
Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/866073.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Choose_Not_To_Use_Archive_Warnings, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
  Category:
      M/M, Multi
  Fandom:
      Supernatural
  Relationship:
      Benny_Lafitte/Dean_Winchester, Dean_Winchester/Sam_Winchester, Dean
      Winchester/Original_Male_Character(s)
  Character:
      Benny_Lafitte, Dean_Winchester, Sam_Winchester
  Additional Tags:
      Prostitution, Prostitute_Dean, Statutory_Rape, Body_Image, Hurt/Comfort,
      Hurt_Dean_Winchester, Rimming, Anal_Sex, Lap_Sex, Dubious_Consent,
      Dubious_Morality, Sibling_Incest, Emotional_Sex, Emotional_Baggage,
      Crying_Dean, Jealous_Dean_Winchester, Jealous_Sam_Winchester, Wincest_-
      Freeform, Canon_Het_Relationship, Het_and_Slash, Background_Het,
      Background_Slash, Spanking, Painplay, Infidelity, Betrayal, implied_daddy
      issues, Jealousy, Voyeurism, Exhibitionism, Mindfuck, Possessive
      Behavior, Barebacking, Homophobic_Language, Masturbation, Angst, Angst
      and_Hurt/Comfort, Loss_of_Virginity, Implied_Castiel/Dean_Winchester
  Collections:
      Sinful_Desire
  Stats:
      Published: 2013-07-01 Words: 5571
****** I Got the Love That Keeps Me Waiting ******
by alexa_dean
Summary
     Dean’s insecurities run deeper than bullet wounds. Before Dean
     learned to use his body to distract himself, he’d learned how to use
     it to distract others, used it to hide behind, afraid of rejection,
     sure of only two things in his life—that he was John Winchester’s boy
     and that he was Sam’s big brother—that a single misstep could make
     him neither and nothing at all.
Notes
     I think I broke my brain with this one. I got this title from lyrics
     to “Lonely Boy” by the Black Keys (not that I’ve abandoned Fiona
     Apple. She’s my girl), because the lyrics apply to Dean and Benny.
     "Well your mama kept you but your daddy left you
     And I should’ve done you just the same
     But I came to love you
     Am I born to bleed?
     Any old time you keep me waiting
     Waiting, waiting
     Oh, oh-oh I got a love that keeps me waiting
     Oh, oh-oh I got a love that keeps me waiting
     I’m a lonely boy"
Little known fact about Dean Winchester, he hates driving alone. 

Miles of black top gets Dean’s wheels turning faster than the Impala can eat up
miles, nothing but streetlights and neon signs, and changing topography.
There’s no barrier between Dean and his thoughts when he’s like this, his walls
paper thin as shoji screens, memories stalking him in the shape of shadow
puppets.

Dean’s insecurities run deeper than bullet wounds. Before Dean learned to use
his body to distract himself, he’d learned how to use it to distract others,
used it to hide behind, afraid of rejection, sure of only two things in his
life—that he was John Winchester’s boy and that he was Sam’s big brother—that a
single misstep could make him neither and nothing at all.

It became a bartering tool early, a way of making friends. 

You see, what people don’t know is that Dean had been painfully shy
once—freckles, bow legs, his Dad’s old band shirts much to big for a fourteen-
year-old. Yeah, Dean had been a little star struck when the captain of the
varsity wrestling team, a senior, started talking to him during gym class,
praising Dean’s athletic potential.

He didn’t think it was weird when they’d skip school together to hang out and
play Nintendo at his house. Sometimes the guy would even let Dean have an
entire bottle of beer to himself. It made Dean feel older, cooler. Gave him an
identity outside of his family.

And when he’d made a move on Dean (I like you and can I kiss you? And, we don’t
have to do it, if you’re not ready), Dean had gone along with it, sort of
scared but mostly curious. 

