John Constantine thinks pronunciation matters (rhymeswithfine) wrote in valarlogs, @ 2013-07-09 18:43:00 |
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Entry tags: | !complete, dean winchester, john constantine |
Who: John Constantine + Dean Winchester
What: Drunk Drinking
When: 7/3 - night time
Where: Bar near Huntington Beach, Dean’s place
Rating: High for sexing
Status: Complete
There were few rules that really needed to be followed in life -- most everything was just vague suggestion or guideline at best.
One - if it's wretched and completely unthinkable, don't bloody do it.
Two - Don't be a prick for no reason.
Three - Actually brush your fucking teeth.
Four - When a bloke seems distressed enough to ask to go out and drink, you bloody well don't ask questions. You just give them company and get drunk.
John was exceptionally keen on the third and fourth rule, personally. Which was why he walked into the appointed bar -- and sure, he was about ten minutes late, but he lived all the way in Tustin, it wasn't like he could just walk across the street and be here. He'd had to pull in a favor from his downstairs neighbor for a ride.
Still. The bar in question was fairly empty, considering that it was apparently some sort of pre-national holiday barbecue day. It wasn't hard to find the internet guy. Whose name John had never actually bothered getting. See rule number four.
Dean was nursing his drink, not at the bar itself, but at a table, one foot kicked up onto the excessive chairs around him. Blond guy walked in, and took not only the measure of the place, but him too. He gave the guy an upnod and poured himself another drink straight from the bottle he’d bought off the bartender.
“You gin and tonic?”
“John Constantine.” Greeted the blond, with a friendly, if not crooked smile. He was all cigarette smoke and loosened tie on a collared shirt. “Whole bottle kind of night, is it?” Maybe not gin and tonic then. It was empty enough, where he felt allowed to plop down across from the other man at the table, and then raise a hand to the bartender -- gesturing for one of the same.
“Whole bottle kinda life,” Dean replied. He set the bottle down and raised his glass. “Dean Winchester. Good to meet you. I think.”
“Seems t’be the way of lots of lives around here,” John said, although if he had to admit it, he was having a hell of a nice time in California thus far. Beyond the unfortunate weather issues. Sunshine, right? Who needed it.
He leaned back some, pulling out some notes-- er, cash - when the bartender seemed pleased to hand him a bottle and a glass. Probably it wasn’t every slow day he sold two bottles worth with no real effort.
“What’s your story then?” he asked, giving the bartender a bit of a nod in thanks as well. “Pretty far from home, aren’t you?”
“Scouse,” John clarified, and then added a little more, because maybe that wasn’t as well known a term as he assumed it was. “From Liverpool. No huge story. Being a rock star failed, got bored of watching me mates pay their mortgages, so moved. Sunnier skies. New start. Blah blah. All the rest, yeah?” He nodded, pouring a drink for himself. “Drunk enough to talk about yours yet?” Man code.
“Nope. Gimmie,” Dean took an appraising look at his glass, squinting as he mathed it out. “The rest of this one and one more.” To hurry that on, he finished off the rest of that one right there, making the best of all possible noises while the whisky burned its way down his throat
Giving a shrug, John took a healthy swallow of his own drink -- it was never fun to get drunk alone, after all so it was only fair he tried playing a little catch up. He was agreeable like that. John Constantine: no one could ever say he didn’t try being a good sort of mate. When he wanted to be, anyway.
It turned out to not be the rest of that one and one more, but the rest and about half of it. “Started out,” Dean said and then cleared his throat to get all the things that felt like were stuck in it out. “With not being able to get this-” And Dean had to pause, but hell with it, they were in California. “this guy that walked into the garage out of my head. Which is weird, for me. Don’t really go for dick. Anyway, started out like that and then suddenly, my brother. Little brother. Haven’t seen him since like...02, 03 something like that. Starts talking to me on the...blog...whatever thing. And now I’m pretty sure there’s not enough alcohol in the world to make the idea of actually seeing him next week easier.”
