Dean Winchester is Saved. (perditionfree) wrote in valarlogs, @ 2013-07-12 11:31:00 |
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Entry tags: | !complete, castiel, dean winchester |
Who: Dean Winchester + Castiel
What: surprise new scar, reactions to it
When: 7/12 (morning)
Where: Cas’ house
Rating: R - there’s some sexing type stuff.
Status: Complete
Dean hadn’t slept so well in years. It was weird. Maybe he was just that tired, emotionally wrung out from the day before, or maybe he was really just that comfortable. Whatever it was, he woke up with his left arm flung across Jimmy’s chest and the alarm clock flung over by the door.
Yeah, that was probably his fault. With his nose in Jimmy’s hair, Dean didn’t really care. He was comfortable and still mostly asleep. If Jimmy was going to be pissed at him because he was late or whatever, fine. Worth it.
Not Dean’s fault that something was beeping and it was subconscious instinct to take the beeping, probably going to explode thing and get it as far away from people as possible. Made sense. He could totally claim sleep logic here.
Jimmy had noticed the fact that Dean, about twenty minutes ago had flung his alarm clock across the room. He'd noticed that quite a lot, actually. And yet, for some reason, he hadn't really been able to protest it any when Dean had muttered something in his sleep and then rolled back on top of him.
Dean's arm was a comfortable weight, and although he hadn't been able to fall back asleep after the alarm clock debacle, he hadn't minded staring at the ceiling in silence for the time that Dean had.
"You're awake," he noted, fingers curling around Dean's wrist. "You owe me an alarm clock."
Unintelligible was the name of the game for Dean in the morning, and really who could blame him? He was comfy cozy with a pretty young thing...or older...pretty thing. He should probably check on that one of these days. Not that it would matter much in terms of things, but Dean thought it still might be nice to be able to buy a cake with the right numbers on it whenever Jimmy’s birthday was.
Regardless, Dean wasn’t yet to the point of awake where enunciation of whole sentences were a thing he could manage. “Your alarm clock owes me an extra two hours of sleep.” Probably sounded something like mumble mumble clock mumble mumble sleep. He liked Jimmy’s hand on his wrist. Hell, Dean liked Jimmy’s hand pretty much anywhere. Jimmy had good hands. They were soft.
But firm, thanks very much.
Dean's sleepiness was nearly infectious despite the fact that once Jimmy was up, he was very much up. He blinked his eyes closed for a moment and was thankful for the fact that he didn't actually work today.
He rolled over into Dean's side a little, all mussed hair and bruises on neck and collar bones that he hadn't noticed the night before, but were certainly kind of tingling now. "That doesn't make sen--what is that?" His fingers had wandered up Dean's arm, and now blue eyes opened again to peer confusedly at Dean's shoulder. Raised marks that were a little too close to his face to get a clean view of.
“What’s what?” Dean asked groggily. “My arm?” Dean lifted it a bit, just enough so that Jimmy could move if he wanted to, not enough for either of them to do the whole getting up thing. Waking up was awful. Getting out of bed at...what the hell time is it anyway?
They would never know what time it was, due to the alarm clock being in bits on the floor across the room. But that really wasn't the point right now. When Dean moved just the slightest amount, Jimmy scooted up to narrow serious eyes at the shoulder in front of him. "This mark," he clarified, fingers hovering over it. "Was it there before?" What was that? A handprint?
Dean stretched to look, trying to crane his neck to see his own shoulder. “The hell?” he said. “Weird damn place for an allergic reaction.” That was what made sense and it was only a moment of staring at it that he remembered Garcia telling him that people sometimes woke up with scars they hadn’t before. Fuck. Was it starting? Now? Damnit.
Jimmy seemed terribly concerned by that thought. "Allergic?" Wriggling up a little more until his back was against the headboard, he squinted more (if it was possible). "To what?" And what kind of allergy left hand prints on people?
He was oblivious to the idea of dream scars or markings. Painfully so, despite the fact that he'd lived in this city for something going on years. The urge to put his hand over the mark was nearly impossible to resist.
“I dunno,” Dean said, actively straining now to try to get a better look. “All I see is...hell, that looks more like a burn than...” He shifted his shoulder down and...no, that was a really awkward angle to look at. “I think I know what this is...sort of. Shit.”
"What do you mean?" Even Jimmy was thinking that this was a lot of focusing before showering of a coffee, but it didn't seem a prudent idea to just drop it. "What is this?"
He couldn't help himself anymore, he laid his hand over the mark exactly. Exactly, exactly. His hand fit perfectly over the print.
Whatever Dean had been about to say went right out the damn window. Jimmy touching the mysterious mark went more than just straight to his cock (though it did that too,) it felt like...like it went everywhere not only through his whole body but far, far deeper than that.
He hadn’t been expecting that, didn’t even have the time to brace himself to keep silent and have only a grunt or the muscle in his jaw jumping with how tense he was holding it. No. Dean was loud. Immediately and intensely loud and it was probably hard to tell if that was a noise of extreme pleasure or pain. Hell, Dean himself wasn’t sure and he was the one who made it.
