Secrets, Supernatural, NC-17
Jul. 1st, 2008 08:38 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
phantismaFandom: Supernatural
Title: Secrets
Pairing: John/Dean
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 773
Summary: There are secrets that John Winchester keeps.
A/Ns & Warnings: A birthday ficlet for![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
distantship. I don't generally write John/Dean for most people. There are a few select people I do it for willingly. However, it was the only prompt you gave me, so I made an exception. It is not, I am afraid, long or drawn out or multiple fics. It does offer hints of a complex relationship, a willing to do anything!Dean, and an angsty!John, so I hope you like it. Happy Birthday! Warnings: Read the pairings. Daddy!cest people.
There are secrets that you keep.
Some protect others. Do what you do and don’t talk about it.
You hide the things you know about the dark, about the evil that lurks in the shadows, and the stories everyone tells themselves can’t be real. You keep the secrets, learns the stories, kills the evil.
No one really wants to know those secrets anyway.
Some protect you both. Family. Blood is thicker than water and Winchester blood is thicker than anything.
He keeps his head down, keeps salt and holy water in stock, follows the rules and plays the game. Just a father and a son on a road trip together. America’s back country roads. Never get to comfy, never tell anyone who they really are. Keep moving.
Some secrets are just too precious, too dangerous.
Like the way the sweat rolls down his back. Like the way he moans and sighs. The way he tastes in the early morning after a long hard hunt, before the coffee and cigarette, before the shower takes away the smell of fear and adrenaline. The shudder as he comes, the heat as you do.
You don’t really remember when or how it started…only know the why. The need. Know it’s something to keep in the quiet, in the dark…behind the closed doors of bad motel rooms, like two whores fucking on the sly, where no one can see.
And if no one sees, now one will care.
There’s the way he smells, fresh from the shower. Still dripping water onto the floor. The way he tilts his head back, exposing his neck for teeth and lips.
He doesn’t fight, never has. Just sort of melts when you reach for him, slides against the wall and lets the towel fall. He groans when your whiskered chin stutters across tender skin, leaving behind a slow burn, kind of like the one in your belly as his hands run over your skin.
You stink from the hunt, like sulfur and sweat and he breathes it in like it’s flowers or wine or some shit, and his breath is hot on your skin…hot like sin and hellfire that’s damned you both long before this. His lips taste of whiskey and his tongue slides against yours as he surrenders, slithering skin against skin until that tongue is on your cock and it’s your turn to moan.
You lean into the wall and hold on. His mouth is made for this, his lips perfectly shaped around you and fuck but he’s good. Your hand cradles his head, fingers threading into his hair, pulling him back because you want more.
More.
Always more.
And he crawls to the bed, looking back at you, waiting…and you know it shouldn’t be this way, but can’t stop yourself, can’t control the fire. It’s obscene the way he kneels, his ass up, his fingers moving inside himself…and you tell yourself he wants you…that he wants this…as you sink into him.
His skin is damp and some of it’s still water from the shower and some of it is sweat and you lay against him, inside him and you breathe it in…the surrender, the gift of his body. He moans like he means it and you slip further into him, riding him against the mattress, hard bodies moving in slow motion in the stifling heat of the room.
Sweat drips into your eyes, stinging and you blink at them, change your grip as your fingers slip on slicked skin. You’re hurting him; you can hear it in the hiss of air…see it in the way his hands fist in the filthy sheets of the bed. You know it and don’t stop, can’t stop…don’t want to stop.
You hear his whimpers as your fingers dig into him, as your cock empties, as your body presses down on him and the guilt flushes you as you roll off to the side.
He looks at you with those green eyes, so trusting…so devoted and you look away, look at his cock, all hard and angry and you don’t think, just push him onto his back and swallow him down, give him something from all that you take away…a gift, a small offering.
He makes a noise before he comes, a strangled sort of moan that quivers in his belly and rumbles up his chest before it dies on his lips and then you taste him…a little bitter, salty and hot on your tongue.