John sipped at his drink, listening in a way that might have been described as polite even while he fiddled with a shiny zippo lighter. Smoking laws in this country were ridiculous, and he had to have something to do with his hands when he wasn’t allowed to chain smoke. “Sounds a fucking drag about the bloke. You might try calling? This city’s full of -- you know. Well. It’s California.” Another drink, and a shrug. “Hard parting with your brother back then?” Awkward.
“Just me an’ him for a long time. Well, Dad too, but he was working and so I mostly raised that kid. Turned eighteen and I couldn’t take it anymore. So I enlisted, took their damn test and...hell, no point in going further than that in story time, right?” War wasn’t a place anyone in their right mind walked into, and Dean...well he worried about what it meant that he took so long to walk away from it.
“Seems not.” John made a face, as if to show exactly what he thought about the idea of enlisting, and then finished off his first glass with little flourish before pouring another. “Bitter about it, is he?”
“Don’t know,” Dean said honestly. “Hell, I would be. Shit I’ve seen, though...kinda feel like he’s better off without me.”
“Been nearly a decade.” Fuck, he wanted a smoke already. “Probably he has been. Now it’s all about getting on enough to have somewhere to go on Holidays, innit?”
“Damned if I know. I’d keep him out if I thought it’d actually do any good. Asshole knows I’m here now and thanks to tall dark and handsome, ‘ve got a reason to stay.” Dean drank more. Drinking more always seemed the best solution.
Family issues weren’t really one that John could empathize with -- he had a sister, and she was lovely in her own right. If he went back to Liverpool, she’d probably invite him over and make him sandwiches or something.
He could get behind some random love life stuff though, so he focused on that. “Seeing him again then, are you?”
“Needs to get his car back, doesn’t he?” Dean pointed out.
“You made it sound a bit more negative on the internet,” John countered before taking another not-sip.
“Which is what happens when you get the deer-in-headlights and suddenly bolting as far from you as possible.” Dean finished off his glass and let the alcohol sit in him for a while.
John gave a sympathetic wince and shook his head. “Not the type?” It was just so hard to tell these days, wasn’t it?
“Not a clue.” Dean shrugged, playing with the rim of his glass idly.
John actually laughed at that, leaning forward on the table and giving Dean a vague hand gesture. “No clue? And yet tall, dark an’ handsome is worth it enough t’stay in town? That’d better be a really fucking handsome bloke.”
“Not gonna leave my brother after making plans. Least I can do is show up, and if pretty boy decides that this might not...be a thing...then...fuck it right?” Dean looked up, trying to focus on John’s face and his eyebrows. John had really pale eyebrows. “Baby boy knows I’m still alive, all fingers and toes accounted for, and that’s all anyone really needs anyway.” He could find another garage to hire him. It wasn’t like he didn’t have the right words to get a job in any shop he wanted for the most part.
Dean’s story was a fairly sad one, he supposed. Sometimes life just didn’t fucking work out proper no matter how hard someone tried. John got that. Some people just didn’t have any luck at all. He settled his lighter on the table, downed his drink, and considered another. It was a bit fast for that, it’s not like he’d measured in fingers. His insides burned, and that was kind of nice. He rose an eyebrow, and fixed Dean with a very blue stare and a crooked grin. “There’s some fun to be had in this city, though.”
Dean leaned in to consider that look. “Other than drinking and fucking, because I can get that in any city.” He smirked, looking over at his bottle before he just picked it up and finished it off. “Or do you know something I don’t?”
John just let out a snort at that. "The beaches are nice?" He picked up his bottle, forgetting the glass for a moment, and stood. "I need a fag," he said, and gestured very pointedly to the patio of the bar.
He needed a...oh, oh. “Yeah.” Dean got up and walked with him. “Can I uh, bum one?”
This was possibly one of the first times since arriving in America John had gone out and paid for his own drinks on top of bumming out smokes. Dean Winchester was very lucky that his story was just woeful enough.
"Course," he said, lighting two smokes in his mouth and then offering one up to the other man once they'd hit the outdoors. It was unfortunate that they didn't have his particular brand here, but he was making it okay with a brand that sported a camel and bright colors on the box.
