Cold Comfort, Supernatural, NC-17
Feb. 11th, 2012 01:53 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
phantismaFandom: Supernatural
Title: Cold Comfort
Characters: John Winchester/OMC
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 2453
Summary: Pre-Series. A grieving hunter, a bottle of whiskey...a desperate plea. Cold comfort, hot bodies and a cheap hotel.
A/Ns & Warnings: Written for the Sex is Not the Enemy Ficathon. My prompt was this: http://25.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_l4owymFUJC1qznfrio1_500.jpg (NSFW).
It's another Bad Thing down in another nowhere town, a hundred miles from anything but graveyards and farmland. His boys are another three hundred miles away, safe with Pastor Jim learning how to field dress a gun shot wound, and he's too tired to keep driving when he sees a motel and bar through the deluge of the skies.
He steers the car into the parking lot and sits for a minute, his eyes closed, his head back against the headrest. It isn't quite midnight and the bar looks busy. He should just get a room, sleep and hit the road in the morning to hit that ghost south in Reading, but his bottle is empty on the floor beside him and he really wants a drink.
He opens the car door, turns his coat collar up against the rain, and he dashes across the parking lot. The smell of stale beer and sawdust mixes with the booming bass of some song pouring out of the jukebox and he nearly turns away. All he wants is a quiet beer, maybe a couple of shots and then a long night of sleeping in a bed that isn't the Impala's back seat or shared with Sam's long legs and arms.
There's a spot at the bar, so he lowers his head, slicking back the wet hair that's fallen into his eyes as he sits, lifting a hand to draw the bartender to him. "Shot of whiskey and a beer." He fishes his wallet from a back pocket and drops a twenty on the bar, nodding his thanks when the bartender drops a shot glass and a bottle beside the cash.
He doesn't look up when someone sits beside him. He doesn't want to meet someone, or talk about sports or any of the other topics of conversation that might come up in a place like this. He lifts the shot glass and drains it before curling one hand around the bottle.
"Leave it." The man beside him is young, tall and his hands shake as he downs a shot and reaches for the bottle the bartender has left for him. He swallows down another shot and pulls in a shaky breath and exhales slowly.
John waves the bartender over for another shot and lifts his beer. He can't stop himself from looking the man over, cataloging what his clothes and body say about him, judging how much of a threat he is.
The haircut tells him the man is military, or was. He's in civilian clothes, worn but not ragged. Still wearing combat boots though. He doesn't look up or around, his focus is on his drink and his hands. No one comes looking for him either, so he probably isn't a local.
Like John, he's just passing through.
"Ever get the sense that someone's haunting you?" The guy asks, completely unexpectedly.
John shifts a little on his stool, raises his glass. "Sometimes." He tips back the second shot and notices the guy turns to him a little…just a small turn of his hips on the stool.
"I don't believe in ghosts," he counters, lifting his shot glass in a hand that shakes just a little more than it did before.
John nods silently, sipping from his beer bottle. He can't be sure if this man's ghosts are real or metaphoric, though he's leaning toward the latter as the man wipes his face and shakes his head.
"My buddy…I hear his voice in my head. I see him everywhere I go."
"How did he die?" John asks softly, not really wanting to get involved, but unable to just walk away, not until he knows for sure the guy doesn't need his kind of help.
"Hunting accident." He blinks and shakes his head, like he hadn't meant to say it. "He fell…broke his neck. Lingered on for days before he finally…it was…" He downs another shot, his fourth in a short time.
When he reaches for the bottle, John intercepts him, pulls it away. Their hands brush and the guy turns fully to him now, scowling. "What was he hunting?" John asks, shifting the bottle out of his reach.
He shakes his head, looks away. "Don't know."
Something about the way he says it, or maybe it's the look on his face, but it makes John think he was a hunter, not just a hunter. "Black dog?" John asks, watching the guy's eyes widen. He shakes his head though.
"Jack thought it was a werewolf. I never saw it." He was nearly in tears. John lifted the bottle and poured him a shot. "Jack tripped over something and fell down a ravine. That's where I found him."
"Where?" John asks, his head skipping over the moon phases. It would be a month before the beast was hunting again. He would have to come back for it.
"East of here, place called Camping." He lifts the shot glass and downed the whiskey, closing his eyes. "I'm…taking him home." He looks back over his shoulder, toward the door. "His ashes."
Which would explain why he was seeing his buddy everywhere. The death was fresh, the remains close by and it was clear there was an emotional connection there complicating it all. It likely was all psychological.
