Remix Reveal!
Title: i’m just a bill (The Right to Remain Rough and Ready Remix)
Author: girlguidejones
Summary: Dean thinks he knows what John needs; John just knows Dean needs to give it to him.
Pairing: John/Dean; 1600 words
Rating: NC 17
Notes: Thank you to my fantastic beta, hansbekhart, who beta’d both the original and my remix. She was invaluable to my being able to get this right. Additional notes follow at the end of the story.
Disclaimer: Characters are property of the CW, Supernatural, and Eric Kripke. No profit is made, no infringement intended.
Original story: Rough n’ Ready by essenceofmeanin
1. The first time, they’re in Rough n’ Ready, California, driven inside by a late summer squall. He’d say it was unexpected weather, but the only thing he really knows about California is that people here act like they have three or four extra entries on the Bill of Rights that don’t apply to the rest of the country. The right to jaywalk. The right to drive more personal cars than any state in the nation, but still screech about the environment. The right to beat up people to save animals. The right to seduce young women away with dreams of stardom, and young men hopeful of passing for a brand of Normal that will only hold up in the daylight. California took his youngest, sure as a banshee or a demon could. John wonders if he was always meant to lose him, somehow.
A noise brings his attention back to the one he kept. Dean. His oldest isn’t talking today. John’s eerily reminded of a tow-headed boy who changed diapers and mixed formula and didn’t say a willing word for months. Dean’s staring out at the rain, rubbing his fingers against the motel window, squeaking their pads soft and low against the fog his breath is putting on the glass. Looking at him, John wonders if there’s anything he could do and Dean wouldn’t stay.
John’s sitting on the bed, poking at the coal-colored bruises on his ribs in the gray light from the window. They make him feel heavier; not the injury itself, but the weight of the life behind the bruises, like a swollen ankle or a hung-over head. A damaged body always feels leaden. When he looks up again, Dean’s turned and staring at him, face all shadows, even when a flash of lightning glints his hair like Rumplestiltskin’s straw.
Dean’s been more and more taut around him. The air between them started smelling of ozone three states back, the scent of electricity-that-isn’t-there-yet crackling just under their skin and waiting for something to seed the clouds. John’s not surprised when Dean crosses the room and goes to his knees in front of him, not even a little bit, and maybe that’s the worst part. Worse than Sammy leaving. Worse than John telling him to stay gone. He’d say “worse than Mary dying”, but realizes he can’t, that he ranks her dying a greater evil than her son’s fingers rubbing against his father’s crotch (like they were rubbing at the window, just to see what sounds might come out). Now that’s the worst part of all and oh, god, John knows he is so very, very destined for hell.
The thunder rolls, and rattles the crappy single-panes in their casements. It’s still spaced a good bit after the lightning; there’s a bigger storm yet to come. Dean’s not hesitating at all, sinking down like he’s thought about just how he’d like to do it, like he’s done it before, like he’ll do it again as soon as John lets him. John has a surreal moment where he realizes that he’s not surprised Dean knows cock.
Every day with Sam was a downpour of unpredictability. Will Sammy eat the strained peaches he ate yesterday? Will he decide to watch TV instead of study? Will Sam fucking please smile just one fucking time in the entire fucking sixteenth year of his life? Please? But John’s not at all shocked when Dean sinks John into the soft part of his palate and doesn’t even gag.
There are things he doesn’t think about, like how he knows -fucking knows- that there were hunts that went bad. Hunts that went on too long, when he hadn’t left enough money behind and somehow Sammy was still shoveling down Hamburger Helper -with the hamburger in it, even- when John got back. He never asked how, but now that he’s watching the bob of Dean’s head and finally wondering about it, he knows he’s not ever going to.
Dean scrapes ragged nails across the soft underside of his balls, and John shivers and stutters out a moan, marching snare to the steady bass rumble of the storm. When Dean looks up, his pupils are blown, and he looks proud, like John had just clapped him on the shoulder for knocking the tin can off at a hundred and fifty yards.
