railing tighter to steady himself. Establishing balance, the kid used his height to lean in closer, in what Dean could only surmise to be some kind of a threatening look as he spoke, “hearof personal space?”
Dean grimaced; ready to leave this kid who was so not
his Sammy and let the dickhead fall flat on his ass. “Dickhead say it, don’t spray it!” Eyes closed as Dean lifted a hand to wipe away spittle-spray.
Once he reopened his eyes, the kid’s face was mere inches from his. The stink of his liquored breathe bathed Dean’s face.
“Though you are kinda hot…”
Dean didn’t allow him to finish as he stepped back, and waved a hand fanning the air in front of his face as he spoke, “Dude, I was just lending a helping hand that’s all.”
Quicker than he thought possible for as intoxicated as the kid was, the kid moved past that invisible line of personal space. Blinking several times, Dean realized the kid was suddenly attached and plastered to his body, one arm lazily thrown over his shoulder to keep his balance. The kid’s voice lowered to a husky whisper and spoke directly into his ear, “Hmm, you sure about that?” Though drunk and poorly executed, the kid’s voice still sent shivers throughout his body.
Shocked speechless more by his body’s immediate response than the kid’s actual words, Dean stood there dazed until the bartender’s voice rang. “Alright, get out; we’re not that kind
Snapping back to the situation at hand, Dean’s lips pursed together, registering the look the bartender was giving them. Like someone who was about to pound flesh if given half the chance, and at the moment Dean was more than ready to oblige, but even without glancing around the room he knew he’d be out numbered not to mention what might happen to the kid who was completely oblivious. Going as far as ignoring Dean’s ridged reaction to the bartender’s threat. Especially since the kid in question was still pressed up against him perfectly content.
A moment later the kid started to nuzzle his neck, Dean knew he had to move, to somehow defuse the situation.
From the look of disgust on the bartender’s face they had run out of time. Not bothering to stop and argue with the kid macking on his neck, Dean just wrapped a protective arm around his middle and took a few steps back, away from the bar.
The room suddenly fell silent, followed by a loud scrape against the floor. Everyone turned toward the sound and the path that appeared as the crowd parted and this one monster of a dude moved toward them. Dean cursed under his breath; they needed to leave—now.
Less than three feet away, and even bigger up close and personal, the dude politely stated, “Better leave son, and take your friend with you.” Suddenly his hand immediately shot out easily holding somebody down. “Jack, sit. You’re staying right there and don’t say anything…”
Dean eyes widened, and would have sworn the man leaned more heavily to emphasize his point just as his voice lowered and he added, “that you might seriously regret.”
Barely swallowing, Dean suddenly realized the situation; the dude was helping him out before the guy turned and spoke to them.
“Better move it son.”
Relieved, Dean nodded his consent and thanks. Fingers quickly retrieved his wallet and placed money on the counter at the same time he manhandled the kid through and out of the bar as quickly and quietly as he could.
The kid didn’t even seem to notice they were already outside in the parking lot—instead he just pressed his body closer continuing to suck and gnaw on his neck. Instinctively Dean knew the kid’s suction was strong enough he was going have the mothers of all hickeys tomorrow, and could only be grateful that when he did meet up with his father in a few days, that Winchester Sr. wasn’t the questioning type.
Course none of that explained why he hadn’t detached himself from the kids vacuuming mouth, or how relaxed his body was given the situation that they weren’t completely out of danger of having their asses kicked. Nor did it explain why he tilted his neck to give the kid easier access, or the fact that he was really enjoying it. Dean couldn’t even pretend that he’d react the same with any pair of lips—though when he had lips attached to his neck they usually came accompanied with soft usually larger-than-his-hand breasts, with perky nipples.
Instead he was fully aware and strangely not as freaked as he should be by the flat chest and the hard cock that was pressed up against his thigh that started to rhythmically grind against him.
Suddenly Dean jerked as the heel of the kid’s hand firmly pressed down onto his own hard cock. Automatically his hips pressed forward. In shock, he breathlessly whispered, “Fuck…”
“Yeah, ok sounds good.” The kid’s lips moved, his tongue lapping leisurely up his neck only to quickly latch onto the other side of his neck, marking the other side. With experience, the kid aggressively maneuvered and worked Dean backwards until his back was pressed up against the impala.
With the steady anchor of the impala, the kid started pressing harder working his hand over Dean’s cock. Eyes closed, Dean surrendered, his body responding to every illicit touch. The mop of hair brushed against his shoulder. He had no illusions. Though he had been with a few women who were aggressive enough to top him, it was usually the opposite where he was the dominant, and in all those experiences not once had he been with a guy. But as he started to ride the kid’s hand, forbidden images filled his head, a name hovered on the tip of his tongue… Sammy
As quickly as Sammy’s image appeared, Dean shoved it down jolting back into the present where the kid suddenly stilled in his arms. Hands dropping to his side, lips inches from his skin.