Camels weren’t normally Dean’s poison, but he’d take it. One hand went into his jeans pocket while he smoked. The fresh air was doing him some good clearing his head at least a little bit. Enough to take in the fact that John wasn’t exactly hard on the eyes. Hell, he was drunk enough. Could be fun, right?
“Look, uh, you wanna get outta here?”
John wasn't by any means a stupid man -- Dean had already mentioned that he didn't usually go for men. He was also considerably drunk, possibly heartbroken, and overly stressed out. This was exactly what it sounded and looked like, here.
Luckily for Dean, John didn't much mind that sort of arrangement. He took a long drag from his smoke, and then tilted the bottle back one more time as a follow up. Dean wasn't a bad looking sort -- not exactly John's type if he had to be honest (his type was dark haired, red lipped and entirely too slender. But his type was also just busy with work lately, being a genius or whatever the fuck it was that computer nerds did,) but then, he'd never been exceptionally picky when it came to attraction.
"Yeah, why the hell not."
Dean nodded to himself, crushed out the butt of his cigarette and motioned for John to follow him. “My place or yours?” was the question. He didn’t know if John had brought a car or what. Shit, being English and all he might not even be legal to drive here. Not that being legal had ever stopped Dean from doing whatever he wanted, but point remained.
Fuck, John wasn't even legal to drive in England. It was a skill he'd avoided learning for a good, long time, and only had a slight inclination at learning recently. Tonight was not the night for that, and so he fell into step with Dean, finished off his smoke and flicked it lazily toward the pavement. "Assuming you live closer?" Which was to say Dean's.
“Probably, yeah,” Dean replied, fishing his keys out of his pocket and walking over to his ride. He opened the passenger side first, being a gentleman and all, and then slid in the driver’s. Seatbelts were for people who were afraid of dying and didn’t know what they were doing behind the wheel. Plastered as he was? Dean was fine. Been fine like this for years.
If John was concerned about drunk plus driving, he certainly didn’t show it. Instead, he got into the car, ignored the seat belt, and leaned back into the seat as if he were just enjoying being in such a lovely looking ride. He eyed Dean instead of the road, even as they drove. The man did have oddly pretty eyes for being so rough around the edges.
The speed limit wasn’t really a thing Dean was worried about oh, say, ever. He’d been in town long enough to have figured out where the cops liked to hang out around bar close. Honestly, all he had to do to get out of a ticket was be his normal charming self. Getting back to his building was a proverbial cake walk. Hell, Dean somehow managed to get the key in the main door on the first try.
The elevator came. The button got pushed for the top floor, and Dean very intentionally found John’s mouth with his own. John’s mouth and the back wall of that elevator, though the latter was fortunately not with teeth and lips.
The only reason that Dean found that wall so easily was because John literally pushed him into it. He was taller -- lankier. Not quite as drunk, and it just wasn't hard to pin Dean against the wall and take all the biting kisses he wanted. John Constantine? Kind of really fucking enjoyed kissing.
Those kisses were like a battle, and Dean loved it. He curled his fingers tight into that shirt, not enough to tear fabric, but close. Giving as good as he got was easy. Breaking it when the door dinged open? Shit, that was one of the hardest things Dean ever managed. If kissing guys was always like this, he might really have to reevaluate his love of tits compared to not having to feel like he might break someone.
He couldn’t think about whether Jimmy would simply yield to him or if the insurance salesman would give him some fight. Didn’t matter, not with John and there still being a hall and a locked door between them and some kind of relief.
"The lift's stopped," John said, hardly pulling away enough to differentiate where his own lips stopped and where Dean's started. Somehow he managed coherency anyway. Possibly, he was just that good. Or had something to do with the fact that while this was good and hot and he'd probably have a lot of fun, it was still just obviously a one off. He didn't have to try too hard to impress. Not that he wouldn't anyway, but still.
He tugged and kissed again -- hands firm on Dean's hips until the man was walking backward out of the lift. He didn't know where he was going though, and so gave some pause. Left or right?
Dean was good at walking backwards, better than most. He got them all the way down to the end of the hall, fumbling for his keys. Turning away to open the door was definitely a hard thing to do, but somehow he managed it, getting it open and tossing his keys somewhere in the direction of where they were supposed to go.