Which means he should leave it alone, let this lonely hunter get his drink on and grieve. John finishes his beer and stands. "I'm sorry for your loss." He drops some money on the bar, but a hand stops him before he walks away.
"I…I don't want to be alone." His voice breaks and he looks away, his face flushing red. "He…I…"
John understands slowly. The buddy was more than a buddy and the kid is mourning more than the loss of a friend. He's looking for comfort that can't be found in a bottle…and god but John knows he's been there before. He steadies the man as he slips off his stool, drunk enough to stumble. "I'm not…" John shakes his head, looking around them to see who is watching them.
"I know." He pulls himself upright and John tries to tell himself that he's not John's responsibility, but his face is red and he looks lost and if John leaves him at that bar, who knows what could happen to him. "I'm sorry…I just…"
"Grab the bottle." John says, dropping another twenty on the bar. He tells himself he's just going to get the kid to bed, let him sleep it off. Tells himself it's been years since he's done anything with another man, since before Mary. But he wraps his arm around the kid's waist to keep him upright and steers him to the door.
"Got a room." The kid spills whiskey as he tries to get the key from his pocket, but John stops him, slipping a hand into the pocket. They navigate around the cars in the parking lot, up to room number 9.
There's a duffle bag on the bed, and a salt line on the door. It could be his room, but it isn't. He gets them in and the door closed, and suddenly the kid is pressing him into the door, his kiss urgent and needy. His face is wet with tears and John knows he should leave…get his own room, sleep and leave in the morning.
"Please. Please. Just stay with me."
John puts his hands on the kid's shoulders and pushes him back. "I'm not him."
His eyes go wide and he nods. "I know. Please….just…be with me? Just…I can't be alone…I can't….I need you to touch me."
John turns them, shoves the kid into the door. "I won't be him." He makes sure he can see the kid's eyes, sees the agreement before he leans in and kisses him, hard and strong, and he can feel the change in the kid's body, like he's centering and focusing on something other than his loss. He pulls in a shuddering breath as John pulls back. "Tell me what you want me to do."
He blinks, his eyes darting around the room and coming back to John. "I need you to fuck me."
John nods a little, already pulling his jacket off. "Lock the door. I'll be out in a minute." He closes the bathroom door behind him and stares at himself in the mirror. He shouldn't…he knows he shouldn't…but something in the kid's desperation has him worked up and he suddenly wants it…wants to feel a trembling body underneath him, wants to make him come so hard he forgets his pain for the moment…wants something more than his own hand for a change.
He washes his hands and splashes water on his face, before he opens the door. The kid has stripped down to boxers and is sitting on the bed expectantly. He looks up as John steps out. John pulls his shirt off, tossing it toward the chair as he moves closer.
The kid's hands slide up onto his stomach, but John catches them, holds them to get his attention. "No names, no talking about anything outside this room."
He nods. "I promise…just want this…need this."
John releases his hands and they slide over his stomach to John's belt. John lets him unbuckle and unzip, his hand slipping inside to circle around John's cock. He teases it out, glancing up at John before he leans forward and takes it in his mouth, tongue swirling over the tip, then under. He took it deep, then slid off, and John's cock responded, hardening and filling.
John lets him set the pace, closing his eyes and losing himself in the wash of physical desire. His jeans fell to the floor, guided by the kid's hands, and John stepped out of them, pulling his cock away from the kid's mouth.
"You got rubbers?" John asks. He holds his cock as the kid nods, rummaging in his duffle and coming up with a small bottle of lube and a few condoms. He stands, dropping his boxers. He hands the packages of condoms to John, then squirts lube onto his fingers before putting the bottle on the night stand.
John rolls one of the rubbers over his dick, watching as the kid climbs up on the bed, his hand sliding behind him, two fingers sinking into his ass with practiced ease. He moves his fingers around, opening himself up before looking back at John.
John has a fleeting moment of self consciousness, nearly deciding to pull his pants back on and run out the door, but he steps forward.
"Please." The word is simple and pleading and desperate and all doubt flees as John puts his knee on the bed, holding his condom-covered cock and guiding it to the prepped hole. He eases in, groaning a little at the tight heat that rises up to surround him. The kid is moaning too, his face pushed into a pillow as he keens. John eases back and the kid lifts his head. "Please…do it…need…"
John nods even though the kid isn't looking and he thrusts forward, deep and hard and pulls out again. He speeds up as the kid rocks under him, one hand going to his own cock, stroking in time to John's cock inside him.
John grabs his hips to steady him, focused on the play of his dark skin against the white flesh of the kid's ass and keeping the rhythm steady. The sharp scent of come lifts as the kid moans and sinks forward, pulling John down to the mattress with him, changing the angle and his ass clenches around John. He fills the condom and rolls to the side, stripping the condom and tying it before tossing it toward the bathroom.