He’d lost his cherry that freshman year and he wasn’t entirely sure how he felt
about it, how he felt about other boys in general. What he felt for girls was
pretty cut and dry, everything else, not so much.

The attention had been nice, but it hurt too much, so much so that the guy
couldn’t even get it in half-way that first time (it’s okay). But they kept
trying in the weeks that followed until he finally did and Dean had tolerated
it even though he’d been soft the entire time, but the way the guy looked at
him afterward, like he was some kind of amazing, like Dean
had accomplished something awesome, Dean came to crave that. And the blowjobs
he received afterward had been nice too, so he sort of figured that maybe it
had been worth it at the time—

At least, until Dean had tried to hang during lunch one day and had been met
with inexplicable coldness and the guy, Johnny—along with his jock buddies—had
called Dean a fag. 

Dean had put himself out there and was found lacking. Dean pretty much decided
then and there that school and everyone in it was utter bullshit. Dean had
never been more grateful to move away.

So, when pervy older men propositioned him, willing to pay for his time, Dean
felt vindicated knowing he was worth something, worth the bills he kept for a
rainy day in his sock drawer, even when others didn’t think him worthy of
knowing. 

Cash flow was unpredictable at best and his father wasn’t always sober enough
to keep tabs, but Dean was good at keeping Sam clothed and fed and his father
happy, or more to the truth, less concerned about them, so he could keep on
fighting the good fight and Dean could keep proving he was vital, necessary,
worth every penny earned on his knees.

So Dean had fucked himself through twenty-eight states by the time he was
nineteen, had to check himself into seedy clinics a handful of times, but never
caught anything that stuck. 

He thanked God for small favors. 

But the first time he’d made love—he was twenty. The first time he’d made love,
it was with Sam, his little brother. So as far as he was concerned, it was the
only one that counted.

Thing is, Sam taught him something, taught him Dean Winchester was capable of
falling in love, but whether or not he was capable of sustaining a relationship
was another matter entirely. And the old adage is true. You never forget your
first and for Dean, he never got away. Not that Dean wanted to. What made Sam
different, what still makes him different is Dean just can’t quit him.

Even though part of him never forgave Sam for leaving to Stanford, he knew he
had been partly to blame too, that he’d driven Sam away. 

The fights had been vicious, still are. He couldn’t tell Sam that he was out
earning their keep or that he was scared of him, scared of how he felt, the
depth of it. That he had to prove to himself that he did exist outside of Sam.
Or about the fear that he’d fucked Sam up irredeemably because Dean had been
weak and hungry and so full of love he didn’t know how else to show it,
except under Sam. So full of love, he’d spend summer days locking Sam up with
him until their apartments reeked of sex, until they were shaky because they’d
forgotten to eat, until Sam’s friends came knocking and Dean driven by jealousy
would run, run, run into the arms of the next barfly who gave him the time of
day. 

Sam yelling: Where were you? Who were you with? You fucked her, didn’t you?
Goddamnit, Dean! Goddamn you! Am I not enough? Not good enough for the great
Dean Winchester? Answer me!

And Sam would get so angry, so quick to blow up, he’d fuck Dean face down
because he couldn’t stand to look at Dean and Dean didn’t think he deserved to
look back.

Nearly two decades of hurting one another—never falling out of love—but falling
in love with others; Sam shutting him out each time, because he’d never been
the type to cheat and Dean never learned how to stop. He’d forced Sam into
hating himself—

I can’t look in the mirror when I’m with you!

Because Dean wouldn’t stop pursuing him, seducing him, possessing him with the
single-minded obsessiveness he’d inherited from their father.

For Sam there had been Jess and Madison, Ruby and Amelia. For Dean, there’d
been Cassie and Lisa and Castiel and, if he weren’t completely a coward, he’d
admit to Benny too. 

But the most terrible thing, the scariest thing is what Sam and Dean are
together; this thing that has killed them both, time and again. 

