(no subject)
Title: Day Spa
Fandom: Supernatural
Pairing: John/Dean
Rating: Porn, baby.
Notes: Thanks to angstslashhope for kicking my arse and to droolfangrrl for American-checking. Written for jeffathon, prompt no. 23: "John/Dean, mud... as in water and dirt". More water than mud, I'm afraid...
Day Spa
They're filthy when they stumble into the motel room, mud and sweat that the humidity has left smeared over their skin. John's so full of the buzz of a good hunt that he doesn't even mind the mud squishing between his toes and in his armpits and in the crack of his ass.
Dean flips the light on, looks over at him, and his grin falls into a laugh. "If I look anything like you..." he says, and runs his hand over his hair. He doesn't get rid of the dirt, just smears it through, and he shakes his hand to send dirty water spattering across the carpet.
The carpet's had worse, so John just smiles. "Good hunt," he says and pulls his arms over his head, stretches until his spine cracks and his shoulders pop. He nods towards the tiny bathroom. "You have first shower. And no dawdling."
"Yeah?" Dean cocks his head and his teeth are startling white against the mud smeared over his face and caked on his eyelashes. "What if I want to dawdle?" He stands there a moment - posing, John tells himself - then pulls his t-shirt over his head. His chest and upper arms are almost clean, golden in the dim glow of a cheap bulb. The few streaks and splashes of mud just highlight his muscles and John feels a momentary surge of pride in what he made.
"You might find yourself with company," he says, too distracted to lie.
Dean's grin turns dirty. "I could cope with that."
John has to look down and he shakes his head slowly, still smiling. "Get gone."
"Yes, sir." Dean kicks off his boots before moving, then pauses at the door to the bathroom. He doesn't look back but he fucking shimmies out of his jeans and shorts and he's got to know damn well that John can't look away.
Dean doesn't close the bathroom door. He barely even tugs the shower curtain across, just climbs into the tub and turns the shower on full blast. John hears him gasp as he jerks back, out of the spray, then leans forward to test the water, waiting for it to run warm.
And John knows he shouldn't be watching but Dean makes it damn hard not to. Especially when he finally steps forward again and lifts his face into the spray. His skin's slick, shining in the bathroom's fluorescent light, and it just highlights the smooth movement of his muscles.
"Fuck," John says to himself and he's surprised at the roughness of his own voice. He unbuttons his shirt, pulls it and his t-shirt over his head, then kicks off his boots. He slows as he unbuckles his belt but Dean shifts in the shower, muscles sliding under his skin, and John pushes down his jeans and underwear and pads naked to the bathroom.
The floor's covered in water and John splashes across it to the bath. He steps into it, stands behind Dean, and Dean doesn't move. It isn't until John pulls the shower curtain properly across that Dean whips round and stares at him. Then his expression softens into something smug.
"I told you not to dawdle," John says and reaches to wipe away a streak of mud that's still on Dean's face. He just smears it, leaving Dean with warpaint across his cheek.
Dean raises an eyebrow. "Scrub my back?"
"It's not your back that's dirty," John says and leans past Dean to pick up the shampoo. "Turn around." It still startles him, sometimes, how quickly Dean obeys. He expects it in the field but that he gets it here can be unnerving. He takes a deep breath and pours the shampoo into his hand.
Dean's hair's soaked but it's so thick with mud that it still stands up in spikes. John smooths the shampoo over it and starts to lather it up.
"Filthy," he mumurs and Dean leans back against him. John doesn't need to see his face to know he's grinning.
"You're the one who tackled it in a mud puddle," Dean says.
"I shot it. You decided to close in for the kill right there."
Dean shrugs. "The outcome's all good, you ask me."
John tightens his fingers in Dean's hair and Dean gasps, pushes back.
John doesn't breathe until Dean speaks. "Please," he says, voice so faint and hoarse that John can barely hear it over the hiss of the shower. He doesn't actually need the words because it's all in Dean's posture, the way his head is tilting to one side and his ass is pressing back against John's cock. It's all in how Dean's been acting since they wound up sprawled on top of each other in the mud.
And John bends his neck, rests his mouth and nose in the curve of Dean's neck and shoulder. There's still mud in and behind Dean's ear, caked in the curves and whorls, and he can still smell the sweat of the hunt. It sends his blood roaring through him and he isn't even aware he's moving until he's got Dean's cock in his hand and Dean's head is resting back on his shoulder, smearing mud over him.