The kid’s lived his whole life just to make John’s and Sammy’s into something, like they had their own sort of Bill of Rights to him, like they were the whole of his Congress, and he got up every day looking to be voted on and ratified. When Dean blinks and focuses, John realizes that look isn’t new to Dean’s face. He’s seen it before, only third-person-wise. Dean used to look at Sam the same way he’s looking at John now.
Until Sam exercised his power of veto.
Christ. He’d give anything to be stunned that his isn’t the first Winchester cock Dean’s had, but he isn’t. When John realizes he’s actually picturing it in his head, he fumbles, shocked, and the hot wash of shame makes him come. It happens too fast to warn Dean, but Dean acts like it was always his intent to take whatever John would give, and that’s really not anything new either. Dean swallows, throat working eager and urgent, with one hand pistoning hard and fast between his own legs just out of John’s line of sight. John pushes Dean slowly off his cock and rubs a thumb against his temple, shushing, soothing, urging. Dean stares, wide-eyed, his breath rat-a-tatting as the lightning and thunder crrraaack-BOOM together and John watches him fall apart.
2. They head east again the next day without saying any S-words. No saying Stanford or Sammy, no sex, and no sorry, son for either of his boys. They’ve abandoned all pretenses of staying in one place these days, two gleaming black bodies roaring across the roads like an eternal game of keep-away. Dean tries again, and John lets him because he can’t remember any other way to make Dean happy now that Sam’s gone. He knows that’s the worst sort of fucked up rationalization, the kind of bullshit you’d hear from the pedophile on Law&Order. It goes down fast and messy in the narrow bathroom, and both come out bruised. Dean makes noises like it’s exactly what he needs; John knows it’s no kind of thing he has a right to.
3. It’s halfway across the country from where they started, and Dean’s rutting against the damp crease of John’s thigh. John tries twice to shift things, manhandle Dean under him but Dean won’t give. John’s fingers lose purchase on Dean’s skin a third time and he relents, smiles slow and wide and almost uncles just for the hell of it. But seeing his kid climb on top of him, facing him and staring at John as he lowers, is too much. John braces both hands against the fake, plastic-that-looks-like-wood headboard behind him. His belly’s tense and jittering beneath the slow smack of Dean’s ass.
When Dean’s eyes flutter shut and he whimpers, the rhythm falters and John steadies him, one thumb divoting into the point of Dean’s hip, and the other slicking through the wet trickling from Dean’s cock. John rocks his hips up into him...watching, working, wanting to see the moment when Dean gets something back. He swallows a dozen pretty words that end up sticking in his chest. They join a big clot of soft, secret things no one’s ever said to Dean, even though God knows he’s earned the right to hear them.
He settles on “That’s it. That’s it, Dean...that’s my good boy...” punctuating the last couple of words with deep thrusts, actually pushing his ass down into the mattress and then back up into Dean. His son shakes apart on top of him, crying out like a sinner being saved, anguished and relieved and so fucking grateful for a reason to feel redemption.
Watching it happen presses some kind of deep, dark lever inside John and he grunts and comes, murmuring about his good boy, who’s now collapsing and trembling on his chest. John’s still seated inside him, can still feel Dean’s ass clenching around him.
He’s never hated himself more.
John shifts, curls his hand around Dean’s cheek, turns his son’s head and lifts his chin a little so he can see his eyes.
“Dean. Why are you doing this?”
Dean’s eyes are Mary’s plus a toothache; a murky, smoky green. They’re like some upset stomach of a sea John will never lay eyes on in a part of the world where they snack on olives and parmesan slivers instead of pretzels and nacho dip. Dean says nothing. He smiles a crooked, silent filibuster, and ducks his head under John’s chin to nip at his Adam’s apple. The amulet dangles from Dean’s neck -Sammy’s always going to hang between them, somehow- and skitters against John’s sternum. John catches Dean’s chin between two fingers before he gets any further.