Bedroom. Getting to the bedroom seemed to take forever, but suddenly his legs were hitting the mattress on his unmade bed and he could pull John closer to him, could roughly claim that mouth all over again.
Wasn't hard to get much closer, since Dean had basically pulled John right down on top of him. That was fine -- he wriggled up until neither were being crushed, until he was nearly straddling Dean -- sitting atop his hips and then leaning down for another kiss.
During their brief break in contact, Dean pulled his t-shirt over his head and tossed it across the room. He’d pick it up later. The kiss was slower when they met again, almost like Dean knew he could take his time. There were way, way too many clothes here.
Clothes were a pretty big bother, and even John seemed to get that since he was fussing with the knot in his tie -- finally pulling it free and working at the buttons on his shirt next. Slower kisses were more than fine, and John had no problem taking his fill -- pulling away for a quick breath before nosing at Dean's chin, tilting his head up in order to kiss and bite his way down the other man's' neck.
Baring his throat, Dean’s fingers worked the close of John’s pants. His hand slipped inside, seeking out John’s dick to just...shit, just run on instinct, right? Easiest thing to give this guy’s cock the same thing he liked on his own, right?
In terms of logic that was probably the smartest way to go about it. John didn't seem to mind -- quite the opposite in fact, as he thrust his hips forward in order to further that touch and offered a happy little hiss of approval. It might have been the alcohol talking, but John was a bit greedy today, a bit impatient. He nipped at Dean's adam's apple. "Top or bottom?" Straight to business, man.
Shit. Well, as long as he was exploring new worlds, might as well go all the way. He’d fucked girls in the ass tons of times before, knew how that felt. But there was that one time when wassername put a finger up his- And he’d kinda liked it, but he’d never admit to that? Yeah.
And hell, if he had all these plans to be in John’s position with Jimmy, only fair to know what that felt like, right? “Bottom,” he growled decisively. One time only offer. Not that he could picture Jimmy even dreaming of topping at all, ever, but who knew. Maybe the guy had an alpha male streak in him somewhere buried so deep it was like the damn arc of the covenant. Meanwhile, Dean was working hard to kick his boots off. First one thunked on the floor and a bit later, the other finally joined it.
John didn't say anything on the matter -- he was an easy either-or sort of fellow when he slept with other blokes, and saw no real reason to complain either way. Instead, he gave a quick nod and then leaned back enough to get his own boots off -- doc martens were not the kind of shoes that came off easily thanks very much. Since his slacks were already undone, he saw no reason not to do the rest of the work there as well and shimmy them the rest of the way off.
Being able to actually untie his remaining boot was a hell of a time saver. Getting that and his jeans off (Dean didn’t believe in underwear on principle,) was possibly the best thing ever. And hell, for the first time he didn’t feel at all bad about being the guy who had condoms and lube to hand. Well, condoms was a no brainer, but chicks tended to look at you weird when they went for that and found actual lube. He grabbed both out of the nightstand, tossed them on the bed and only at the last minute decided to toe off his socks as well.
He considered for a moment telling John that he’d not ever done this before, but his ego wouldn’t let him. His ego and his goddamn need to just do this before he chickened out.
Sex in socks was for chumps. There was nothing less appealing than feeling like your feet were too hot while getting down. John lost boxer briefs and his own sock, and then shrugged out of his shirt. Order wasn't what mattered here, people.
Dean had been confident in his choice, which had lead John to believe that he'd done it at least once before. And if he'd done it at least once before and was electing to do it again, it clearly meant he liked it. Logic was awesome. Also unfortunate, since John then saw no reason to talk it out or be particularly kind. Leaning down, he grabbed up both the condom and lube, and then decided he had to bite Dean's hip because it looked like it needed a bruise just there.
Dean’s fingers knotted into that unruly blonde hair, grunting his approval. Yeah, this was exactly what he needed, a quick fuck with a guy who probably understood that this didn’t mean anything. He bent his leg, the other one, not the one that John was biting, arched and spread himself wide.