"Fuck," Dean hisses, and John tightens his grip. It shouldn't be instinctive but it is. He knows exactly how hard and how fast his son likes it; he knows just when to be rough and when to ease off; and he knows the whine in Dean's throat when he's seconds away from coming.
And that's when he lets go.
"Fuck, Dad." Dean's breath is harsh and he rubs back against John. "Wha-? Why?"
"On your knees," John says. Only he doesn't say it, he growls it, because Dean's making him so crazy he can't even talk properly. Dean stiffens for moment, then twists and drops to his knees and he's sucking John's cock like it's the only thing keeping him alive.
John tries to wrap his fingers in Dean's hair but it's too slick with shampoo and mud and it turns into a caress. Dean's fingers are on his hips, digging in too tight, but John can't make himself be rough, no matter how much Dean wants it. Instead, he talks. "That's it. You got it. You got it, son." Dean's fingers tighten at the last word and John's coming, letting it rush through him and take the last of the fight's adrenaline with it.
After a long moment, he makes himself let go of Dean's head. Dean twists round to spit down the plughole, then looks up. He smiles, and he looks tired and happy and John has to shut his eyes against it for a moment.
He reaches down and takes Dean's hand, pulls him to his feet. He meant to just give Dean a handjob, just get him off, but Dean leans in and kisses him, deep and filthy, and grinds up against him. So John grabs his ass, pulls him in close and it's only seconds until Dean stiffens and bites John's tongue as he comes with a whimper.
John gives him a moment to pull himself together then firmly pushes him away, holds him until he's steady on his feet. "Better finish your shower," he says.
Dean blinks at him. "You're still muddy," he says and his smile widens. "Want me to scrub your back?"
John doesn't smile back and Dean's smile slowly dies. "I'll do," John says. "You get yourself cleaned up. We've got an early start in the morning."
"Yes, sir," Dean says and John nearly reaches out to him but he makes himself turn away, step out of the tub. When he's got a towel safely wrapped around him, he looks back and Dean isn't watching. John shuts the door behind him.
He's in bed with the lights off by the time Dean comes out of the bathroom. He shuts his eyes against the glare and keeps them shut as Dean passes his bed, keeps his breathing steady and shallow and ignores the itch of mud drying on his skin. Dean doesn't even pause.
John lets his breath deepen with relief.
Fandom: Supernatural
Pairing: John/Dean
Rating: Porn, baby.
Notes: Thanks to angstslashhope for kicking my arse and to droolfangrrl for American-checking. Written for jeffathon, prompt no. 23: "John/Dean, mud... as in water and dirt". More water than mud, I'm afraid...
Day Spa
They're filthy when they stumble into the motel room, mud and sweat that the humidity has left smeared over their skin. John's so full of the buzz of a good hunt that he doesn't even mind the mud squishing between his toes and in his armpits and in the crack of his ass.
Dean flips the light on, looks over at him, and his grin falls into a laugh. "If I look anything like you..." he says, and runs his hand over his hair. He doesn't get rid of the dirt, just smears it through, and he shakes his hand to send dirty water spattering across the carpet.
The carpet's had worse, so John just smiles. "Good hunt," he says and pulls his arms over his head, stretches until his spine cracks and his shoulders pop. He nods towards the tiny bathroom. "You have first shower. And no dawdling."
"Yeah?" Dean cocks his head and his teeth are startling white against the mud smeared over his face and caked on his eyelashes. "What if I want to dawdle?" He stands there a moment - posing, John tells himself - then pulls his t-shirt over his head. His chest and upper arms are almost clean, golden in the dim glow of a cheap bulb. The few streaks and splashes of mud just highlight his muscles and John feels a momentary surge of pride in what he made.
"You might find yourself with company," he says, too distracted to lie.
Dean's grin turns dirty. "I could cope with that."
John has to look down and he shakes his head slowly, still smiling. "Get gone."
"Yes, sir." Dean kicks off his boots before moving, then pauses at the door to the bathroom. He doesn't look back but he fucking shimmies out of his jeans and shorts and he's got to know damn well that John can't look away.
Dean doesn't close the bathroom door. He barely even tugs the shower curtain across, just climbs into the tub and turns the shower on full blast. John hears him gasp as he jerks back, out of the spray, then leans forward to test the water, waiting for it to run warm.
And John knows he shouldn't be watching but Dean makes it damn hard not to. Especially when he finally steps forward again and lifts his face into the spray. His skin's slick, shining in the bathroom's fluorescent light, and it just highlights the smooth movement of his muscles.