“You didn’t answer my question, kid.” Dean shakes him off, and John lets it go. This time the nip is a kiss, delicate and adoring, right in the same place. John relents and tucks Dean’s head against his neck with one hand, skimming ribs with the other.
He keeps his own chin up and his head very still against the dingy pillow. The tears leak right out of his eyecorners that way and Dean doesn’t even know.
-end-
Title taken from Schoolhouse Rock episode I’m just a Bill. The music and lyrics are by Dave Frishberg, and belong to him. Lyrics can be found here. In it we meet a little scrap of paper named bill. Bill gets up every day and heads to Congress, where he waits for approval while the House and Senate bicker, hoping they can both look at him and see common ground, and that they’ll deem him worthy.
Boy: Listen to those congressmen arguing! Is all that discussion and debate about you?
Bill: Yeah, I'm one of the lucky ones. Most bills never even get this far. I hope they decide to report on me favourably, otherwise I may die.
Boy: Die?
Bill: Yeah, die in committee. Oooh, but it looks like I'm gonna live! Now I go to the House of Representatives, and they vote on me.
Boy: If they vote yes, what happens?
Bill: Then I go to the Senate and the whole thing starts all over again.
Boy: Oh no!
Bill: Oh yes!
**************************************************************************************************
Author’s notes that ramble and might be only marginally interesting: So, um, yeah. This isn’t really my pairing, as most of y’all know. But I adore essenceofmeanin. We’re tight. We’re buds. We beta each other’s stories and chat a couple times a week about stuff that isn’t even fandom. WE BAKE COOKIES AND MAIL THEM TO EACH OTHER!!! I literally squealed aloud when I read the email that said I got her name...even though her signature pairing sorta squicks me. In reality, she has other pairings or gen stories I could have reworked. Or I could have taken one of her John/Dean stories and...uh...made it J/D Lite. But I wanted to both challenge myself to write something I normally wouldn't, and surprise her with something she probably assumed she’d never get. And, yeah, I have to admit I'm proud of how it turned out. N- I hope that in some small way it lives up to what you envisioned for the original. It was an honor for me to work with your stories.
Author: girlguidejones
Summary: Dean thinks he knows what John needs; John just knows Dean needs to give it to him.
Pairing: John/Dean; 1600 words
Rating: NC 17
Notes: Thank you to my fantastic beta, hansbekhart, who beta’d both the original and my remix. She was invaluable to my being able to get this right. Additional notes follow at the end of the story.
Disclaimer: Characters are property of the CW, Supernatural, and Eric Kripke. No profit is made, no infringement intended.
Original story: Rough n’ Ready by essenceofmeanin
1. The first time, they’re in Rough n’ Ready, California, driven inside by a late summer squall. He’d say it was unexpected weather, but the only thing he really knows about California is that people here act like they have three or four extra entries on the Bill of Rights that don’t apply to the rest of the country. The right to jaywalk. The right to drive more personal cars than any state in the nation, but still screech about the environment. The right to beat up people to save animals. The right to seduce young women away with dreams of stardom, and young men hopeful of passing for a brand of Normal that will only hold up in the daylight. California took his youngest, sure as a banshee or a demon could. John wonders if he was always meant to lose him, somehow.
A noise brings his attention back to the one he kept. Dean. His oldest isn’t talking today. John’s eerily reminded of a tow-headed boy who changed diapers and mixed formula and didn’t say a willing word for months. Dean’s staring out at the rain, rubbing his fingers against the motel window, squeaking their pads soft and low against the fog his breath is putting on the glass. Looking at him, John wonders if there’s anything he could do and Dean wouldn’t stay.
John’s sitting on the bed, poking at the coal-colored bruises on his ribs in the gray light from the window. They make him feel heavier; not the injury itself, but the weight of the life behind the bruises, like a swollen ankle or a hung-over head. A damaged body always feels leaden. When he looks up again, Dean’s turned and staring at him, face all shadows, even when a flash of lightning glints his hair like Rumplestiltskin’s straw.