Drunk and—one of the rare times, he’d gotten high off weed (he gets too
introspective)-- he’d once tried to describe it to some girl he’d shacked up
with for a weekend:

You know what it’s like? He’d said, taking a long, thoughtful drag and blowing
smoke rings, to live with it? It’s like—like holding a razorblade between your
teeth. Or in your heart—in the meatiest part—if you move or say too much, when
you smile or talk or fuck someone, every time your heart beats, you cut
yourself wide open. You could drown, you really could, y’know? You could
fucking bleed to death. So I had to let him go and not a single day goes by
that I don’t want to drive to California and drag his ass back.

She’d looked at him, wide-eyed, too stoned to catch the part where he’d
admitted to being in love with his brother. And the part that they used to fuck
on a regular basis.

Probably. 

Wow, she’d said. That’s deep. They’d watched the ceiling fan for a minute or
two. I want to be loved like that.

Dean had smiled, bitterly. No you don’t. 

And he’d fucked her till her brains fell out and he was drowning in blood.

For better or worse, Dean is Sam’s and always will be. There is nothing Dean
can do to change that. It’s an inherent and involuntary compulsion, like
breathing, embedded in that lizard part of his brain that has nothing to do
with thought and everything to do with the very basics necessary to life.

He doesn’t think it’s the same for Sam.

So, as far as Dean’s concerned, it gives Dean every right to sleep with
whomever he wants. 

Logic has never been Dean Winchester’s strong point.

***

Dean thinks he’s got the wrong place, that he can still turn back and run to
Sam, but Sam is angry still and Amelia stands between them, bigger than she has
any right to be.

Dean knocks. He can all but see Benny bathed in the reflected light of a
television he can barely hear, when the door opens. Dean straightens up
automatically, shoulders back, head up like his father taught him, sliding into
his mask as easily as he sheds his clothes.

“Dean.” Lamplight glances off the tips of Benny’s lashes, the crop of his
beard. “Good to see you.” Before
Dean has any chance to react Benny grabs hold of him in a tight hug. Steam
crawls across the ceiling, wreaths around a lazily turning fan.

“Were you planning on staying out here all night, pining after me?”

“You wish.” 

Dean refuses to pull away for a moment, tucking his face into Benny’s neck. The
vampire is warm from a shower like a summer glow and Dean can almost pretend
Benny’s alive. Dean knows it’s weird, him clutching a half-naked man in a
towel, but he’s gone through a lot these last few weeks, so as far as Dean’s
concerned, passersby can just suck one. 

Benny lets Dean have his way with characteristic graciousness—good ol’
Southern-boy, through and through—then leads him inside, Dean caught in his
undertow. 

It’s hard to feel awkward around Benny; even though it’s obvious Dean is here
on a booty call. And if he’s honest, he’s having a bit of a hard time starting
a conversation with the sight of Benny’s bare chest in front of him, dusky
coils of hair thick and damp like morning vegetation. 

He finds it funny that he knows the exact shape of Benny, the breadth of his
shoulders and waist, the weight of his cock, but has never seen Benny without
clothing. Not for the first time, he wonders what Benny would have looked like
human baked under a summer sun, salt on his skin, what he might have smelled
like, a smell all his own and not borrowed from earth or blood or fruity
bodywash, for that matter.

“You got anything to drink?” Dean sidesteps, dropping his coat over the nearest
chair. He looks around the room: sheets freshly washed, Benny’s boots tucked at
the foot of the bed. There’s a book on the nightstand and Dean’s hands itch to
flip through it, wonders what interests Benny, thinks he shouldn’t.

“Not for you.”

“What are you, my mother?”

“Someone’s gotta take care of you sweetheart. So yeah, if that’s what you wanna
call me. Although Daddy might have a better ring to it.”

Dean makes a face (Really? No. Just no. Really big fucking NO) but doesn’t
protest, knowing it would only encourage Benny, so Dean lets the term of
endearment slide and pretends not to have heard the last request. Because Dean
is fucked up, but he’s not that fucked up. Not by choice, anyway.