“Shit,” he hissed. No turning back, not now, or at least not unless John found something more interesting to do.
It would be pretty funny if John did suddenly find something more interesting to do. Rest assured, he wasn't going to go from near fucking to 'oh damn, I didn't know you owned Jenga.' Really, it just wasn't his style.
Tipping just the right amount of too much lube into his hand, he lost the rest of the bottle to the floor or the other side of the bed or wherever it is that things go when you're busy and don't need them anymore. He leaned forward to kiss him again, slick fingers needing to do so little work to find exactly where they needed to be. "Shit," he agreed, because there was little nicer than someone who was willing to help out and seem excited even after having downed a whole bottle of whisky.
When people called Dean a functioning alcoholic, that was mostly an understatement. The only time the guy couldn’t still fake being normal was if there was anything else in his system. Hell, a bottle of whisky and he could still out shoot anyone he knew. The benefit of all that booze in the moment was that he could focus entirely on John’s mouth and not his fingers. Fingers felt weird. Not bad weird or good weird, but weird weird.
Nipping John’s lip, the slight click of their teeth when they met at a slightly off angle, that felt good. Good outweighed weird any day of the week in Dean’s book, or at least drunk Dean’s book. Probably if he’d been sober, he’d be way too focused on the weird and it wouldn’t be good for anybody. Kissing led to other things, to Dean’s mouth on that neck, teeth grazing hard enough to sting but not to leave a mark. This wasn’t fucking high school.
Oh yeah, tell that to John and his type one of these days. It was definitely high school; a competition of who could claim the most skin with the darkest marks. But while Dean was proving to be fun and quite a good kisser, he still wasn't John's type.
Constantine always approved of stingy and a little rough, a little something to last into the next day because sex wasn't worth it if it wasn't good enough to make something hurt a bit later. Dean? He was fucking tight. Tight enough where it was distracting enough with just one finger. Which clearly meant that he should go for the gold with two. And some wriggling. Because fun and also a good word. "Christ," he muttered out, turning his head just so until he could nip at Dean's ear lobe.
If John was going to goad him then Dean wouldn’t hold back. Blunt nails dragged down the other man’s pale back, pulling their chests ever closer together. Two fingers made things interesting, and Dean had to force himself to breathe through it, to drive back down onto them as though taking some semblance of control might make this better on his fragile psyche.
What might’ve been a groan from anyone else was a low, throaty growl in Dean. He tipped his head back in fake surrender, having every intention to find a place of his own to land his teeth once he could make sense of all the ways his body was both fighting and welcoming John’s fingers.
John was being growled at, and that was different but not altogether poor. If Dean weren't so pushy it might have been terribly endearing. But he was pushy and it just made Constantine want to maintain his sense of control, pushing and pulling back with his fingers before bending them just so to see just how much it might make Dean move beneath him. He bit at adam's apple and the curve of Dean's neck, since he'd been given all that room to work with.
"Alright?" he asked, because he wasn't the most patient of men.
Oh. Oh, shit that was. It wasn’t so much that Dean moved in response to what John’s fingers were doing, but that he stopped moving, stopped trying to wrest control from the other man. In that sudden jolt of pleasure, there must have been a third person in the room, because Dean sure as hell wasn’t capable of making such a needy sound.
“Yeah,” he managed, gasping, one hand groping for the foil of the condom wrapper somewhere around here. “Fuck, god John.” He needed. Needed now and hard and it didn’t matter how much of a bad idea this was, because if John could hit just there with his cock? Worth it. He knotted his fingers in the blonde’s hair and pulled him roughly up for a kiss, more teeth than was probably normally acceptable but fuck if Dean cared.
Oh, good. Needy was good. Kissing back, John didn't seem bothered by the clacking of teeth or the occasional bite against lips that was just a little too hard. Sometimes enthusiasm made up for a general lack of perfection. Anyway, they'd had a bit and dexterity was a little harder when John was more concerned about slipping his hand free so he could snatch the condom from Dean's fingers and open it up.