That noise was enough to make Jimmy twitch back, head thumping against the headboard and hand practically flying away from Dean's arm. It'd been nearly -- well. Electric was a cliche, wasn't it? There'd been something about that touch though, something different and a bit unnatural. But maybe his mind was playing weird morning tricks on him.
"Did it hurt?" Jimmy was literally the voice of concern.
“I think I came,” Dean said, breathing hard while he tried to sort out what just happened. Just to be sure, he looked down and no...no he didn’t. He was just really damn hard and...the hell? “What did you just do?”
It took a lot of effort, but he managed to get up and go to the bathroom just to look at whatever was on his arm.
"I didn't do -- " But he didn't really have to finish that sentence, and so he didn't.
Unsure of whether following Dean at this moment was a smart move or not, Jimmy stayed on the edge of the bed for a moment, looking thoughtfully concerned. And a bit impressed. Walking didn't look like the easiest thing for Dean at the moment.
After a second, he moved to stand in the doorway of the bathroom, peering in at Dean, and his doubled reflection in the bathroom mirror.
Dean was just standing there staring at this friggen handprint scar or burn or whatever the hell it was that seemed to just randomly appear on his arm. He reached up to touch it himself and felt...nothing. It was just skin. Gross skin, but still skin. His own hand didn’t give him nearly the reaction Jimmy’s did.
It took a minute, but he finally noticed that Jimmy was standing there in the doorway. Awkwardly. Staring. At least that was normal. “I uh... friend of mine said that there’s stuff that happens sometimes. These...dreams of shit that happened in another life or something I guess? And uh, she says she knows people who have woken up with scars and shit that weren’t there when they went to sleep.” He looked away from the handprint in the mirror for longer than to just glance and see that Jimmy was there being Jimmy. “Pretty sure that’s what this is.”
Jimmy was, indeed, still there in the doorway being very much himself. With half squinted eyes and head tilted faintly to the side, he was looking at the mirror version of Dean. "That isn't possible."
And yet, that hadn't been there yesterday. Jimmy frowned and stepped a little further into the bathroom, closer to Dean. "Did you dream anything?"
“No,” Dean said. “I don’t...I don’t know what this is or why it gets all weird when you touch it and it’s fine when I do.” Dean frowned, and looked plaintively at Jimmy. “Can you...would you mind doing that again?”
No reason not to, right? Jimmy, following his usual method of not actually answering a question when he was asked one, only reached out to press his palm and fingers against the mark again.
This time, Dean was expecting it, but that didn’t make it any less intense. Knowing it was coming made it easier for him to do something other than just sit through it while it threatened to consume him. Doing something other, however, seemed to be kissing Jimmy as hard as he could, more teeth than anything else, but he wasn’t exactly going for artistic points here.
Kissing was fine, teeth were more than fine. Jimmy clearly had no objections when his teeth clicked against Dean's, teased at his lower lip and then he leaned into the kiss more, even as he settled his grip more completely onto Dean's arm.
He felt something -- it was like a tingling, something natural and -- well. Something. But Jimmy got the feeling that it wasn't nearly the same as what Dean got from it.
Jimmy gripping his arm tighter was not helping. Dean didn’t realized he’d shoved Jimmy against the wall until the cold tile on his skin where his other arm was braced. His mouth was on Jimmy’s neck and he was very intently working his way lower.
Maybe Dean hadn't realized that he'd shoved Jimmy up against the wall -- but Jimmy was more aware of that than he'd been of anything in his life, he was sure. The tile was cold and welcoming on his back, a perfect opposite to Dean's mouth - hot, intense.
Last night Dean had been against this idea, but now he seemed so enthusiastically for it that it was nearly a shock. Jimmy wanted nothing more than for the man to continue; he arched his back against the wall, nearly whimpering at every kiss and bite lower.
But it wasn't right. It was the mark -- the tingle. Jimmy forced himself (and goodness, but it was a bit painful to do) to remove his hand from that matching print. "Dean."
By the time Jimmy moved his hand, Dean was actually kind of glad for it. Not that he didn’t like the intensity of what was going on in him, but it was nice to be able to think about anything other than filling that need.
He settled on his knees, hands having already pulled down those shorts and gotten Jimmy’s cock in his hand. That was...christ, was every guy packing more than Dean anticipated? He looked up at Jimmy, eager and desperate. “Tell me you want this.” Not that Dean had ever sucked cock before, but hell enthusiasm had to count for something right?
Enthusiasm definitely counted for something -- and hell, Jimmy didn't know that Dean had never done it before, only that it wasn't a usual thing. Which was fine, because frankly sex wasn't a usual thing for Jimmy in general.
He had no idea what to do with his hands -- he was nearly afraid to go anywhere near Dean's shoulder again -- afraid that it wasn't quite consensual. In the end, for now, he settled them against the cold tiles behind him. It was unlikely that they would stay there, but it was a start.
"Dean," he said, and the way it came out probably said enough. The way his cock was hard to the point of nearly painful probably said enough. But Dean had asked. Sort of. And Jimmy would oblige anything at this point. "I want this. Please."
That was enough for Dean. He only teased him long enough to take the advice he’d been given about spit to suck ratio. He might not have ever done this before, but it wasn’t really all that difficult.