So, Dean does what he does best and pushes the buttons of his shirt through the
eyelets, lets the shirt slip, catches the sleeve and flings it over his coat.
He won’t look Benny in the eye, pulls his tee over his head instead, tossing it
aside too. He sits on the mattress and focuses on unlacing his boots. Benny
leans on a table to his left, observing Dean with arms crossed over his chest,
a peripheral blur of gold and white and eyes gone dark mountain-blue.

“You sure don’t mess around.”

Dean tries for a smirk, but it won’t reach his eyes. He’s tucking his socks
into his boots when Benny nudges Dean with his knee, gets a cool hand over
Dean’s bare shoulder and another on his cheek. Their eyes meet for a second and
Dean can see Benny’s pupils swell up huge, eyes as wide and blue as an open
sea. Benny gets Dean. He knows Dean isn’t here to talk about his feelings. 

Dean is here to forget. 

He tries to turn away, but Benny holds fast to his jaw. His grip is firm, but
his eyes are kind, the curve of his mouth speaks of patience and tenderness.

“Let me,” he says, slow, honey-like and whiskey-dark, pushing Dean down, down,
down onto bleach-stiff blankets. He touches his mouth to Dean, over his
hollowed-out stomach, the jut of his hip. 

He sort of hovers there then presses his cheek against the paper-thin skin,
dragging his chin over it, scratchy and good until Dean bucks up hissing and
he’s rewarded with a cool wet tongue. He sucks softly at Dean’s belly, tugging
the skin between his teeth and Dean finds himself wanting to spread, wanting to
embrace Benny between his thighs, but turns away and drapes an arm over his
eyes in lieu of holding out his arms, because it’s too intimate for Dean. 

Not much like fucking. Not much at all.

And not at all like Purgatory, where Dean remembers looking out through a
tracery of limbs and stretched-out darkness and Benny hammering away as hard as
Dean had begged for it, the funk of old pennies and grit still wet in the air
and thick on their tongues.

Dean’s belt buckle jangles in Benny’s hands and Dean twists a little because it
tickles. He bites his cheek and holds his breath, already hard, but growing
harder, makes no move, lies there passively. Not wanting any consideration.

He almost falls off the bed when Benny pulls at his jeans, like a magician with
a tablecloth, taking Dean’s boxers with it.

“Hey!”

“You gonna knock out on me?” Benny’s grin is all teeth and fondness and all for
Dean. 

Blood blooms in Dean’s face, partly from indignance and partly at Benny’s open
assessment, the softness in his gaze, large and unreserved and ruthless. 

Benny sees too much, makes Dean want to curl in on himself, tuck his tail and
run, because Dean knows this feeling, this vulnerability and he knows the
absence that follows and Dean doesn’t want to care, because caring leads to
expectations to disappointment and ultimately to rejection.

So, Benny wants a show? Well, Dean is a performer-- the very best, the
very fucking best.

He brings a heel to the mattress edge, knee falling open, his fingertips
skimming the length of his cock, too brief to get a rise, but just right to
goad Benny. He slips a hand underneath his skull, on full display like he’s
done a thousand times before, lets his head loll slightly, blinks catlike, lets
his mouth fall open, the way that makes people stop to stare at it. 

He’s got a nipple between his knuckles, rolling it, rocking his hips in tandem
to every pull. His breathing is quiet, ragged and full of need. 

“You gonna stand there all night?”

“So what if I am?” Benny’s gaze crawls over him, so palpable it makes Dean’s
skin itch. It feels too much like comfort, like family. “I do what I want,
kiddo.”

It raises Dean’s hackles. It also gets him hotter, because Dean is a sucker for
punishment and he’s got a thing for willful, authoritative men. And Benny does
it for him—scruffy beard and powerful hands, hands capable of holding him down
and throwing him around. Dean lets it show, flicks his tongue over the corner
of his mouth and watches Benny go suddenly, scarily still in that way only
predators can; in that way Dean was counting on.