Feeling awkward Dean swallowed as long seconds passed waiting before the kid slowly lifted his head and gingerly pulled away. “Guess I’m not the only one who’s thinking of someone else.” His voice thick and rough; Dean figured it was meant to be cruel and sarcastic instead it echoed with truth.
Still painfully hard and not exactly sure what to make of what just happened, Dean opted to let it pass and focus on getting the kid home and himself as far away from here as possible. To put tonight, into a file of lets never speak or think of this again
Feeling slightly resigned to his new improved plan Dean cleared his throat, his arm slightly pushing the kid away creating some needed space. “Right…” Immediately annoyed by the breathless longing he could still hear in his voice. Caught between clearing his throat again and swallowing the wrong way he almost started to hack up a lung.
A hand started pounding his back, his first thought was fuck Sammy kill me why don’t ya
instead of feeling better, the thought of Sammy while he was with this guy only started Dean hacking even harder as he almost fell over trying to breath.
“Hey, you ok?”
Bent over, hand on his knees; Dean tried to force himself to calm down. The steady pounding on his back quickly turned into soothing circles, and not that he’d admit it but it did help, as he was able to regain his breath. Holding up a hand Dean slowly mustered his composure determined to avoid any explanation as he stood. Immediately Dean was angry, more so with himself of how he got himself into the damn situation, waved the kid back as he stood. “Yeah, yeah.” The words were loud harsher then he intended, and swallowed the apology that hung in his mouth. Instead he looked away, allowing an awkward silence to descend.
Getting the message, the kid stepped back and nodded once, “Right then….”
A clumsy side shuffle turned into three then six more steps only making it evident that Dean he couldn’t just leave the kid…or he could if the kid had looked like anyone else instead of his Sammy, and as much as that freaked the fuck out of him—it wasn’t something he could blatantly ignore either.
Cursing under his breath, Dean moved and reached out to stop the kid. Holding tight onto the kid’s jacket ignoring the attempted brush off. “Right, how about we get you sobered up first?”
Angrily the kid twisted, struggling against Dean’s grasp as he shouted. “Fuck off!”
Drunk or not the kid was strong. Using both hands Dean forcibly held the kid in place, staring him down, “Knock it off.” Making use of a practiced parental glare he had developed over the years whenever he came up against Sammy’s stubbornness. “Listen! This is gonna go down one of two ways… either we get you sober and I drop you off at your place. Or, I knock you on your ass, and you sleep it off like that.”
The kid just glared at him before deciding that Dean had meant every word before slowly nodding his consent.
With a congratulatory slap on the back, and a small shove toward the car door, Dean grinned. “Smart choice. Now get in the car, there’s a Waffle House down the road.”
Dean chuckled ignoring the swearing beside him. Turning the ignition, the engine roared to life, and Dean slowly backed up once the kid shut the door.
On reflex, Dean’s fingers pushed a cassette in, allowing the sounds of Metallica to fill in the silence.
With no one on the road, it was only two Metallica songs in before was Dean pulling into The Waffle House’s nearly empty parking lot.
It looked the same as it did when Dean had passed earlier— like business was dead. Neither said a word as they made their way inside, standing patiently before Dean softly smacked the kids shoulder and pointed then led the way to a corner booth in the back. Nice and secluded.
They didn’t have long to wait before a waitress stood there with menus and a pot of coffee in hand.
Dean didn’t wait to be asked, just tipped over both coffee cups and immediately replied, “Just coffee for right now, thanks.”
Nodding she filled their cups and walked away already dismissing their presence.
With a snort Dean replied, “Real friendly. So kid…got a name?”
Ignoring the question, the kid took several sugar packets in hand shaking them before ripping the tip and dumping the contents into his coffee.
“Hey?” The implicit tone was practiced from extended years and attempts in getting Sammy to talk on the few occasions when Sammy he held his tongue.
Two more handfuls of sugar packs followed, slowly stirring in the sweetened contents. Without taking a sip the kid reached for more sugar packs.
Dean reached out and grabbed the sugar away from the kid. “Not that I really
care, but Dude
.” His face pinched as he stared at the kid’s coffee.
The kid just shrugged his shoulders and took several sips of the coffee in question before putting the cup down.
Unexpectantly, because by that point Dean didn’t think he was going to talk, the kid quietly answered his question. “Devon. You?”
Nodding a greeting, which was slightly weird since less then a half-hour ago they were sharing spit, Dean answered, “Dean.”
“Can it. I’m not a kid, I’m as old as you asshole.”
The retort only amused Dean as he bit back a full out smirk—the tip of his tongue peaked out and just hung there for several heartbeats ignoring the obvious playful come backs he normally would have responded to if it’d been Sammy. Licking his lip, Dean nodded, immediately conceding and attempted for light flippantness, but as soon as the words left his mouth, “Excuse me, Devon.” He heard the sharpness of his voice and cringed inwardly.
The silence stretched, Dean itched to move impatiently his fingers started to drum on the table.
“That all you listen to?”
Instantly Dean stopped, “Huh?”
