(no subject)
Reaching Backwards
Pairings: John/Dean
Disclaimer: Supernatural is owned by the CW, not me.
Author's note: I am absolutely fascinated by this. A few people requested a companion piece/prequel -- specifically, when Dean tried to kiss John when he was younger. I don't specify Dean's age here, just a general timeline, but it's not supposed to be underage. A companion piece to Rough'n'Ready, and Keep Your Feet On the Ground
It was a rare pause in travel for them. They’d stopped over at an old hunter friend of Dad’s out in the boondocks, retired now but with a barracks and camp on his back forty to help others that’re still going. Nowhere to be for once: no new leads and another week before Sammy’s leave of absence is up, and they kick him out of whatever school’s he’s in now. Dean doesn’t know any of the few other hunters or mystics there, hasn’t bothered to learn a single name.
He’d met his dad over the coffee pot before dawn, both of them a little uneasy with so many strangers around. They beat a path out to the sandy pit that doubled as a sparring ring and threw down, not stopping until they’re covered in sweat and Dean’s managed to pin his dad three times in a row. The sun’s already leaking over the trees, temperature inching toward the nineties. The air smells clean, sharp over the smell of their own bodies.
It’s the kind of day that softens bones, leaves spit welling in your mouth. They bump shoulders stomping trails toward the showers, which Dean’s already decided are the best part about this place. The showers are long, gleaming dark planks of wood set communally close together in a wide patch of clearing, open on all sides.
The two men drop their clothes in messy piles, laughing softly about absolutely nothing. Dean can feel heat rising from the scattered bark dust, his eyes drooping shut from insomnia, from hours wrestling in the dirt. They step together into the belt of sunlight, John kicking the old pipes when they grumble before steaming water sluices out.
Dean sneezes when the stream hits him, panting like a dog in spite of himself. His dad angles a smile towards him and steals the single bar of soap, blocking Dean’s grabs for it with elbows and wrists, lathers himself slowly. He hands it back with a grin when he’s done, rubs soapy knuckles across the back of Dean’s neck.
Dean leans into it, humming tunelessly under his breath. His eyes pop open into blinding light, and he throws an arm across his face, uses the other to push open palmed towards his father’s chest. They jostle together, stepping in and out of the flow of water, slipping across the wet boards. John pinches his nose; Dean slides an ankle around his father’s knee but John plants his feet, doesn’t budge, and Dean ends up smacking a chin against the other man’s shoulder. John’s laughing at him but Dean can’t quite figure out why.
The sun’s too bright, his father’s face shadowed against it when Dean looks. He’s breathing hard again, hot water leaching aches out of his muscles, and smiles sheepishly when John reaches over to rub the back of Dean’s head with one broad calloused hand. His eyes slide closed again, and he lifts his chin off his father’s collarbone. He leans in, brushes his cheek against stubble, and touches his lips to the corner of John’s mouth.
John doesn’t quite freeze so Dean kisses him again, licks along his father’s lower lip until he opens his mouth and lets Dean slide in. He’s half asleep in baking sun with water beating down against his shoulders and ribs; John brings a hand up, not quite touching Dean’s throat, but Dean can feel the backs of his fingers ghosting along his skin. He pulls back with a slow grin, but his father’s eyes are wide and dark even against that much light.
Pairings: John/Dean
Disclaimer: Supernatural is owned by the CW, not me.
Author's note: I am absolutely fascinated by this. A few people requested a companion piece/prequel -- specifically, when Dean tried to kiss John when he was younger. I don't specify Dean's age here, just a general timeline, but it's not supposed to be underage. A companion piece to Rough'n'Ready, and Keep Your Feet On the Ground
It was a rare pause in travel for them. They’d stopped over at an old hunter friend of Dad’s out in the boondocks, retired now but with a barracks and camp on his back forty to help others that’re still going. Nowhere to be for once: no new leads and another week before Sammy’s leave of absence is up, and they kick him out of whatever school’s he’s in now. Dean doesn’t know any of the few other hunters or mystics there, hasn’t bothered to learn a single name.
He’d met his dad over the coffee pot before dawn, both of them a little uneasy with so many strangers around. They beat a path out to the sandy pit that doubled as a sparring ring and threw down, not stopping until they’re covered in sweat and Dean’s managed to pin his dad three times in a row. The sun’s already leaking over the trees, temperature inching toward the nineties. The air smells clean, sharp over the smell of their own bodies.
It’s the kind of day that softens bones, leaves spit welling in your mouth. They bump shoulders stomping trails toward the showers, which Dean’s already decided are the best part about this place. The showers are long, gleaming dark planks of wood set communally close together in a wide patch of clearing, open on all sides.
The two men drop their clothes in messy piles, laughing softly about absolutely nothing. Dean can feel heat rising from the scattered bark dust, his eyes drooping shut from insomnia, from hours wrestling in the dirt. They step together into the belt of sunlight, John kicking the old pipes when they grumble before steaming water sluices out.
Dean sneezes when the stream hits him, panting like a dog in spite of himself. His dad angles a smile towards him and steals the single bar of soap, blocking Dean’s grabs for it with elbows and wrists, lathers himself slowly. He hands it back with a grin when he’s done, rubs soapy knuckles across the back of Dean’s neck.
Dean leans into it, humming tunelessly under his breath. His eyes pop open into blinding light, and he throws an arm across his face, uses the other to push open palmed towards his father’s chest. They jostle together, stepping in and out of the flow of water, slipping across the wet boards. John pinches his nose; Dean slides an ankle around his father’s knee but John plants his feet, doesn’t budge, and Dean ends up smacking a chin against the other man’s shoulder. John’s laughing at him but Dean can’t quite figure out why.
The sun’s too bright, his father’s face shadowed against it when Dean looks. He’s breathing hard again, hot water leaching aches out of his muscles, and smiles sheepishly when John reaches over to rub the back of Dean’s head with one broad calloused hand. His eyes slide closed again, and he lifts his chin off his father’s collarbone. He leans in, brushes his cheek against stubble, and touches his lips to the corner of John’s mouth.
John doesn’t quite freeze so Dean kisses him again, licks along his father’s lower lip until he opens his mouth and lets Dean slide in. He’s half asleep in baking sun with water beating down against his shoulders and ribs; John brings a hand up, not quite touching Dean’s throat, but Dean can feel the backs of his fingers ghosting along his skin. He pulls back with a slow grin, but his father’s eyes are wide and dark even against that much light.