"Fuck, yeah," he said once he'd properly rolled the condom (never rubber, come on.) down, and he wasn't sure if he was just approving of it all or making a bit of a shite approval joke. And you know what, fuck you, it's hard to think when you want to be doing stuff with your penis.
Dean shifted a bit, tried to get his hips up enough to make this easier on both of them. His teeth grazed shoulder and then bit hard enough to leave a mark just there before John was out of reach entirely. He didn’t quite know what to do with his hands. He thought maybe loosening his grip on John’s hair might be a good idea, but that was a thing that barely made it from thought to action.
Turned out his other hand wanted to hold fast to the sheets just in case this was as uncomfortable as what he could see of John’s dick in the dark made it look like it was going to be. Probably should have held out for another damn finger. Screw it.
John's only request here was that he still had hair by the time everything was said and done here. He might have been rocking the just rolled out of bed look but that was well maintained and he needed hair for it, thanks.
He gave a half a nod -- and it was more a headbutt for Dean's hand, before he arranged himself more properly (hey, sometimes he had to make sure his knees weren't gonna just weep at the way he was kneeling - he wasn't exactly nineteen anymore). This was warning enough, wasn't it -- the lining up and the wriggling until everything was just right? Hopefully so, because John wasn't obtuse enough to announce anymore more verbally like that. He pressed in slowly and nearly fucking whimpered himself. Maybe he should have held out for another finger.
Dean clenched his teeth. That. Yeah, another finger would’ve been a much better idea. Shit. Why the hell did he have to go land himself in bed with someone with a damn third leg? Not that he would have known that just looking at him, but the point remained. “Keep going,” he gasped, forcing himself to try to relax around John’s dick. It was exactly as counterproductive as it sounded.
Someday maybe John and Dean would be friends enough to have an unabashed conversation about how butt sex was actually kinda fucked up. About how it took longer than one might expect for the weird to stop and the fun to begin. Maybe. But not today. Obviously.
"Like I was going to bloody stop?" John asked, all tiny huffs of breath and teeth scraping against his own bottom lip like maybe the blond had just forgotten that he could be biting Dean instead. And, as requested and implied, he did not stop. He moved his hips forward until he fucking couldn't any more, gave a tiny pause (because it was either that or death by explosion) and then backed up a bit just to repeat. Death by explosion still seemed a thing that might happen if he didn't take some care. It also seemed like a brilliant band name.
“You might’ve friggen slowed down,” Dean countered roughly. He relaxed his fingers in John’s hair, thrust back at him experimentally instead. It was still all tight and uncomfortable, and with the initial push Dean had gone slightly soft for focusing too much. It would get better, right? Shit, if it didn’t why would people keep doing it?
Oh, god. John hadn't been quite so aware of how hard Dean had been clinging to his hair until he let up a bit -- and now his scalp felt all tingly and funny. He shook his head a little and pushed into Dean's thrust with a little gasp and then attempted to reenact that by pressing his fingers to Dean's hips in an encouraging sort of way. "M'hardly a cock tease," John felt the need to say, because he was the sort who absolutely needed the last word, no matter what the predicament. "Strewth,"
This...this had the potential to get a lot better quicker if they both kept that up, so Dean did, shifting his hips again as his body finally, finally started to relax. “Fuck,” he sighed, releasing the tight grip he had on his sheets in favor of grabbing his own dick again and bringing himself back up to full mast. “Clearly since we’re here in the first place.”
"Clearly," John murmured, but had already forgotten about what they were talking about. Again, last words were important. Even if he didn't know why. "Christ." Not a last word, more like a whole new praising, which the blond thought fair because Dean had finally gotten into it properly and now John could find a happy pacing that was more up to everyone's level of want and need. It also helped that Dean had stopped clenching so fucking hard, because now John didn't feel like death was exactly imminent. Little death, eventually -- possibly sooner than eventually, but not like -- dick falling off death.
When had he gotten so fucked he actually imagined shit like this?
The actual act of fucking? Fucking way better than the lead up to it. Once Dean figured out what to do from this end of things (and hell, was that weird to wrap his mind around,) he thrust himself hard back against John. If only he could get the angle absolutely perfect and find that one spot the guy had before, everything about this would be amazing.
