Fic: Takes One to Know One (Supernatural)
Title: Takes One to Know One
Rating: NC-17
Pairings: Dean/Male (Character from 5.02)
Warnings: Slash, sex, vague spoilers for 5.02
Disclaimer: I own nothing
Summary: If this the way the world ends, you're going to go down fighting.
Notes: Written for savingfaith333
~*~
You've always been good at compartmentalising. Had to be. After Fallujah it was the only way to stay sane. It was easier to see the world in black and white. Easier to live if you told yourself that the people you had killed were the enemy.
Now there's a whole new war on the home front, and you don't have that comfort any more.
The survivors are burying the bodies. It's a familiar sight; so familiar that you can almost hear the distant choppers and feel the sand under your feet. But this time is different - you can't distance yourself, can't hide behind words like 'collateral damage'. Because this is home and you know these people. Every corpse has a face, a name, a history. Their blank eyes reproach you for your failure.
Here and there the strangers move through the town. These Hunters. The soldier in you recognises kindred spirits: they move differently, watch differently from the civillians. Takes one to know one, you had said to the older of the two brothers. You can feel his eyes on you from time to time. You don't know what he's looking for, but it's easier to meet his gaze than any of the others. Takes one to know one.
You thought you'd served your time in Hell. Something in his eyes tells you that you were wrong. Tells you that you know nothing of hell.
Silence over the mass grave when the last of the dirt is shovelled back in. Some expressions of of relief - it's over - but most are blank. Shell-shocked. It's over, but what now? How can any of you just go back to your lives, knowing now what lurks in the shadows? Knowing now what is to come. Armageddon. The end of days.
A hand on your shoulder, unanticipated yet somehow not surprising. "You look like you need a drink."
You do. God, yes you do.
"So is this what you do?" you ask later, over a bottle of scotch liberated from the trashed store down the street. Both of you are still grinning from the telling of a story involving a werewolf and a succubus - hell, after demons, werewolves don't require much of a leap of faith. That's one you know well. Humour as a vestige of humanity, the last defense against the darkness.
"Yeah," he replies. "All my life. There's a lot of evil sons of bitches out there. Someone's gotta take them on." To you that sounds a lot like your reasons for joining up.
"And what now? End of the world?"
His mouth sets in a grim line. "Not if I can help it."
Takes one to know one. You want to be part of this fight. The world is easiest to deal with in black and white, and the enemy doesn't come more clearly defined than the Legions of the Damned.
"Sounds like you'll need all the help you can get," you say.
He gives a lazy smile. He's leaning against the wall by the window, casually comfortable with the controlled grace of someone completely aware of their body and their surroundings. Light from the streetlamps streams in through the glass - in the dark, it could almost be a night like any other. You rise from your seat on the sofa. You're steady on your feet. It'll be a long time before you feel safe enough to let go and get properly drunk. Even here and now - in your hometown, in your own house - you're tense and restless, hairs on the back of your neck prickling in a way that says enemy territory.
"I'm not gonna tell you what to do," he says, "You're not some dumb civillian. You wanna be a part of this fight, that's your choice."
"I have to," you reply. There's so much meaning behind those words that you can't quite articulate - that you won't cower in fear of some unseen threat, that if this is to be the end then you'll go down fighting.
You don't need to say it aloud. You can see the understanding in his eyes. And only when you see heat blossom there as well like a molotov cocktail do you realise you've closed the distance between you. You're close enough to feel the warmth radiating from his body, to be aware of the contours of lean, toned muscle.
You have no idea what you're doing. But the day has shattered enough of what you thought you knew that you don't care.
It's hard to tell who makes the first move, but in between one heartbeat and the next you're suddenly pressed together: his arm around your waist, your hands fisted in his shirt, kissing rough and urgent up against the wall.
There is something familiar in this too. An affirmation of life in the midst of destruction; a resounding fuck you to death. Still twined together you stumble across the room, tugging at far too many clothes. Your shirt is the first to go. His follows soon after, and then the backs of your knees hit the sofa and you go down.
You land first, his weight on top of you knocking the breath out of you. There isn't a hair's breadth of space between you, mouths still pressed together in a war for dominance, the goal of which is not necessarily victory. The heat and weight and solid reality of his body against yours is overwhelming: the feeling of skin on skin, the muscles of his back moving under your hands, hips grinding together.
He pulls away, just a little but enough to make you moan in protest, only for it to turn into a heartfelt groan of appreciation as evidently practiced hands make short work of your zipper. From somewhere you find the coordination to return the favour, unzipping his jeans and sliding them down even as you lift your hips to allow him to do the same. The sensation is incredible as your cocks slide together in the hollow of sweat-slicked hip and stomach; your head falls back against the cushions, and you moan again as he nips at your exposed throat, a series of sloppy kisses followed by a sharp bite at the junction of neck and shoulder.
You're moving in concert now, arching into each other with pants and groans filling the room. He gives a sharp gasp and goes very still as he comes, wet warmth spurting across your stomachs. Close yourself, the soft whimpering sound he makes in your ear is enough to send you over the edge.
Afterward you dress in an oddly companionable silence. He makes to leave; just as you think the moment has passed, he pins you against the wall in the hallway with a grin and kisses you thoroughly. As the door slams shut behind him you realise he's made off with the rest of the scotch.
You watch them leave in the steely pre-dawn light, a chilly bite to the air as the first hints of sunrise paint pastel shades along the horizon. He nods to you, once, and you return the gesture. You're mostly packed yourself. You'll be ready to leave by noon. There's a war on, and the fate of the world quite literally hangs in the balance.