He goes as far as curling his toes and digging them into the bedspread, feeling
slutty and really fucking good, despite the fact that his cheeks and ears are
on fire and he hasn’t so much as reached for his dick. He wants Benny’s mouth
on his nipples and he leaks at the thought.

Yet Benny’s aplomb is becoming really fucking annoying, really fucking quick.
Dean needs to take the edge off, but the asshole is doing nothing to help him
out, like he intends to leave Dean like that, hard enough to cut granite and
pissy enough to give Sam a run for his money.

“Anytime now would be good.”

Dean is about to say the hell with it all and fuck off when Benny finally makes
a move to grab a chair, careful not to disturb Dean’s clothing and sets it up
in front of Dean, like he intends to use it as a barrier between them.

Dean immediately props himself up on his elbows, sort of incredulous. Okay,
a lot incredulous.

“Both feet on the bed.”

“What?” 

“You heard me. Legs up, knees open. I want to watch you get yourself off.”

Dean takes a slow measured breath, wondering what sort of game he signed up for
and left pretty off kilter. He expected to be a little roughed up and that’s
not what he’s getting. He’s beginning to think he should have picked someone up
at a bar or picked a fight.

The last thing he expects is for Benny to pull Dean’s belt from Dean’s jeans
and even less, the lightning-strike pain across his inner thigh.

“Fuck! What the fuck—“ Dean shoots up the mattress, teeth clacking together in
his haste, pulling the staticky blankets to cocoon himself. Dean’s eyes gape
wide, so wide his face starts to hurt. 

“What’d you do that for?” He kind of wants to squirm or punch Benny in the
mouth.

“You were looking a bit distracted,” Benny offers by way of explanation. “And
now, you’re not.”

The skin of Dean’s thigh tingles, glows hot and red, as red as the slick head
of his cock, which has absolutely no business staying as hard as it is when
Dean is in pain. He twists his right hand in the comforter and brings it close
to his chest, like armor.

Benny puts a knee to the mattress, the implication clear as the blue of his
eyes. Dean isn’t really into that kind of pain, per se. So when he reaches for
Dean with one hand, all Dean can stare at is the belt pinned beneath the other.

“Don’t come any closer,” Dean hisses and all but spits, baring his teeth,
calculating means of escape. He’s got two choices, either vaulting over Benny
or hedging to the left, which is equally useless, Benny is that much faster
than him. Vampire powers be damned.

“C’mon now Dean. You don’t mean that.”

“Fuck off!” Dean kicks and Benny grabs a hold of his ankle, twists it
uncomfortably so Dean is forced to turn on his belly, strips away Dean’s sheets
and drags him kicking and screaming across the mattress.

“Sonavabitch!”

“I gave you an order and you ignored it.”

“Suck my dick.”

“I just might, if you beg pretty,” Benny drawls, full of promise and shoves
Dean face first against the bed, one hand on his neck—chest gliding over Dean’s
back, hair tickling—as he twists Dean’s arm behind him with the other, and
Dean’s left half on and half off the bed.

Dean knows where this is headed and he’s not sure he’s willing to follow.

However, one thing Dean is sure of and it’s that he’s not apologizing, or
begging for leniency for that matter. Benny is strong and Dean knows it’s
pointless. There’s no way of gaining leverage. Strength aside, Benny is the
better fighter anyway (not that Dean will ever admit aloud), has shown Dean a
trick or two, quite possibly more if he’s honest.

“Good boy.”

Dean spasms one more time for good measure, snapping his hips forward and away
from the press of Benny’s cock riding the crack of his ass, though he spreads
his legs for it, wanting more, expecting more. 

Dean can't help being easy.

Then Benny is gone, except for a hand on the sway of Dean’s back.