That too is a secret you keep. His sounds and tastes, his eyes, his duty. He gives it to you every night and you tuck it away inside you.
Title: Secrets
Pairing: John/Dean
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 773
Summary: There are secrets that John Winchester keeps.
A/Ns & Warnings: A birthday ficlet for
distantship. I don't generally write John/Dean for most people. There are a few select people I do it for willingly. However, it was the only prompt you gave me, so I made an exception. It is not, I am afraid, long or drawn out or multiple fics. It does offer hints of a complex relationship, a willing to do anything!Dean, and an angsty!John, so I hope you like it. Happy Birthday! Warnings: Read the pairings. Daddy!cest people.There are secrets that you keep.
Some protect others. Do what you do and don’t talk about it.
You hide the things you know about the dark, about the evil that lurks in the shadows, and the stories everyone tells themselves can’t be real. You keep the secrets, learns the stories, kills the evil.
No one really wants to know those secrets anyway.
Some protect you both. Family. Blood is thicker than water and Winchester blood is thicker than anything.
He keeps his head down, keeps salt and holy water in stock, follows the rules and plays the game. Just a father and a son on a road trip together. America’s back country roads. Never get to comfy, never tell anyone who they really are. Keep moving.
Some secrets are just too precious, too dangerous.
Like the way the sweat rolls down his back. Like the way he moans and sighs. The way he tastes in the early morning after a long hard hunt, before the coffee and cigarette, before the shower takes away the smell of fear and adrenaline. The shudder as he comes, the heat as you do.
You don’t really remember when or how it started…only know the why. The need. Know it’s something to keep in the quiet, in the dark…behind the closed doors of bad motel rooms, like two whores fucking on the sly, where no one can see.
And if no one sees, now one will care.
There’s the way he smells, fresh from the shower. Still dripping water onto the floor. The way he tilts his head back, exposing his neck for teeth and lips.
He doesn’t fight, never has. Just sort of melts when you reach for him, slides against the wall and lets the towel fall. He groans when your whiskered chin stutters across tender skin, leaving behind a slow burn, kind of like the one in your belly as his hands run over your skin.
You stink from the hunt, like sulfur and sweat and he breathes it in like it’s flowers or wine or some shit, and his breath is hot on your skin…hot like sin and hellfire that’s damned you both long before this. His lips taste of whiskey and his tongue slides against yours as he surrenders, slithering skin against skin until that tongue is on your cock and it’s your turn to moan.
You lean into the wall and hold on. His mouth is made for this, his lips perfectly shaped around you and fuck but he’s good. Your hand cradles his head, fingers threading into his hair, pulling him back because you want more.
More.
Always more.
And he crawls to the bed, looking back at you, waiting…and you know it shouldn’t be this way, but can’t stop yourself, can’t control the fire. It’s obscene the way he kneels, his ass up, his fingers moving inside himself…and you tell yourself he wants you…that he wants this…as you sink into him.
His skin is damp and some of it’s still water from the shower and some of it is sweat and you lay against him, inside him and you breathe it in…the surrender, the gift of his body. He moans like he means it and you slip further into him, riding him against the mattress, hard bodies moving in slow motion in the stifling heat of the room.
Sweat drips into your eyes, stinging and you blink at them, change your grip as your fingers slip on slicked skin. You’re hurting him; you can hear it in the hiss of air…see it in the way his hands fist in the filthy sheets of the bed. You know it and don’t stop, can’t stop…don’t want to stop.
You hear his whimpers as your fingers dig into him, as your cock empties, as your body presses down on him and the guilt flushes you as you roll off to the side.
He looks at you with those green eyes, so trusting…so devoted and you look away, look at his cock, all hard and angry and you don’t think, just push him onto his back and swallow him down, give him something from all that you take away…a gift, a small offering.
He makes a noise before he comes, a strangled sort of moan that quivers in his belly and rumbles up his chest before it dies on his lips and then you taste him…a little bitter, salty and hot on your tongue.
That too is a secret you keep. His sounds and tastes, his eyes, his duty. He gives it to you every night and you tuck it away inside you.
