Cool drink of water such a sweet surprise
Pairing: Dean/Death
Rating: R
Word Count: 760
Dean's been warned not to summon Death, but he can't help it; he likes the guy's style. And he's useful. This time Dean summons him from the side porch of a roadside diner outside of Savannah, Georgia. It's a soul food place, seems like the type of food Death would like, and the employees are enclosed in bullet proof, sound proof glass, so it's not like they're going to hear what's going on around the corner from their order counter or like they'll even notice with it being so close to closing time.
"What did I tell you about trying to summon me?" Death asks as he appears just to the right of the table where Dean is sitting.
"Not to do it," Dean responds with a slight wince.
Death slides into the chair across from Dean and picks up the napkin from the table, unfolding it and placing it in his lap. He picks up the knife and fork before seeming to examine the food before him.
"Macaroni and cheese, fried pickles, fried chicken, and sweet potato casserole," Dean lists, gesturing at each section of the plate. "Plus pecan pie and sweet tea."
"And you think this will appease me?" Death asks as he stabs a macaroni noodle with the fork.
"Worth a shot," Dean shrugs.
Dean watches Death lift the fork to his mouth, carefully taking a bite before licking his lips. He continues to methodically demolish the dish, one bite at a time, occasionally pausing to stare at Dean impassively. It's mesmerizing watching the man, the creature, the being, eat. He's as careful and precise with this as he is in everything else. The way he walks, wipes his mouth, gestures, and talks all seem to be planned out in advance. Dean's used to thinking on the fly, acting without thought, being messy in everything he does. Maybe it's more than fascinating, the contrast, something that makes Dean squirm in his seat, feeling the burn of arousal low in his belly. He tries to ignore it by stuffing his face, eating twice as fast as Death.
"I must say, you do have good taste when it comes to this," Death finally says as he folds his napkin into precise squares and sets it aside.
"We all gotta be good at something, right?" Dean smirks.
"Why have you summoned me?" Death asks.
"Can't a guy invite another guy to dinner?"
Death raises an eyebrow. "That hasn't been my experience with you Winchesters, no."
"Well, you know, thought I'd give it a shot," Dean mutters.
And then nearly has a heart attack when he feels something solid press against his groin. His eyes shoot to Death who is seemingly busy giving the plastic straw in his sweet tea a blow job. Death pauses, the straw resting on his lower lip, but the pressure on Dean's cock continues.
"You don't have to be coy. I can sense your need. It's always there. The need to be needed, the need to be loved, and when you don't get those things, you settle for basic carnal desires."
Dean slumps in his chair a bit, widening his legs. He grips the edge of the table, resisting the urge to throw his head back and moan.
"Is this why you called me here? To fulfill that desire?"
"Yes," Dean grits out.
"Hmm." Death slides a dish of pecan pie closer to Dean. "Eat."
"I… what?" Dean gasps.
"I assume you… reciprocate with your lovers?" Death asks with a slight tilt of his lips.
"You get off on me eating?" Dean gapes, but he picks up the fork.
"Your enjoyment of food is quite entertaining," Death admits.
Dean takes a careful bite of the pie, savoring the crunch of the pecans, the sweetness of the filling, and Death's touch becomes more forceful, the friction greater. Soon Dean is moaning between bites, trying to show off for Death, give him as much as Dean is getting.
"There we go," Death says with just a slight hint of breathless wonder.
"Oh fuck," Dean swears, his eyes screwing up tight as he comes, mouth falling open around the last forkful of pie, before he swallows it, keeping his mouth open just enough for Death to see.
As Dean pants, trying to catch his breath, Death leans across the table, swipes his thumb against Dean's lips and then brings the finger to his own mouth, licking it clean.
"Hmm. Cherry next time, perhaps?"
Before Dean can even blink, Death is gone, leaving him with cooling come in his boxers and an overwhelming desire to find the best cherry pie in the country.
Rating: R
Word Count: 760
Dean's been warned not to summon Death, but he can't help it; he likes the guy's style. And he's useful. This time Dean summons him from the side porch of a roadside diner outside of Savannah, Georgia. It's a soul food place, seems like the type of food Death would like, and the employees are enclosed in bullet proof, sound proof glass, so it's not like they're going to hear what's going on around the corner from their order counter or like they'll even notice with it being so close to closing time.
"What did I tell you about trying to summon me?" Death asks as he appears just to the right of the table where Dean is sitting.
"Not to do it," Dean responds with a slight wince.
Death slides into the chair across from Dean and picks up the napkin from the table, unfolding it and placing it in his lap. He picks up the knife and fork before seeming to examine the food before him.
"Macaroni and cheese, fried pickles, fried chicken, and sweet potato casserole," Dean lists, gesturing at each section of the plate. "Plus pecan pie and sweet tea."
"And you think this will appease me?" Death asks as he stabs a macaroni noodle with the fork.
"Worth a shot," Dean shrugs.
Dean watches Death lift the fork to his mouth, carefully taking a bite before licking his lips. He continues to methodically demolish the dish, one bite at a time, occasionally pausing to stare at Dean impassively. It's mesmerizing watching the man, the creature, the being, eat. He's as careful and precise with this as he is in everything else. The way he walks, wipes his mouth, gestures, and talks all seem to be planned out in advance. Dean's used to thinking on the fly, acting without thought, being messy in everything he does. Maybe it's more than fascinating, the contrast, something that makes Dean squirm in his seat, feeling the burn of arousal low in his belly. He tries to ignore it by stuffing his face, eating twice as fast as Death.
"I must say, you do have good taste when it comes to this," Death finally says as he folds his napkin into precise squares and sets it aside.
"We all gotta be good at something, right?" Dean smirks.
"Why have you summoned me?" Death asks.
"Can't a guy invite another guy to dinner?"
Death raises an eyebrow. "That hasn't been my experience with you Winchesters, no."
"Well, you know, thought I'd give it a shot," Dean mutters.
And then nearly has a heart attack when he feels something solid press against his groin. His eyes shoot to Death who is seemingly busy giving the plastic straw in his sweet tea a blow job. Death pauses, the straw resting on his lower lip, but the pressure on Dean's cock continues.
"You don't have to be coy. I can sense your need. It's always there. The need to be needed, the need to be loved, and when you don't get those things, you settle for basic carnal desires."
Dean slumps in his chair a bit, widening his legs. He grips the edge of the table, resisting the urge to throw his head back and moan.
"Is this why you called me here? To fulfill that desire?"
"Yes," Dean grits out.
"Hmm." Death slides a dish of pecan pie closer to Dean. "Eat."
"I… what?" Dean gasps.
"I assume you… reciprocate with your lovers?" Death asks with a slight tilt of his lips.
"You get off on me eating?" Dean gapes, but he picks up the fork.
"Your enjoyment of food is quite entertaining," Death admits.
Dean takes a careful bite of the pie, savoring the crunch of the pecans, the sweetness of the filling, and Death's touch becomes more forceful, the friction greater. Soon Dean is moaning between bites, trying to show off for Death, give him as much as Dean is getting.
"There we go," Death says with just a slight hint of breathless wonder.
"Oh fuck," Dean swears, his eyes screwing up tight as he comes, mouth falling open around the last forkful of pie, before he swallows it, keeping his mouth open just enough for Death to see.
As Dean pants, trying to catch his breath, Death leans across the table, swipes his thumb against Dean's lips and then brings the finger to his own mouth, licking it clean.
"Hmm. Cherry next time, perhaps?"
Before Dean can even blink, Death is gone, leaving him with cooling come in his boxers and an overwhelming desire to find the best cherry pie in the country.