They lay side by side on the bed, panting. After a while John wonders if the kid's fallen asleep. He sits up, reaching for the bottle of whiskey they'd brought from the bar and taking a long swig.
Beside him the kid's eyes are on him as he turns to look. John hands him the bottle. They pass it between them for a long time, sitting silently and drinking. He thinks maybe he should get dressed and leave.
The kid moves first, wiping at his eye and standing. "Shower."
John nods and watches him go, swallowing down another long pull of booze. He hears the shower turn on and sets the bottle aside. He's half way into his jeans when he hears it, just under the sound of the water.
He drops his pants and moves to the slightly open door. He can see the kid's shadow, his head bowed as he sobbed into the weak stream of water from the showerhead. Shaking his head, John steps into the bathroom, into the shower. He slides one hand around the kid's hip and pulls him back against John, kissing up his back. "It's okay." John murmurs in his ear. "Close your eyes."
He fits their bodies together, his cock half hard again and nestled between the kid's ass cheeks. "Put your hands on the wall." The kid does as he's told, his hands framing the shower head. John's hand covers the kid's cock, stroking it lightly as he kisses over his shoulders. "You're safe." John whispers. "It's okay."
He trembles, his entire body shaking in John's arms as he comes apart. John holds him while he cries, holds him until the water has run cold and the shaking comes from cold rather than emotion. Then he eases them out of the shower, rubbing thin towels over cold skin. The kid's eyes are red and John kisses him softly before leading him from the bathroom back to the bed.
He pulls back the blankets and guides the kid in. "You should sleep."
"Stay?" His hand catches on John's and after a second's hesitation, he slid across the mattress, making room.
John sighs, and nods, slipping in beside him. They lay quietly in the dark, not touching or talking, and after a while, John drifted off.
He woke early to an empty bed. The kid had kept his word to be gone in the morning. All that was left of him was a piece of paper on the night stand by the bottle of whiskey. It only had two words scrawled across it. "Thank you," in hand writing worse than John's own.
He got up and dressed, taking the bottle to throw in his trunk. It wasn't quite eight am, and he had a long drive. He slid into the Impala and lifted his journal, making a note about the werewolf in Camping. He'd have to come back and deal with it at the next full moon.
Title: Cold Comfort
Characters: John Winchester/OMC
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 2453
Summary: Pre-Series. A grieving hunter, a bottle of whiskey...a desperate plea. Cold comfort, hot bodies and a cheap hotel.
A/Ns & Warnings: Written for the Sex is Not the Enemy Ficathon. My prompt was this: http://25.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_l4owymFUJC1qznfrio1_500.jpg (NSFW).
It's another Bad Thing down in another nowhere town, a hundred miles from anything but graveyards and farmland. His boys are another three hundred miles away, safe with Pastor Jim learning how to field dress a gun shot wound, and he's too tired to keep driving when he sees a motel and bar through the deluge of the skies.
He steers the car into the parking lot and sits for a minute, his eyes closed, his head back against the headrest. It isn't quite midnight and the bar looks busy. He should just get a room, sleep and hit the road in the morning to hit that ghost south in Reading, but his bottle is empty on the floor beside him and he really wants a drink.
He opens the car door, turns his coat collar up against the rain, and he dashes across the parking lot. The smell of stale beer and sawdust mixes with the booming bass of some song pouring out of the jukebox and he nearly turns away. All he wants is a quiet beer, maybe a couple of shots and then a long night of sleeping in a bed that isn't the Impala's back seat or shared with Sam's long legs and arms.
There's a spot at the bar, so he lowers his head, slicking back the wet hair that's fallen into his eyes as he sits, lifting a hand to draw the bartender to him. "Shot of whiskey and a beer." He fishes his wallet from a back pocket and drops a twenty on the bar, nodding his thanks when the bartender drops a shot glass and a bottle beside the cash.
He doesn't look up when someone sits beside him. He doesn't want to meet someone, or talk about sports or any of the other topics of conversation that might come up in a place like this. He lifts the shot glass and drains it before curling one hand around the bottle.
"Leave it." The man beside him is young, tall and his hands shake as he downs a shot and reaches for the bottle the bartender has left for him. He swallows down another shot and pulls in a shaky breath and exhales slowly.
John waves the bartender over for another shot and lifts his beer. He can't stop himself from looking the man over, cataloging what his clothes and body say about him, judging how much of a threat he is.