The crack of a belt leaves Dean blind for a second or two and he doesn’t get a
chance to acclimate before the next falls, and the next and the next, all in
quick succession, leather tip snapping between his buttocks across the most
vulnerable, deepest part of him and he bucks forward wildly, toes spread wide
on the nasty carpet, and teeth tearing into the fabric covering his mouth. He’s
white-knuckling it.

He won’t cry out. He won’t. He’s beyond that. Beyond words.

The next strike across his flank is not a belt, but Benny’s hand, quick and
loud as a gunshot but no less painful than leather. It’s horribly, terribly
intimate, skin against skin, and it racks a tremor from him, having none of the
disregard Dean craves. And it stings, leaves his eyes burning. He blames it on
the chemical reek of detergent.

Dean is seeing colors with each slap: sleek chrome and ember-red, sunset-orange
and salt-white. He’s not fighting it now, he’s pushing back into every hit and
every one is aimed where it counts and he can all but see his hole swell up
like a welt with every knife-edged jolt. 

Tears cling to his eyelashes, drip onto the sheets as he struggles to breathe,
each breath shunted back to his face. Pleasure rockets through him and he
strains, humping the mattress, desperate for friction. There’s not enough space
for thought between Benny’s hand and the scratch of cotton on his dick. 

When Benny releases him, Dean is almost sorry. Almost, because he knows what
will come will be infinitely that much better. He’s left reeling however,
anchorless without the pain to ground him. 

He knows he’s crying, except he doesn’t know why, but he won’t let Benny see,
doesn’t want him to take it the wrong way, because Dean wants him. Really wants
him and it has the stink of betrayal all over it because this is not
adrenaline, this is not drinking to the bottom of a bottle, like it’s always
been. 

Mostly.

He reminds himself who Sam's with right this moment.

Benny’s hand lingers, urges him onto the bed, far enough to get his knees
beneath him, but not far enough to keep his feet from dangling over the edge,
Dean goes with it. Snakes coiling in his belly, spitting and sparking, when he
startles at the crush of Benny’s cool mouth trailing a wet patch down his
spine, scritch-scratch of his beard trawling over the knobs, the dip of his
back, and finally between his cheeks, thumbs pulling him apart, whole body
opening up.

Dean’s heart trips in his chest, lurches into his throat, and it’s like he’s
got a livewire fusing hole to nuts to leaky tip of his dick.

“That’s it, just relax. Lemme take care of you,” Benny mumbles, barely
intelligible and Dean pants and whines kicked-dog-like on the razor-edge of not
enough and too much to bear.

“You talk too much,” Dean says, letting Benny lick the tension right out,
letting him shove him forward, tongue cutting into Dean like a blade through
his heart.

His elbows fold and his head falls, teeth open on his forearm. Benny is pushing
into him with his tongue and his thumbs, like he’s trying to split a peach in
half, break it open, and Dean accommodates grudgingly at first, because
it hurts. 

Benny’s cool breath is a balm but his stubble is agony. It’s almost too
painful, he’s so swollen, ass throbbing magnificently from the spanking he’d
never thought he’d like, but Benny keeps pushing deep and Dean keeps pushing
back and it feels like Benny’s moulding him, shaping him into something new,
something holy, something he’s lost to Sam.

And he’s biting back Benny’s name. Delivered by the grind of warm wet promise.
Benny’s groans pushing deep in his belly until there’s no room inside Dean,
only drumming fingertips and wayward tongue digging into his aching flesh, not
nearly deep enough, but pleasurable all the same.

But this right here, right now, is about the most intense thing ever. Dean’s so
sensitive from pain, so hot for a careful, gentle touch. What is there left to
do, except to face-plant into the bed and hold himself open? 

And it pays off royally, because he’s moaning so loud Benny starts stroking the
backs of his thighs and shushing against his hole. Dean’s kind of out of his
mind right now, rocking back and forth, sort of incoherent with the building
pressure in his belly and he can’t believe it, can’t believe it could be like
this and he might, he just might be able to come without stroking his cock at
all, or any prostate stimulation. It would be a first for him and he’s not sure
he’ll be able to stop himself.