Dean’s been more and more taut around him. The air between them started smelling of ozone three states back, the scent of electricity-that-isn’t-there-yet crackling just under their skin and waiting for something to seed the clouds. John’s not surprised when Dean crosses the room and goes to his knees in front of him, not even a little bit, and maybe that’s the worst part. Worse than Sammy leaving. Worse than John telling him to stay gone. He’d say “worse than Mary dying”, but realizes he can’t, that he ranks her dying a greater evil than her son’s fingers rubbing against his father’s crotch (like they were rubbing at the window, just to see what sounds might come out). Now that’s the worst part of all and oh, god, John knows he is so very, very destined for hell.
The thunder rolls, and rattles the crappy single-panes in their casements. It’s still spaced a good bit after the lightning; there’s a bigger storm yet to come. Dean’s not hesitating at all, sinking down like he’s thought about just how he’d like to do it, like he’s done it before, like he’ll do it again as soon as John lets him. John has a surreal moment where he realizes that he’s not surprised Dean knows cock.
Every day with Sam was a downpour of unpredictability. Will Sammy eat the strained peaches he ate yesterday? Will he decide to watch TV instead of study? Will Sam fucking please smile just one fucking time in the entire fucking sixteenth year of his life? Please? But John’s not at all shocked when Dean sinks John into the soft part of his palate and doesn’t even gag.
There are things he doesn’t think about, like how he knows -fucking knows- that there were hunts that went bad. Hunts that went on too long, when he hadn’t left enough money behind and somehow Sammy was still shoveling down Hamburger Helper -with the hamburger in it, even- when John got back. He never asked how, but now that he’s watching the bob of Dean’s head and finally wondering about it, he knows he’s not ever going to.
Dean scrapes ragged nails across the soft underside of his balls, and John shivers and stutters out a moan, marching snare to the steady bass rumble of the storm. When Dean looks up, his pupils are blown, and he looks proud, like John had just clapped him on the shoulder for knocking the tin can off at a hundred and fifty yards.
The kid’s lived his whole life just to make John’s and Sammy’s into something, like they had their own sort of Bill of Rights to him, like they were the whole of his Congress, and he got up every day looking to be voted on and ratified. When Dean blinks and focuses, John realizes that look isn’t new to Dean’s face. He’s seen it before, only third-person-wise. Dean used to look at Sam the same way he’s looking at John now.
Until Sam exercised his power of veto.
Christ. He’d give anything to be stunned that his isn’t the first Winchester cock Dean’s had, but he isn’t. When John realizes he’s actually picturing it in his head, he fumbles, shocked, and the hot wash of shame makes him come. It happens too fast to warn Dean, but Dean acts like it was always his intent to take whatever John would give, and that’s really not anything new either. Dean swallows, throat working eager and urgent, with one hand pistoning hard and fast between his own legs just out of John’s line of sight. John pushes Dean slowly off his cock and rubs a thumb against his temple, shushing, soothing, urging. Dean stares, wide-eyed, his breath rat-a-tatting as the lightning and thunder crrraaack-BOOM together and John watches him fall apart.
2. They head east again the next day without saying any S-words. No saying Stanford or Sammy, no sex, and no sorry, son for either of his boys. They’ve abandoned all pretenses of staying in one place these days, two gleaming black bodies roaring across the roads like an eternal game of keep-away. Dean tries again, and John lets him because he can’t remember any other way to make Dean happy now that Sam’s gone. He knows that’s the worst sort of fucked up rationalization, the kind of bullshit you’d hear from the pedophile on Law&Order. It goes down fast and messy in the narrow bathroom, and both come out bruised. Dean makes noises like it’s exactly what he needs; John knows it’s no kind of thing he has a right to.
3. It’s halfway across the country from where they started, and Dean’s rutting against the damp crease of John’s thigh. John tries twice to shift things, manhandle Dean under him but Dean won’t give. John’s fingers lose purchase on Dean’s skin a third time and he relents, smiles slow and wide and almost uncles just for the hell of it. But seeing his kid climb on top of him, facing him and staring at John as he lowers, is too much. John braces both hands against the fake, plastic-that-looks-like-wood headboard behind him. His belly’s tense and jittering beneath the slow smack of Dean’s ass.