The haircut tells him the man is military, or was. He's in civilian clothes, worn but not ragged. Still wearing combat boots though. He doesn't look up or around, his focus is on his drink and his hands. No one comes looking for him either, so he probably isn't a local.
Like John, he's just passing through.
"Ever get the sense that someone's haunting you?" The guy asks, completely unexpectedly.
John shifts a little on his stool, raises his glass. "Sometimes." He tips back the second shot and notices the guy turns to him a little…just a small turn of his hips on the stool.
"I don't believe in ghosts," he counters, lifting his shot glass in a hand that shakes just a little more than it did before.
John nods silently, sipping from his beer bottle. He can't be sure if this man's ghosts are real or metaphoric, though he's leaning toward the latter as the man wipes his face and shakes his head.
"My buddy…I hear his voice in my head. I see him everywhere I go."
"How did he die?" John asks softly, not really wanting to get involved, but unable to just walk away, not until he knows for sure the guy doesn't need his kind of help.
"Hunting accident." He blinks and shakes his head, like he hadn't meant to say it. "He fell…broke his neck. Lingered on for days before he finally…it was…" He downs another shot, his fourth in a short time.
When he reaches for the bottle, John intercepts him, pulls it away. Their hands brush and the guy turns fully to him now, scowling. "What was he hunting?" John asks, shifting the bottle out of his reach.
He shakes his head, looks away. "Don't know."
Something about the way he says it, or maybe it's the look on his face, but it makes John think he was a hunter, not just a hunter. "Black dog?" John asks, watching the guy's eyes widen. He shakes his head though.
"Jack thought it was a werewolf. I never saw it." He was nearly in tears. John lifted the bottle and poured him a shot. "Jack tripped over something and fell down a ravine. That's where I found him."
"Where?" John asks, his head skipping over the moon phases. It would be a month before the beast was hunting again. He would have to come back for it.
"East of here, place called Camping." He lifts the shot glass and downed the whiskey, closing his eyes. "I'm…taking him home." He looks back over his shoulder, toward the door. "His ashes."
Which would explain why he was seeing his buddy everywhere. The death was fresh, the remains close by and it was clear there was an emotional connection there complicating it all. It likely was all psychological.
Which means he should leave it alone, let this lonely hunter get his drink on and grieve. John finishes his beer and stands. "I'm sorry for your loss." He drops some money on the bar, but a hand stops him before he walks away.
"I…I don't want to be alone." His voice breaks and he looks away, his face flushing red. "He…I…"
John understands slowly. The buddy was more than a buddy and the kid is mourning more than the loss of a friend. He's looking for comfort that can't be found in a bottle…and god but John knows he's been there before. He steadies the man as he slips off his stool, drunk enough to stumble. "I'm not…" John shakes his head, looking around them to see who is watching them.
"I know." He pulls himself upright and John tries to tell himself that he's not John's responsibility, but his face is red and he looks lost and if John leaves him at that bar, who knows what could happen to him. "I'm sorry…I just…"
"Grab the bottle." John says, dropping another twenty on the bar. He tells himself he's just going to get the kid to bed, let him sleep it off. Tells himself it's been years since he's done anything with another man, since before Mary. But he wraps his arm around the kid's waist to keep him upright and steers him to the door.
"Got a room." The kid spills whiskey as he tries to get the key from his pocket, but John stops him, slipping a hand into the pocket. They navigate around the cars in the parking lot, up to room number 9.
There's a duffle bag on the bed, and a salt line on the door. It could be his room, but it isn't. He gets them in and the door closed, and suddenly the kid is pressing him into the door, his kiss urgent and needy. His face is wet with tears and John knows he should leave…get his own room, sleep and leave in the morning.
"Please. Please. Just stay with me."
John puts his hands on the kid's shoulders and pushes him back. "I'm not him."
His eyes go wide and he nods. "I know. Please….just…be with me? Just…I can't be alone…I can't….I need you to touch me."
John turns them, shoves the kid into the door. "I won't be him." He makes sure he can see the kid's eyes, sees the agreement before he leans in and kisses him, hard and strong, and he can feel the change in the kid's body, like he's centering and focusing on something other than his loss. He pulls in a shuddering breath as John pulls back. "Tell me what you want me to do."
He blinks, his eyes darting around the room and coming back to John. "I need you to fuck me."
John nods a little, already pulling his jacket off. "Lock the door. I'll be out in a minute." He closes the bathroom door behind him and stares at himself in the mirror. He shouldn't…he knows he shouldn't…but something in the kid's desperation has him worked up and he suddenly wants it…wants to feel a trembling body underneath him, wants to make him come so hard he forgets his pain for the moment…wants something more than his own hand for a change.
