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annundrielWhile It Is Full We Drink Up
Dean/Leon, Unrequited Dean/Castiel
R
1009
Supernatural/Resident Evil 4 crossover.
Dean had known, had felt it the first time he’d turned a corner and practically run into Leon, that they’d end up here.
Title taken from a Jason Webley song. Many thanks to![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
perfumaniac for going over it.
Forspacefragments. Inspired by several conversations with her and this scorching little scenario she drew. I hope you like it!
Leon’s warm in his lap, warm and hard and moving, always moving, grinding down above Dean, against him, knees pressed tight to Dean’s hips, fingers tangled in Dean’s shirt. He tastes like sweat and dirt and gun oil, like sleepless nights and days of hunting. Like adrenaline and fear and the rush of the chase, everything Dean has ever known.
Dean’s kissed and been kissed a lot—both women and men and, once, a fallen angel—but never quite like this, never like they’re both racing toward something, hurtling toward some end, the edge of a cliff that will drop them into something bigger and better and more, fuck, so much more.
Dean had known, had felt it the first time he’d turned a corner and practically run into Leon, that they’d end up here, tucked away in a motel room, door locked against all of the things that go bump in the night as they try to formulate a plan of attack.
They’re not doing much formulating now, distracted by mouths and fingers, but the curve of biceps and the sweet way Leon’s shirt hugs his chest, leaving little to the imagination. Dean doesn’t have to undress him to know what he’ll find, doesn’t have to take him apart to know what makes him tick.
It’s a relief, in a way, after a lifetime of being around people whose motives are many, whose loyalties are suspect, to find something he can relate to, something he knows, even if he…if he…
Even if he wishes the hair beneath his hand were darker, thicker, messier; the clothes rumpled and slightly too big, meant for offices and Sunday morning services instead of fighting things that could only exist in nightmares. Even if he wishes his fingers were wrapped around a cheap blue tie instead of a thigh holster.
He wants the body against his to hold mysteries, wants to wake up in the morning to an unfathomable blue stare across hills of threadbare white.
Dean wants to feel the way he does when Cas is next to him, turning Dean’s personal space into his own, staking a claim.
Leon hitches his hips, their cocks dragging together through the layers of their pants, bringing Dean back to the present, the here and now, and Dean groans, feels like he’s licked an electrical socket. He slides his fingers from the nape of Leon’s neck upward, threading them through sweat-damp hair until he’s got a hold, until he can pull and tug and Leon’s gasping his name into the air. He loses Leon’s mouth, but he gains the sharp line of Leon’s jaw, the long column of his neck, vulnerable and bent, waiting for Dean’s lips and teeth to mark it.
Who is Dean to refuse?
He couldn’t refuse when Leon muscled his way between Dean and the table; straddled Dean’s lap like this was something that they always do, something that they’ve always done. He didn’t even think of refusing past the initial what the fuck? before Leon had taken his mouth with his own, slipping inside so easily.
He’d simply found Leon’s hips and held on.
He’s still holding on, fingers in Leon’s hair, locked on the holster strapped around Leon’s thigh. Every time Leon moves, Dean can feel it beneath the curve of his knuckles, the tightening and relaxing of muscle there.
There, and everywhere.
Fuck.
Licking up Leon’s neck, Dean catches salt on the flat of his tongue, feels the grit of dirt and the thrumming, humming pulse of Leon’s heart as he pants, the hard bob of his Adam’s apple as he swallows around Dean’s name.
Dean nips at his throat, leaves teeth marks against his skin, bruises that mean now, I was here, that will last longer than they will know each other.
“God,” Leon gasps above him, and Dean feels a quick pang of…something.
Not unnamable or untraceable, no matter how much he’d like it to be.
“No,” Dean says, lips hard against skin. “No god.” He pulls Leon’s mouth back down to his, hides words between them like a bad hand in poker. “Just me.”
There’s no one else here.
It’s so little to offer.
He licks into Leon’s mouth before Leon can say anything else.
Leon tugs at Dean’s shirt, hitches himself closer, higher, traps him against the creaking chair provided by the motel and gives and takes and kisses like he’s fighting, kisses like he’s dying. Kisses like he knows it’s the end of the world and he might as well go all in because there won’t be anything left when the fires burn out and the floods recede. Nothing to offer and nothing to take and nothing but bodies, unnamable, untraceable bodies.
People who could be anyone, anything.
Tongues and lips slide together, teeth collide, nails scratch, and fingers bruise. Dean’s sure he’ll have knee-shaped marks at his waist in the morning and for once they’ll be from something more fun than being bent over and kneed. They’ll both be marked by this encounter, this brightly burning thing between them that won’t leave scars or aches and pains.
The marks will fade and the memory will stay and none of it will hurt, not really, not like the rest of what they’re facing will.
It’s something, and Dean clings to it while he can, wraps his fingers and hands and arms around Leon, pulls him close and grinds against him, moving with him until they’re both gasping, both groaning, shuddering against each other in the stale air of a cheap motel room, somewhere that could be anywhere.
It isn’t quite what he wants, isn’t quite what he’s search for; it’s never going to be. Never going to be that steady push and pull, that pulsing ache of need and right that hits him in the gut whenever he hears that rush of air and sound of wings, his name on Cas’ lips.
But this…this feels good and hurts better.
He takes what Leon lets him, though, and gives as good as he gets.
Dean/Leon, Unrequited Dean/Castiel
R
1009
Supernatural/Resident Evil 4 crossover.
Dean had known, had felt it the first time he’d turned a corner and practically run into Leon, that they’d end up here.