When Dean’s eyes flutter shut and he whimpers, the rhythm falters and John steadies him, one thumb divoting into the point of Dean’s hip, and the other slicking through the wet trickling from Dean’s cock. John rocks his hips up into him...watching, working, wanting to see the moment when Dean gets something back. He swallows a dozen pretty words that end up sticking in his chest. They join a big clot of soft, secret things no one’s ever said to Dean, even though God knows he’s earned the right to hear them.
He settles on “That’s it. That’s it, Dean...that’s my good boy...” punctuating the last couple of words with deep thrusts, actually pushing his ass down into the mattress and then back up into Dean. His son shakes apart on top of him, crying out like a sinner being saved, anguished and relieved and so fucking grateful for a reason to feel redemption.
Watching it happen presses some kind of deep, dark lever inside John and he grunts and comes, murmuring about his good boy, who’s now collapsing and trembling on his chest. John’s still seated inside him, can still feel Dean’s ass clenching around him.
He’s never hated himself more.
John shifts, curls his hand around Dean’s cheek, turns his son’s head and lifts his chin a little so he can see his eyes.
“Dean. Why are you doing this?”
Dean’s eyes are Mary’s plus a toothache; a murky, smoky green. They’re like some upset stomach of a sea John will never lay eyes on in a part of the world where they snack on olives and parmesan slivers instead of pretzels and nacho dip. Dean says nothing. He smiles a crooked, silent filibuster, and ducks his head under John’s chin to nip at his Adam’s apple. The amulet dangles from Dean’s neck -Sammy’s always going to hang between them, somehow- and skitters against John’s sternum. John catches Dean’s chin between two fingers before he gets any further.
“You didn’t answer my question, kid.” Dean shakes him off, and John lets it go. This time the nip is a kiss, delicate and adoring, right in the same place. John relents and tucks Dean’s head against his neck with one hand, skimming ribs with the other.
He keeps his own chin up and his head very still against the dingy pillow. The tears leak right out of his eyecorners that way and Dean doesn’t even know.
-end-
Title taken from Schoolhouse Rock episode I’m just a Bill. The music and lyrics are by Dave Frishberg, and belong to him. Lyrics can be found here. In it we meet a little scrap of paper named bill. Bill gets up every day and heads to Congress, where he waits for approval while the House and Senate bicker, hoping they can both look at him and see common ground, and that they’ll deem him worthy.
Boy: Listen to those congressmen arguing! Is all that discussion and debate about you?
Bill: Yeah, I'm one of the lucky ones. Most bills never even get this far. I hope they decide to report on me favourably, otherwise I may die.
Boy: Die?
Bill: Yeah, die in committee. Oooh, but it looks like I'm gonna live! Now I go to the House of Representatives, and they vote on me.
Boy: If they vote yes, what happens?
Bill: Then I go to the Senate and the whole thing starts all over again.
Boy: Oh no!
Bill: Oh yes!
**************************************************************************************************
Author’s notes that ramble and might be only marginally interesting: So, um, yeah. This isn’t really my pairing, as most of y’all know. But I adore essenceofmeanin. We’re tight. We’re buds. We beta each other’s stories and chat a couple times a week about stuff that isn’t even fandom. WE BAKE COOKIES AND MAIL THEM TO EACH OTHER!!! I literally squealed aloud when I read the email that said I got her name...even though her signature pairing sorta squicks me. In reality, she has other pairings or gen stories I could have reworked. Or I could have taken one of her John/Dean stories and...uh...made it J/D Lite. But I wanted to both challenge myself to write something I normally wouldn't, and surprise her with something she probably assumed she’d never get. And, yeah, I have to admit I'm proud of how it turned out. N- I hope that in some small way it lives up to what you envisioned for the original. It was an honor for me to work with your stories.