If this the way the world ends, you're going to go down fighting.
Rating: NC-17
Pairings: Dean/Male (Character from 5.02)
Warnings: Slash, sex, vague spoilers for 5.02
Disclaimer: I own nothing
Summary: If this the way the world ends, you're going to go down fighting.
Notes: Written for savingfaith333
~*~
You've always been good at compartmentalising. Had to be. After Fallujah it was the only way to stay sane. It was easier to see the world in black and white. Easier to live if you told yourself that the people you had killed were the enemy.
Now there's a whole new war on the home front, and you don't have that comfort any more.
The survivors are burying the bodies. It's a familiar sight; so familiar that you can almost hear the distant choppers and feel the sand under your feet. But this time is different - you can't distance yourself, can't hide behind words like 'collateral damage'. Because this is home and you know these people. Every corpse has a face, a name, a history. Their blank eyes reproach you for your failure.
Here and there the strangers move through the town. These Hunters. The soldier in you recognises kindred spirits: they move differently, watch differently from the civillians. Takes one to know one, you had said to the older of the two brothers. You can feel his eyes on you from time to time. You don't know what he's looking for, but it's easier to meet his gaze than any of the others. Takes one to know one.
You thought you'd served your time in Hell. Something in his eyes tells you that you were wrong. Tells you that you know nothing of hell.
Silence over the mass grave when the last of the dirt is shovelled back in. Some expressions of of relief - it's over - but most are blank. Shell-shocked. It's over, but what now? How can any of you just go back to your lives, knowing now what lurks in the shadows? Knowing now what is to come. Armageddon. The end of days.
A hand on your shoulder, unanticipated yet somehow not surprising. "You look like you need a drink."
You do. God, yes you do.
"So is this what you do?" you ask later, over a bottle of scotch liberated from the trashed store down the street. Both of you are still grinning from the telling of a story involving a werewolf and a succubus - hell, after demons, werewolves don't require much of a leap of faith. That's one you know well. Humour as a vestige of humanity, the last defense against the darkness.
"Yeah," he replies. "All my life. There's a lot of evil sons of bitches out there. Someone's gotta take them on." To you that sounds a lot like your reasons for joining up.
"And what now? End of the world?"
His mouth sets in a grim line. "Not if I can help it."
Takes one to know one. You want to be part of this fight. The world is easiest to deal with in black and white, and the enemy doesn't come more clearly defined than the Legions of the Damned.
"Sounds like you'll need all the help you can get," you say.
He gives a lazy smile. He's leaning against the wall by the window, casually comfortable with the controlled grace of someone completely aware of their body and their surroundings. Light from the streetlamps streams in through the glass - in the dark, it could almost be a night like any other. You rise from your seat on the sofa. You're steady on your feet. It'll be a long time before you feel safe enough to let go and get properly drunk. Even here and now - in your hometown, in your own house - you're tense and restless, hairs on the back of your neck prickling in a way that says enemy territory.
"I'm not gonna tell you what to do," he says, "You're not some dumb civillian. You wanna be a part of this fight, that's your choice."
"I have to," you reply. There's so much meaning behind those words that you can't quite articulate - that you won't cower in fear of some unseen threat, that if this is to be the end then you'll go down fighting.
You don't need to say it aloud. You can see the understanding in his eyes. And only when you see heat blossom there as well like a molotov cocktail do you realise you've closed the distance between you. You're close enough to feel the warmth radiating from his body, to be aware of the contours of lean, toned muscle.
You have no idea what you're doing. But the day has shattered enough of what you thought you knew that you don't care.
It's hard to tell who makes the first move, but in between one heartbeat and the next you're suddenly pressed together: his arm around your waist, your hands fisted in his shirt, kissing rough and urgent up against the wall.
There is something familiar in this too. An affirmation of life in the midst of destruction; a resounding fuck you to death. Still twined together you stumble across the room, tugging at far too many clothes. Your shirt is the first to go. His follows soon after, and then the backs of your knees hit the sofa and you go down.
You land first, his weight on top of you knocking the breath out of you. There isn't a hair's breadth of space between you, mouths still pressed together in a war for dominance, the goal of which is not necessarily victory. The heat and weight and solid reality of his body against yours is overwhelming: the feeling of skin on skin, the muscles of his back moving under your hands, hips grinding together.
He pulls away, just a little but enough to make you moan in protest, only for it to turn into a heartfelt groan of appreciation as evidently practiced hands make short work of your zipper. From somewhere you find the coordination to return the favour, unzipping his jeans and sliding them down even as you lift your hips to allow him to do the same. The sensation is incredible as your cocks slide together in the hollow of sweat-slicked hip and stomach; your head falls back against the cushions, and you moan again as he nips at your exposed throat, a series of sloppy kisses followed by a sharp bite at the junction of neck and shoulder.
You're moving in concert now, arching into each other with pants and groans filling the room. He gives a sharp gasp and goes very still as he comes, wet warmth spurting across your stomachs. Close yourself, the soft whimpering sound he makes in your ear is enough to send you over the edge.
Afterward you dress in an oddly companionable silence. He makes to leave; just as you think the moment has passed, he pins you against the wall in the hallway with a grin and kisses you thoroughly. As the door slams shut behind him you realise he's made off with the rest of the scotch.
You watch them leave in the steely pre-dawn light, a chilly bite to the air as the first hints of sunrise paint pastel shades along the horizon. He nods to you, once, and you return the gesture. You're mostly packed yourself. You'll be ready to leave by noon. There's a war on, and the fate of the world quite literally hangs in the balance.
If this the way the world ends, you're going to go down fighting.