Title taken from a Jason Webley song. Many thanks to
perfumaniac for going over it.For
spacefragments. Inspired by several conversations with her and this scorching little scenario she drew. I hope you like it!Leon’s warm in his lap, warm and hard and moving, always moving, grinding down above Dean, against him, knees pressed tight to Dean’s hips, fingers tangled in Dean’s shirt. He tastes like sweat and dirt and gun oil, like sleepless nights and days of hunting. Like adrenaline and fear and the rush of the chase, everything Dean has ever known.
Dean’s kissed and been kissed a lot—both women and men and, once, a fallen angel—but never quite like this, never like they’re both racing toward something, hurtling toward some end, the edge of a cliff that will drop them into something bigger and better and more, fuck, so much more.
Dean had known, had felt it the first time he’d turned a corner and practically run into Leon, that they’d end up here, tucked away in a motel room, door locked against all of the things that go bump in the night as they try to formulate a plan of attack.
They’re not doing much formulating now, distracted by mouths and fingers, but the curve of biceps and the sweet way Leon’s shirt hugs his chest, leaving little to the imagination. Dean doesn’t have to undress him to know what he’ll find, doesn’t have to take him apart to know what makes him tick.
It’s a relief, in a way, after a lifetime of being around people whose motives are many, whose loyalties are suspect, to find something he can relate to, something he knows, even if he…if he…
Even if he wishes the hair beneath his hand were darker, thicker, messier; the clothes rumpled and slightly too big, meant for offices and Sunday morning services instead of fighting things that could only exist in nightmares. Even if he wishes his fingers were wrapped around a cheap blue tie instead of a thigh holster.
He wants the body against his to hold mysteries, wants to wake up in the morning to an unfathomable blue stare across hills of threadbare white.
Dean wants to feel the way he does when Cas is next to him, turning Dean’s personal space into his own, staking a claim.
Leon hitches his hips, their cocks dragging together through the layers of their pants, bringing Dean back to the present, the here and now, and Dean groans, feels like he’s licked an electrical socket. He slides his fingers from the nape of Leon’s neck upward, threading them through sweat-damp hair until he’s got a hold, until he can pull and tug and Leon’s gasping his name into the air. He loses Leon’s mouth, but he gains the sharp line of Leon’s jaw, the long column of his neck, vulnerable and bent, waiting for Dean’s lips and teeth to mark it.
Who is Dean to refuse?
He couldn’t refuse when Leon muscled his way between Dean and the table; straddled Dean’s lap like this was something that they always do, something that they’ve always done. He didn’t even think of refusing past the initial what the fuck? before Leon had taken his mouth with his own, slipping inside so easily.
He’d simply found Leon’s hips and held on.
He’s still holding on, fingers in Leon’s hair, locked on the holster strapped around Leon’s thigh. Every time Leon moves, Dean can feel it beneath the curve of his knuckles, the tightening and relaxing of muscle there.
There, and everywhere.
Fuck.
Licking up Leon’s neck, Dean catches salt on the flat of his tongue, feels the grit of dirt and the thrumming, humming pulse of Leon’s heart as he pants, the hard bob of his Adam’s apple as he swallows around Dean’s name.
Dean nips at his throat, leaves teeth marks against his skin, bruises that mean now, I was here, that will last longer than they will know each other.
“God,” Leon gasps above him, and Dean feels a quick pang of…something.
Not unnamable or untraceable, no matter how much he’d like it to be.
“No,” Dean says, lips hard against skin. “No god.” He pulls Leon’s mouth back down to his, hides words between them like a bad hand in poker. “Just me.”
There’s no one else here.
It’s so little to offer.
He licks into Leon’s mouth before Leon can say anything else.
Leon tugs at Dean’s shirt, hitches himself closer, higher, traps him against the creaking chair provided by the motel and gives and takes and kisses like he’s fighting, kisses like he’s dying. Kisses like he knows it’s the end of the world and he might as well go all in because there won’t be anything left when the fires burn out and the floods recede. Nothing to offer and nothing to take and nothing but bodies, unnamable, untraceable bodies.
People who could be anyone, anything.
Tongues and lips slide together, teeth collide, nails scratch, and fingers bruise. Dean’s sure he’ll have knee-shaped marks at his waist in the morning and for once they’ll be from something more fun than being bent over and kneed. They’ll both be marked by this encounter, this brightly burning thing between them that won’t leave scars or aches and pains.
The marks will fade and the memory will stay and none of it will hurt, not really, not like the rest of what they’re facing will.
It’s something, and Dean clings to it while he can, wraps his fingers and hands and arms around Leon, pulls him close and grinds against him, moving with him until they’re both gasping, both groaning, shuddering against each other in the stale air of a cheap motel room, somewhere that could be anywhere.
It isn’t quite what he wants, isn’t quite what he’s search for; it’s never going to be. Never going to be that steady push and pull, that pulsing ache of need and right that hits him in the gut whenever he hears that rush of air and sound of wings, his name on Cas’ lips.
But this…this feels good and hurts better.
He takes what Leon lets him, though, and gives as good as he gets.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
(no subject)
Date: 2010-08-28 04:16 pm (UTC)Oh and I second spacefragment's comment here:now i want fic in which they meet again while dean is hanging out with cas but they still aren't together. and dean and leon flirt and innuendo at each other in front of cas (because dean is dean and he'd totally do it) and cas gets all jealous and possessive of dean and HATES LEON. And then Dean and Cas dun sex. The End.
(no subject)
Date: 2010-08-29 11:02 pm (UTC)As for that scenario...yeah, I kind of really want to at least try to write it. With the added "and then Dean and Cas dun sex." Because, seriously, of course they do.
I'm glad you enjoyed it. Thank you!