He washes his hands and splashes water on his face, before he opens the door. The kid has stripped down to boxers and is sitting on the bed expectantly. He looks up as John steps out. John pulls his shirt off, tossing it toward the chair as he moves closer.
The kid's hands slide up onto his stomach, but John catches them, holds them to get his attention. "No names, no talking about anything outside this room."
He nods. "I promise…just want this…need this."
John releases his hands and they slide over his stomach to John's belt. John lets him unbuckle and unzip, his hand slipping inside to circle around John's cock. He teases it out, glancing up at John before he leans forward and takes it in his mouth, tongue swirling over the tip, then under. He took it deep, then slid off, and John's cock responded, hardening and filling.
John lets him set the pace, closing his eyes and losing himself in the wash of physical desire. His jeans fell to the floor, guided by the kid's hands, and John stepped out of them, pulling his cock away from the kid's mouth.
"You got rubbers?" John asks. He holds his cock as the kid nods, rummaging in his duffle and coming up with a small bottle of lube and a few condoms. He stands, dropping his boxers. He hands the packages of condoms to John, then squirts lube onto his fingers before putting the bottle on the night stand.
John rolls one of the rubbers over his dick, watching as the kid climbs up on the bed, his hand sliding behind him, two fingers sinking into his ass with practiced ease. He moves his fingers around, opening himself up before looking back at John.
John has a fleeting moment of self consciousness, nearly deciding to pull his pants back on and run out the door, but he steps forward.
"Please." The word is simple and pleading and desperate and all doubt flees as John puts his knee on the bed, holding his condom-covered cock and guiding it to the prepped hole. He eases in, groaning a little at the tight heat that rises up to surround him. The kid is moaning too, his face pushed into a pillow as he keens. John eases back and the kid lifts his head. "Please…do it…need…"
John nods even though the kid isn't looking and he thrusts forward, deep and hard and pulls out again. He speeds up as the kid rocks under him, one hand going to his own cock, stroking in time to John's cock inside him.
John grabs his hips to steady him, focused on the play of his dark skin against the white flesh of the kid's ass and keeping the rhythm steady. The sharp scent of come lifts as the kid moans and sinks forward, pulling John down to the mattress with him, changing the angle and his ass clenches around John. He fills the condom and rolls to the side, stripping the condom and tying it before tossing it toward the bathroom.
They lay side by side on the bed, panting. After a while John wonders if the kid's fallen asleep. He sits up, reaching for the bottle of whiskey they'd brought from the bar and taking a long swig.
Beside him the kid's eyes are on him as he turns to look. John hands him the bottle. They pass it between them for a long time, sitting silently and drinking. He thinks maybe he should get dressed and leave.
The kid moves first, wiping at his eye and standing. "Shower."
John nods and watches him go, swallowing down another long pull of booze. He hears the shower turn on and sets the bottle aside. He's half way into his jeans when he hears it, just under the sound of the water.
He drops his pants and moves to the slightly open door. He can see the kid's shadow, his head bowed as he sobbed into the weak stream of water from the showerhead. Shaking his head, John steps into the bathroom, into the shower. He slides one hand around the kid's hip and pulls him back against John, kissing up his back. "It's okay." John murmurs in his ear. "Close your eyes."
He fits their bodies together, his cock half hard again and nestled between the kid's ass cheeks. "Put your hands on the wall." The kid does as he's told, his hands framing the shower head. John's hand covers the kid's cock, stroking it lightly as he kisses over his shoulders. "You're safe." John whispers. "It's okay."
He trembles, his entire body shaking in John's arms as he comes apart. John holds him while he cries, holds him until the water has run cold and the shaking comes from cold rather than emotion. Then he eases them out of the shower, rubbing thin towels over cold skin. The kid's eyes are red and John kisses him softly before leading him from the bathroom back to the bed.
He pulls back the blankets and guides the kid in. "You should sleep."
"Stay?" His hand catches on John's and after a second's hesitation, he slid across the mattress, making room.
John sighs, and nods, slipping in beside him. They lay quietly in the dark, not touching or talking, and after a while, John drifted off.
He woke early to an empty bed. The kid had kept his word to be gone in the morning. All that was left of him was a piece of paper on the night stand by the bottle of whiskey. It only had two words scrawled across it. "Thank you," in hand writing worse than John's own.
He got up and dressed, taking the bottle to throw in his trunk. It wasn't quite eight am, and he had a long drive. He slid into the Impala and lifted his journal, making a note about the werewolf in Camping. He'd have to come back and deal with it at the next full moon.