"Fuck," John says to himself and he's surprised at the roughness of his own voice. He unbuttons his shirt, pulls it and his t-shirt over his head, then kicks off his boots. He slows as he unbuckles his belt but Dean shifts in the shower, muscles sliding under his skin, and John pushes down his jeans and underwear and pads naked to the bathroom.
The floor's covered in water and John splashes across it to the bath. He steps into it, stands behind Dean, and Dean doesn't move. It isn't until John pulls the shower curtain properly across that Dean whips round and stares at him. Then his expression softens into something smug.
"I told you not to dawdle," John says and reaches to wipe away a streak of mud that's still on Dean's face. He just smears it, leaving Dean with warpaint across his cheek.
Dean raises an eyebrow. "Scrub my back?"
"It's not your back that's dirty," John says and leans past Dean to pick up the shampoo. "Turn around." It still startles him, sometimes, how quickly Dean obeys. He expects it in the field but that he gets it here can be unnerving. He takes a deep breath and pours the shampoo into his hand.
Dean's hair's soaked but it's so thick with mud that it still stands up in spikes. John smooths the shampoo over it and starts to lather it up.
"Filthy," he mumurs and Dean leans back against him. John doesn't need to see his face to know he's grinning.
"You're the one who tackled it in a mud puddle," Dean says.
"I shot it. You decided to close in for the kill right there."
Dean shrugs. "The outcome's all good, you ask me."
John tightens his fingers in Dean's hair and Dean gasps, pushes back.
John doesn't breathe until Dean speaks. "Please," he says, voice so faint and hoarse that John can barely hear it over the hiss of the shower. He doesn't actually need the words because it's all in Dean's posture, the way his head is tilting to one side and his ass is pressing back against John's cock. It's all in how Dean's been acting since they wound up sprawled on top of each other in the mud.
And John bends his neck, rests his mouth and nose in the curve of Dean's neck and shoulder. There's still mud in and behind Dean's ear, caked in the curves and whorls, and he can still smell the sweat of the hunt. It sends his blood roaring through him and he isn't even aware he's moving until he's got Dean's cock in his hand and Dean's head is resting back on his shoulder, smearing mud over him.
"Fuck," Dean hisses, and John tightens his grip. It shouldn't be instinctive but it is. He knows exactly how hard and how fast his son likes it; he knows just when to be rough and when to ease off; and he knows the whine in Dean's throat when he's seconds away from coming.
And that's when he lets go.
"Fuck, Dad." Dean's breath is harsh and he rubs back against John. "Wha-? Why?"
"On your knees," John says. Only he doesn't say it, he growls it, because Dean's making him so crazy he can't even talk properly. Dean stiffens for moment, then twists and drops to his knees and he's sucking John's cock like it's the only thing keeping him alive.
John tries to wrap his fingers in Dean's hair but it's too slick with shampoo and mud and it turns into a caress. Dean's fingers are on his hips, digging in too tight, but John can't make himself be rough, no matter how much Dean wants it. Instead, he talks. "That's it. You got it. You got it, son." Dean's fingers tighten at the last word and John's coming, letting it rush through him and take the last of the fight's adrenaline with it.
After a long moment, he makes himself let go of Dean's head. Dean twists round to spit down the plughole, then looks up. He smiles, and he looks tired and happy and John has to shut his eyes against it for a moment.
He reaches down and takes Dean's hand, pulls him to his feet. He meant to just give Dean a handjob, just get him off, but Dean leans in and kisses him, deep and filthy, and grinds up against him. So John grabs his ass, pulls him in close and it's only seconds until Dean stiffens and bites John's tongue as he comes with a whimper.
John gives him a moment to pull himself together then firmly pushes him away, holds him until he's steady on his feet. "Better finish your shower," he says.
Dean blinks at him. "You're still muddy," he says and his smile widens. "Want me to scrub your back?"
John doesn't smile back and Dean's smile slowly dies. "I'll do," John says. "You get yourself cleaned up. We've got an early start in the morning."
"Yes, sir," Dean says and John nearly reaches out to him but he makes himself turn away, step out of the tub. When he's got a towel safely wrapped around him, he looks back and Dean isn't watching. John shuts the door behind him.
He's in bed with the lights off by the time Dean comes out of the bathroom. He shuts his eyes against the glare and keeps them shut as Dean passes his bed, keeps his breathing steady and shallow and ignores the itch of mud drying on his skin. Dean doesn't even pause.
John lets his breath deepen with relief.