your voodoo games are haunting me
Hey, I'm behind on comments and friendings and stuff but I'm off out tonight for dinner (at a posh restaurant with an adorable bloke - my life has moments of awesomeness) so will not be getting round to LJ stuff before tomorrow, at the earliest.
To remind you all of my existence, and to get it out of my notebook and into my journal, have some almost sorta porn with Bobby/Dean. Yeah, you love it when I hit the rarepairs, darlings. ♥
Bobby starts to suspect he's been played. He's a conman, good as any ever lived, and he can see a con when it's being played, just… he saw this one a little too late.
When Bobby thinks about it, he thinks it was all set to go the minute Dean climbed out the Impala and flashed him that grin. It started then. That's the reason Bobby hasn't kicked Dean clear the other side of the field, why he's going along with it. The best con is a slow con, a gradual manoeuvring into position.
He's always had a soft spot for Dean, best-natured kid he's ever met, despite his fucked-up upbringing. At seventeen, Dean's not really a kid anymore. He hunts with his dad, can run a pool table with the best of 'em and breaks the hearts of the local girls wherever he goes. And Bobby, Bobby's always been straight. Never experimented, never even looked at another man and thought about it. But somehow, something's been turned about in his head that makes all that gruff heterosexuality go out the window when Dean's mouth is on his cock.
It's not that Dean's just that pretty. The boy is pretty: sun-bleached hair, green eyes and a lush mouth, slender, lightly-muscled body. Dean's pretty. But there's more to it than that. Bobby's met pretty little bastards like Dean before and not one of them ever made Bobby think about turning 'em over onto all fours and making 'em squeal. Not like Dean.
This is a con, he reminds himself as Dean mouths kisses over Bobby's belly, letting the damp head of Bobby's cock smear precome all over the high arch of his cheekbones.
Dean's got him all screwed up inside. Dean's done a hundred and one little things to get them here, Bobby's back up against the fence and Dean on his knees in front of him. He's worked on Bobby, with charm and good humour, playful touching and flashes of tanned skin when he stretches.
And normally, Bobby doesn't take kindly to being conned. Takes it very badly, to be honest with you. But he's not angry with Dean so much as confused. Because for the life of him, he can't see what Dean hopes to get out of this. He can't believe that Dean means to threaten to tell John, 'cos that'd get Bobby filled with buckshot, yeah, but Dean'd get his ass good and tanned by John's belt. He looks down at Dean, who looks up at him through long, sweeping lashes. Far as Bobby can see, all Dean gets out of it is a mouthful of cock.
He doesn't get it, not at all. Not 'til two weeks later, last afternoon before John takes his boys off again. Dean and Sam are in the field with John, shooting cans off the fence. Dean's as good a shot as Bobby's ever seen and Sam's not far behind. John watches, still finds plenty to criticise, nods to himself when the boys do good.
"Not bad, not bad," says John. "Still, could be better. You boys been practising? Doesn't matter how good with a gun you are now, you gotta keep practising. You wanna be sure of a weapon, you gotta practise."
Bobby wonders when exactly Dean decided teenage girls weren't enough of a challenge that he had to use a straight middle-aged man as practice material for his seduction techniques.
~end
To remind you all of my existence, and to get it out of my notebook and into my journal, have some almost sorta porn with Bobby/Dean. Yeah, you love it when I hit the rarepairs, darlings. ♥
Bobby starts to suspect he's been played. He's a conman, good as any ever lived, and he can see a con when it's being played, just… he saw this one a little too late.
When Bobby thinks about it, he thinks it was all set to go the minute Dean climbed out the Impala and flashed him that grin. It started then. That's the reason Bobby hasn't kicked Dean clear the other side of the field, why he's going along with it. The best con is a slow con, a gradual manoeuvring into position.
He's always had a soft spot for Dean, best-natured kid he's ever met, despite his fucked-up upbringing. At seventeen, Dean's not really a kid anymore. He hunts with his dad, can run a pool table with the best of 'em and breaks the hearts of the local girls wherever he goes. And Bobby, Bobby's always been straight. Never experimented, never even looked at another man and thought about it. But somehow, something's been turned about in his head that makes all that gruff heterosexuality go out the window when Dean's mouth is on his cock.
It's not that Dean's just that pretty. The boy is pretty: sun-bleached hair, green eyes and a lush mouth, slender, lightly-muscled body. Dean's pretty. But there's more to it than that. Bobby's met pretty little bastards like Dean before and not one of them ever made Bobby think about turning 'em over onto all fours and making 'em squeal. Not like Dean.
This is a con, he reminds himself as Dean mouths kisses over Bobby's belly, letting the damp head of Bobby's cock smear precome all over the high arch of his cheekbones.
Dean's got him all screwed up inside. Dean's done a hundred and one little things to get them here, Bobby's back up against the fence and Dean on his knees in front of him. He's worked on Bobby, with charm and good humour, playful touching and flashes of tanned skin when he stretches.
And normally, Bobby doesn't take kindly to being conned. Takes it very badly, to be honest with you. But he's not angry with Dean so much as confused. Because for the life of him, he can't see what Dean hopes to get out of this. He can't believe that Dean means to threaten to tell John, 'cos that'd get Bobby filled with buckshot, yeah, but Dean'd get his ass good and tanned by John's belt. He looks down at Dean, who looks up at him through long, sweeping lashes. Far as Bobby can see, all Dean gets out of it is a mouthful of cock.
He doesn't get it, not at all. Not 'til two weeks later, last afternoon before John takes his boys off again. Dean and Sam are in the field with John, shooting cans off the fence. Dean's as good a shot as Bobby's ever seen and Sam's not far behind. John watches, still finds plenty to criticise, nods to himself when the boys do good.
"Not bad, not bad," says John. "Still, could be better. You boys been practising? Doesn't matter how good with a gun you are now, you gotta keep practising. You wanna be sure of a weapon, you gotta practise."
Bobby wonders when exactly Dean decided teenage girls weren't enough of a challenge that he had to use a straight middle-aged man as practice material for his seduction techniques.
~end