It’s good, so good, feels himself relax and flex, flex and relax to the
quickening of his pulse, the deepening of his breaths and not a hand on his
dick. He’s thrusting back, deep and eager and desperate, beyond pride or
reason, above humiliation. Benny’s cheek catch-gliding over the curve of his
ass, but he’s done feeling like he’s trying to diffuse the ticking bomb in his
chest. 

His jaw tightens and his abdominals flutter. He likes this, the rough imprint
of stubble on him, the artless application of teeth, thinks he can get off on
this, just this: the sound of his own labored breathing and Benny’s supple
mouth, every curl of his tongue less on than sidling in. There is much to be
said about a vampire tongue.

Heart blundering and bounding, about to leap out of his mouth, Dean rubs his
face all over the sheets, like a cat spreading his scent.

It comes on like a seizure, a blazing fever, because he’s lost all control of
his muscles, his voice, his thoughts and he just might die from it. He’s
between space and time, formless and full of light, and he’s pretty sure he’s
managed to astral project out of his body, because he can’t feel a single
thing, except where Benny’s wiggling inside him, prolonging the aftershocks of
his orgasm. 

He’s too busy recovering to notice Benny has stopped his ministrations and he’s
fallen halfway off the bed, his come sticky against his chest.

“Oh, gross.”

“Did you just come?”

“Um, no.”

“You came.” It’s not a question.

Dean is on the far side of mortification, he also can’t move.

“You came and I never—“

“Dude, your harshing my afterglow. Quit it.” Crawling, Dean settles on the
fresh side of the bed and sprawls on his back, suddenly, inexplicably cold.
He’s not supposed to be here. “Hey, you wanna—“ he’s midway to rolling on his
stomach or offering a blowjob, when Benny stops him, crushing him with his
weight.

Dean is suddenly, ridiculously terrified, he’s got his hands against Benny’s
chest holding him off, but Benny has already hooked Dean’s bent leg over the
crook of his elbow, spreading him open, stretching him on the tip of his
cock, sinking, sinking, sinking and Dean is fighting, legs scrambling to find a
grip, but Benny is still slick with water or sweat and all Dean manages to do
is unfold and fall apart.

They’ve fucked, many times and in many ways, but they’ve never done this, not
like this, not face-to-face.

“No.” Dean is going to throw up. He doesn’t want this, not this way.
He doesn’t. It’s too much like—like—

“Get off me!” He shoves this time, but Benny takes his wrists and slams them on
either side of his head. It speaks of violence, but his eyes—his eyes are
imploring and shiny bright.

“Don’t,” Dean whispers.

“Please. Please—let me. Just this once.” He’s inside Dean. Inside. All the way.
No take-backs.

“Don’t do this,” Dean is trembling from adrenaline. “I can’t.”

“You can,” Benny whispers against his jaw, rolling his hips. “You can.” He
won’t stop moving, slow and gentle, nudging Dean, kissing his throat, stroking
Dean’s wrists with his thumbs, his reverence brutal.

“I don’t want to.” 

“You will.” Dean sees the shape of Benny’s words, the ones implied— the ones
that have nothing to do with what Dean wants or deserves to hear; the ones he
can’t afford.

Benny’s skin seems to be absorbing all the light in the room and reflecting it
back, his chest and hips slip-sliding against Dean’s and Dean’s nipples
catching on crinkled chest hair; Dean’s dick twitching, painfully
overstimulated between them. 

Dean can’t help but turn his face to stare at the digital numbers on the clock,
read the spine of the book in front of it (The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn,
huh) focusing on time and place and anything that doesn’t have to do with
what’s happening to his treacherous body, because that’s all Dean is, all he’s
ever been—just meat, senseless and dissolute. But it’s not working, not with
Benny’s hands sliding over his, palm-to-palm.

