gunning for the buddha

Missing scene for SPN 504. Dean. Panties.

we're on the road and we're gunning for the buddha, take one shot to blow him away
shriekback


"You're a cold fucking bastard, you know that, don't you?" Dean stared at his older self, trying not to let the disappointment and the disgust bleed through his expression too much.

Older Dean let his mouth twist up at the corner. "Got you a present, sweetheart." He dug in his jacket pocket, pulling out a jack knife and a ball of wire and a Book of Common Prayer and, then, something pink with a slippery shine, the only thing bright and beautiful in the room. Older Dean looked down, then up, kind of rueful, kind of like the wrong word might break him. "Tomorrow either I kill my brother or he kills me, and tell the truth, Dean, just thinking about it gets me to bleeding inside."

"Ain't gonna be no redemption," Dean said, breathing in long. "Reckon I. Well." He waved his hand, describing a circle. "End of the world, right. So put them on."

Older Dean's eyes went round. "I thought — "

Dean shook his head, grinning tight. "You're a good boy, I'll put them on you myself."

"Jesus."

Dean crossed his arms to grab double fistfuls of hem and hauled his shirts up over his head, dropping them on the dirty boards. "No savior. No salvation. Not what this is." He jerked his chin up, and his older self looked down and then mirrored the action. He had the same tattoo, the same touched-by-an-angel scar, faded to a faint silver shimmer hardly there unless you knew to look. His eyes flicked up through his lashes, and he turned around, hands going to his belt as he stood on the heels of his unlaced boots, jerked them half-off, and kicked them at the wall carelesly.

Dean thought first he was getting a show, but then he saw the scars down Dean's back, twisting, like all the skin had been ripped off and then sewn back crazy-quilt patchwork. So maybe it was meant to say, you ain't seen nothing yet.

"Well, that sucks," he said, only to be saying something. Older Dean just grunted, hands unbuckling the belt, three pulls to get the zipper down, and then the pants dropped straight to the floor, followed quick by his underwear. Old Dean had a good ass, Dean'd give him that, hard muscle and sweet dimples that he just wanted to dig his thumbs into…

… and Dean liked how he looked fine enough, but still he could not believe that he'd just thought that about his own ass.

"Give them here," he said, and caught the panties when his older self flipped them over his shoulder lazily. "This making you hard, that what you don't want me seeing?"

"Don't be a dick," he told him. Dean grinned, and took a few steps closer so he could put a hand at the back of his older self's neck. It creeped Dean out to be touched with those little feathery fingerstrokes that girls liked so much: made him feel there was someone walking over his grave. He liked a firm touch, broad strokes, hard press of fingers sliding down his spine, bruises marked over muscles, and when he was close to coming he liked nails dug into his skin, tearing him out.

He reckoned his older self hadn't changed so much: Dean did all that, touching his way down the scars lining his older self's back, reaching around to pinch nipples through the smooth perfect polyester of the panties. Dean figured that all the end-times sex everyone seemed to be having didn't scrath the real itch none. It wasn't a matter of getting in as many orgasms as possible before the world ended, or even of using the moments of release to forget. It was needing to be touched, and even if older Dean was fucking every woman here plus Cas plus the guy he'd just cold-blooded executed out in the drive, couldn't none of them touch him like Dean could.

Kind of made Dean feel dangerous, having that kind of power.

He slid his hands down around the front of older Dean's hips, pulling him back so his bare ass pressed up tight against Dean's hard dick, still safe at home in his pants. He heard older Dean's breath hitch, swallowed down, saw him curl his shoulders and tense his neck. Dean leaned in and bit down, right along the ridge of his shoulder. He got a good pressure with his teeth and then slid his bottom jaw sideways, and yeah: older Dean knew that trick, loved it, wanted to be wearing bruises and toothmarks when he went to kill the devil.

You had to admire that kind of perversity, Dean figured, and kept sliding his teeth along, like he was the big bad wolf, going to eat himself all up. Kind of dirty, come to think of it, and he rubbed the panties over older Dean's thigh while he figured out how he was going to play this.

On his knees was good, he'd been told enough times that he kind of had a complex about it, but this was him, and it'd be good to fuck with his head. He slid down and around and came up knees on the boards just by older Dean's toes. Apparently in the future there weren't socks.

"Foot up," he said, getting the waist bit at the top and figuring out which was the front because the ass of the panties was kind of fuller. Though not by much: older him had a thing for skimpy. He slid the lined-up holes neat over the foot held up, stopped at the ankle for the other foot, and then with his thumbs hooked into the sides just kind of glided those panties right on up, over bony knees and the hairy fronts of his legs and right up until he reached crotch.

Then he pulled the material out so it slid right on up over older Dean's dick, which was hard and thick and wet at the head. The second the material covered it over, there was already a wet spot, and Dean had to rub it and say something about wet panties. That thing about leopards and spots, they don't change, and the day Dean Winchester wasn't happy when someone wet their panties for him was the day he'd be dead and gone.

He rubbed the spot and then put his mouth there, stroking older Dean's dick over the clinging fabric, up to his mouth and then all the way down, cupping his balls, rubbing a hard circle up at that spot just behind, and then bringing his hand back on the long commute. The panties tasted new — kind of like the way Wal-Marts smelled — but that was better than them being used, he figured. Plus, now where he was sucking they tasted a lot more like come.

Older Dean shifted, doing that thing where he got his legs apart and braced his knees, and one hand came down on Dean's head, grabbing his hair tight at the roots and shoving his face forward so Dean's nose went right up into the pink.

That was kind of annoying, and Dean tugged on older Dean's dick for being a bossy twat. Maybe older Dean did guys a lot more often, but he should remember that the 2009 model of him was in a pretty much long straight phase ever since Dad had — ever since Dad.

Older Dean seemed to get off on the rough touch, so Dean pulled his lips back and got his teeth right around the head of his dick, sliding and he figured not so much a threat as a promise. Older Dean choked on a shout, and another, and the hand in Dean's hair tightened, loosened, tightened. Dean sucked hard through the fabric, grabbed a handful of balls and worked that steady pressure that hurt and felt good, he knew it did, who could know better than him?

He wasn't about to swallow his own spunk, though, that'd be weird, so when older Dean started shaking apart Dean pulled off, jerking the orgasm out with his hands and saying stuff, all kinds of stuff, calling himself baby and dude and a fucking whore because sometimes it was true.

When it was all done, the panties a dripping wet mess, Dean pulled older Dean down to his knees. He staggered up onto his feet and got the fly of his pants open and his dick out and jerked himself off fast as he could. Older Dean was still breathing broken, lost, when Dean came all over his hair and his face, come mixing with the tears and being washed down, and when he was done and his dick tucked back in, older Dean folded down over himself, and Dean… Dean hauled on a shirt and went out for a fucking walk, and maybe busted one of the Impala's back windows out with a rock.

But he said sorry, after.

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