Sure, he couldn’t swallow Jimmy down like a porn star, but he was doing his best and his hand covered the rest. Really, he wanted to feel this with Jimmy’s hand on that scar again so he reached up and pulled Jimmy’s hand to do just that. He wanted to know how much more intense it could get. If Jimmy’s hand on his bicep alone felt like Dean was coming, what would it be like if Jimmy actually came while touching him? He wanted this. Dean didn’t know how much he wanted this until he had it. Destiny, right? Friggen soul mate. If anything proved that, it was this, the way Jimmy’s hand fit exactly over the mark like he’d been clutching Dean when it happened.
Curling his fingers back onto that spot that Jimmy was quickly starting to consider his (much like he was probably too soon deciding of Dean in general), he gave tiny little groan of a noise. It made everything just a little different. Just a little more. How Dean managed it at all was beyond him completely, because a little more was almost too much.
"Dean," he said again -- and this time, it was nearly a curse, the way he pronounced it. Encouraging, gruff. He curled the fingers of his free hand into Dean's hair, not quite long enough in the back for a handhold.
Those fingers just there and the sound of his name only spurred Dean on further. He knew his technique was off and that he was going to have to watch a lot more porn to figure out how to do this properly. A lot. Dean was okay with that too. For now, though, he was focused on getting Jimmy to come, on undoing him entirely, and hell maybe it’d get him off too. Dean’s own orgasm was the furthest thing from his mind. Jimmy was all he cared about. When Jimmy was touching him there, nothing else in the world mattered.
Jimmy wasn't complaining -- it never occurred to him to critique Dean's skill set, here (although it was a bit wet, if he had to think on it). As it was, he was enjoying this. Thoroughly. In any case practice made perfect, and Dean now had a very willing test subject.
There was something to be said for watching. It made things more exciting, and Jimmy kept his blue eyes trained on Dean, his expression, and the way he tilted back and forth. "D--" he couldn't even finish saying it, instead petted Dean's hair enough to make his head tilt back. Dean, Dean, Dean. It seemed to be all he could say lately, all he wanted to.
Eye contact would make this for him though -- just a full expression of the way the mechanic looked while doing something like this. "God. You --"
Dean’s attention was being directed upward and as he realized that was happening, he realized that he really wanted to see the look on Jimmy’s face when he came. So he looked, and to nobody’s surprise met those bright blue eyes. They so rarely seemed to leave his face as it was. Gorgeous. Jimmy was gorgeous. Nobody else was going to get to touch that man unless they found themselves in the most unexpected threesome ever.
It was probably silly, Jimmy knew that all that eye contact would be his undoing. "Dean, I'm sorry--" he whimpered it, a breathy warning. An apology, as if he was frustrated he couldn't make it go on longer -- as if maybe that wasn't impressive enough. But it had been a while beyond anything more interesting than his right hand.
Really, that was his expression when he came -- a strange (awkward) mix of fond surprise and apology, with (of course) Dean's name on his lips - his grip on that mark as tight as it possibly could get.
It wasn’t so much that Jimmy came that brought Dean off, it was the way he grabbed that scar almost hard enough to bruise. Could scars bruise when they were all raised and kind of gross like that? Dean didn’t know and he didn’t care.
His shorts were an awful mess and his mouth was full of a substance that was not nearly as weird or gross as he thought it’d be. He didn’t worry about whether or not Jimmy was clean, didn’t occur to him to. He swallowed on reflex or instinct or just an intense need to show Jimmy that he would take every part of him. No matter what baggage it carried. He’d freak out about it later.
Dean pulled away from Jimmy’s dick to breathe, hair a little damp with sweat and forehead resting against those far too cut hipbones. He was well and truly fucked.
Dean would probably not be surprised at all that Jimmy's reaction to all of this would be staring. He realized his grip on that raised scar -- knuckles white and splotchy from how hard he'd been holding on and hand moving to slip through Dean's hair. His back felt sticky against the tiles of the bathroom wall - no longer cool and refreshing. It didn't seem like something to be worried about as he recalled how to breathe properly, how to form words that weren't just this man's name on his tongue (even though, still, that was all he wanted to say).
He glanced away from the top of Dean's head, into the mirror, noticing his own bite marks and bruises from high on his neck down, messed hair, and flushed skin. He hardly recognized himself. "Thank you," he said, unsure how to express himself exactly. "Would you like -- I have a shower." As if Dean couldn't figure that out, sitting in the bathroom.
With his hair free, Dean sat back onto the floor, finding what seemed to him to be the one cold spot in the room. It wasn’t often that he got thanked after sex. From Jimmy, it somehow seemed like the only thing that made sense.
He managed to find his way to standing, to brush his nose against the slighter man’s and whisper “Shut up,” roughly against those lips. Dean’s ‘shut up’ was roughly equivalent to Westly’s ‘as you wish’ or Han’s ‘I know’ or anyone else’s ‘I love you.’
Jimmy seemed to know that though. He got it. Offering a tiny tilt of his own lips, he settled his hands on Dean's waist.
"If you'd like, Dean."