Fucking was fucking better than a lot of things, that was true. John rearranged himself a bit, one hand going from Dean's hip to his thigh instead -- it was a slightly different angling, but one that would possibly be just better for the both of them. John often aimed for better. It was a thing. "Christ," he repeated after a moment before leaning over to kiss Dean again because sometimes you just had to kiss a bloke while you were banging them, even if they weren't your type.
Dean kissed him back hard, almost savagely, trying to encourage- Oh. That. That right there. His hand on John’s waist clenched harder, nails biting into that skin, the hand on his own cock stuttering in its movements because holy hell that felt good. “Right there,” he growled into the kiss. And hell, he was halfway to trying to figure out how to flip them both over so he could drive down onto the bastard at his own pace.
Logistics during sex were always the worst, weren't they? It wasn't as if John didn't like topping from the bottom or whatever, but he probably wouldn't take kindly to just being flipped over without warning, either. Anyway, it hardly mattered. He took the encouragement for what it was and continued 'right there' -- at a bit (lot) a harder thrust, because fuck you Dean, this isn't all about you.
That right there and the sudden force with which Dean was being fucked? Apparently that was all he needed, because he came messily over his own hand and onto his skin not long after. There was a loud shout in there somewhere, one he knew came from him this time and not the whimper he wouldn’t admit to earlier. No, he knew he made that shout. It was John’s name, and a few choice expletives before and after it. “Fucking, christ,” Dean gasped, barely able to process much of anything at all.
John, who was used to hearing his name with expletives around it, was just terribly pleased that this time they were used in a positive sort of way. The shout was also nice, but mostly just because he knew he'd helped bring that noise about in the first place.
"Jesus," he said, just to switch names up a bit -- but it was muffled and gasp-y and strained anyway because he'd said it directly into the curve of Dean's neck and shoulder. He didn't have to wait on coming. Because Dean already had, and the guy was already way too tight, so when he'd clenched up a bit to make a mess all over the fucking place, that was more than enough to send him over proverbial edge, too.
Alright, now it was hot and Dean was sweaty, albeit a very pleased variant of sweaty and content with life. He let his head sink back into the pillow and just relaxed. Shoving John off of him was going to take way more energy than he had. The guy would move eventually on his own. That couldn’t possibly be comfortable.
No worries there. John wasn't keen on being uncomfortable or a hot mess, and so with a weird little sigh, he pulled himself away and off of Dean. There was something to be said about the way that the blond was completely unabashed when it came to wandering around someone else's flat looking for the bathroom to clean up in. Really, he could make himself at home anywhere.
When he returned, it was with a mess of paper towels for Dean and a lazy flop onto the bed. "I think I need a smoke," he said, but did not actually move again.
Dean wiped his stomach off and then his ass, pitching the crumpled towels into the garbage can by the bed. “You can ash into the beer bottle over there,” he gestured vaguely to the nightstand where a mostly finished beer from a couple days before sat. He’d get around to cleaning it up eventually. That it was the only empty in the room was really saying something, though. What that something was, Dean was too worn out to figure, but it was something enough.
After a moment, John rolled over enough to grab that nearly empty beer bottle, and then rifle through the pockets of his jeans for a smoke. He didn't know how Dean felt about after sex smoking, so he just brought the whole pack around. He lit up, and then exhaled slowly like this was what he'd been really missing in life. "Strewth," he said after a minute, just for the sake of breaking the silence.
Dean was too tired to smoke, but he didn’t mind the smell of it in the air. This was part of why he lived on the top floor, no upstairs neighbors to complain when he needed a cigarette and it was unbearable outside or he was lazy...or both. He made a low sound of agreement with whatever it was John just said and set about the very serious work of getting some sleep.
John took that as information enough that he wasn't being kicked out just yet. He shrugged to himself, watched Dean half sleep while he finished off his cigarette and then deposited the bottle back onto the nightstand. Then he took his lankiness to a new extreme by stretching out on the side of the bed that Dean wasn't on. He'd sleep here, but no worries, he wasn't much of a cuddler.