The kid, Devon pointedly stared at Dean’s hands, the look on his face was either constipation or exasperation. Either way it wasn’t a good look. “Metal.”
Dean’s grin only widened, as he started again picking up momentum drumming out a steady beat finally answering, “Only the best.”
A snorted grunt replied followed by silence.
The kid, Devon looked away. Even with his long frame crammed into the booth he just sat there slumped and didn’t say anything more.
Still drumming his fingers, though he softened the impact against the table; Dean couldn’t help but be disappointed by the kid’s lackluster response. If it’d been Sammy he would have torn into Dean teasing him unmercifully. But that was the point, wasn’t it. The kid only reminded him of Sammy, but the fact was he wasn’t Sammy. They didn’t even look that much alike aside from a few of similarities, personality not being one of them—then again the silent emo shit was on the money. On the right day, under the right circumstances it was Sammy all the way.
Without looking up, Devon snarled, “Right so how long we have to do this for?” then apathetically muttered, “Not him you know.”
Dean’s jaw clenched as he gritted his teeth. “Trust me I know. Doesn’t change the facts that you’re not exactly sober.”
Devon snorted, “Right and you love babysitting—so what, do I look like him or something?”
Dean glanced away, picking up his coffee avoiding Devon’s eyes. He felt the heated flush of shame at being reminded of what he said, of what he was doing when he said it, of how wrong it was to be thinking about Sammy, his baby brother that way.
“ You know you said his name? Sammy?” Devon scooted over until he leaned over, his hand sliding up Dean’s thigh, fingers pressing into the muscle before maneuvering upward, his fingers brushing against Dean’s cock. “Certainly had it hard for him.”
Dean’s hand locked onto Devon’s wrist, “Stop.”
Devon ignored him, instead he pushed further and flexed his fingers firmly over Dean’s cock, scooting closer until he was pressed up against Dean’s body, and challengingly asked, “Why?” licking his lips. Devon closed the distance his breath uneven and hot against Dean’s ear. “Enjoyed it earlier, so hard
for him—for me.” Emphasizing his words Devon squeezed the soft cock beneath his fingers. In a husky whisper he added in-between licks “I can do that you know; I can pretend for you—to be him. I’ll let you fuck me…” at his words Dean seemed to freeze, and stared blankly as forbidden images filled his mind.
To capture Dean’s attention, Devon bit his ear, impulsively adding, “or would you rather have Sammy fuck you?” Under the table Dean felt Devon’s hand spanning the length of his cock, felt Devon’s fingers move with purpose as they curled firmly over the ridged length, and encouragingly squeezed Dean again. “I can do that, be your Sammy.” His tongue swept up over Dean's ear, then dipped in, exploring the outer shell down toward his lobe suckling. In-between slurps, Devon’s breath scorching as hot as his words, “just close your eyes, and let me be your Sammy.”
“And who exactly is he suppose to be?”
Dean’s eyes snapped open, to see a couple of guys standing in front of their table. One was taller with dark hair wearing a patch over his left eye staring directly at him. It was apparent he was the one who spoke first, because the second guy, shorter with an obnoxious bleach job, was evidently English, as he stood just behind the dude with the patch casually scanning the room as he spoke. “Be a real stretch. Bloke, looks nothing like Oz.”
Amused Dean watched, as the dude with the patch, lose the intensity of his glare as he rolled his eye. “Spike…”
Barely paying attention, the blond shrugged, before he turned away. “Wot? Even sitting, he’s a hellofalot taller than wolfb…”
“Enough! Come on, Devon lets go.”
“Friends of yours?” Dean asked.
Responding, Devon uttered his disgust. “Hardly.”
Ignoring Devon's hostility, the brunet held out his hand, “More like family. Names Xander” nodding in his direction, "and behind me is Spike."
Dean nodded. Devon's mumbled, “Not going anywhere." was loud enough to carry, just as Devon's hand followed his statement by cupping and squeezing Dean’s groin hard enough he shot up in his seat.
Reaching under the table Dean forcibly pulled Devon’s hand away. “Maybe its time you go home?”
“Where… oh, there you are.” A short blur rushed up behind the guys, but he stayed almost hidden behind Spike's leather coat. Dean could see a hand hoovering, anxious to touch and get Spike's attention. Heard a labored, “We got a problem.”
Dean watched as the new comer leaned up to whisper something to Spike. In turn, Spike straightened, glaring over in Dean’s direction, asking the guy that stayed behind him. “You sure?”
Dean couldn’t hear the answer, but Xander injected, “What?”
Spike’s gaze shifted between him and Devon, but turned a heavy stare at Devon as he vehemently answered, “He’s a bloody hunter.”
Casually under the table Dean reached down, his foot lifting as his hand inched toward the knife tucked in his boot. “What? Winchester, as in John Winchester?” Xander asked meeting Dean’s gaze.
Under his breath Dean muttered, “Fuck.” Only to be repeated and echoed, louder by Xander's astonished, “Fuck.”
That quickly followed Spike's annoyed, “Bloody Hell!”