This is all Sam’s fault, because Dean would not have come, not if Sam hadn’t
shut him out. If he hadn’t left Dean for Stanford to be rejected by Cassie, or
if Sam hadn’t shacked up with Ruby leaving Dean alone to attach himself to Cas,
if he hadn’t made Dean promise to make a home with Lisa only to come back,
forcing Lisa to make the choice for Dean and Dean to take her memories; if Sam
hadn’t left him to die in Purgatory.

Nothing more left for Dean to do but move, breathing hard— blooming, searching,
wanting Benny’s mouth, his regard, his unconditional affection, and the cut-
strings of his beard brushing his cheeks and his chin and his lips, for one
more night.

I hate you, Dean thinks, but he doesn’t know its target, maybe everyone or
maybe it’s no one in particular, but more than likely it's himself.

Sensing Dean’s capitulation, Benny lets go of his hands, follows the long lines
of Dean’s sides to curve around his ass-cheeks to probe the burning ring of
muscle there and his own hard length inside and Dean groans like he’s wounded. 

He’s half-hard, raises his knees and crosses his ankles over Benny’s back and
slips his arms around Benny’s neck, pulling him down into a kiss, letting Benny
in and pulling at his tongue, wanting it in his throat and stealing the air
from Benny’s lungs and huffing it back through his nose.

Yeah. Dean knows it’s a mistake, but he’s never been able to veer around them,
can only barrel through. Won’t start now. 

So when Benny lifts him to sit on his lap and snaps his hips into Dean, gaining
real estate with every bounce, Dean goes with it, hitching, seeking friction
against Benny’s belly. Benny makes it soft and rough and sugar-sweet, like the
swipe of his thumb over Dean’s cheekbones, like the kisses over Dean’s lips. 

There is no mine in the way Benny’s holding Dean, only have, only be.

“Shhh,” Benny says, “Don’t.” And for a moment Dean’s confounded, when he
realizes he’s been crying, soundlessly and Dean’s head has become a terrible
weight, so he drops it to Benny’s: brow-to-brow and eye-to-eye. It’s Dean’s
turn to be selfless, to give back what is given freely. 

So he stops fighting and gives Benny what he needs, but won’t steal. Finding a
rhythm. A purpose. No room for pretense. Holds himself upright by digging his
fingers into Benny’s shoulders and rides like he has someplace to be and no
place to go and Benny has a hard time tracing sigils on the points of Dean’s
hips.

Dean’s thighs burn, the welts on his ass sting, his knees abrade, but he fucks
right through it all, determined to set things right and make it good. Writhing
and rebounding like he’s spring-loaded and all Benny can do is say Dean’s name
like it’s a blessing. 

Harder, faster, and Benny’s hands clasp over Dean’s skull and he’s moaning into
his mouth and he comes, slick and sudden, his sighs tangling in Dean’s hair and
Dean comes too, a long sinuous release like he’s falling asleep.

They collapse together and Dean holds Benny inside, like he’s keeping secrets.
His legs feel like jell-o and the rest of him isn’t faring any better. He’s
also having a hard time catching his breath with Benny on top of him.

“Hey,” Dean says after a while. He’s a royal mess. “I need a shower.”

“Dean.”

“I do.”

Benny rolls off and Dean winces.

“Stay. Jus' for a little while?”

Dean closes both eyes, turns on his stomach, taking a moment to think. He’s
broken so many rules already. What’s one more?

“Hey . . . you okay? I'm askin', not tellin'."

Dean opens to it, to eyes bright as galaxies. Benny kisses his back, the skin
over his shoulder blades, fingertip dipping in the sweat of Dean’s lower back,
down to his hole, to slip inside where it’s wetter still. Dean thinks it’s kind
of nice.

“Okay,” he answers, “But don’t get used to it."

~THE END~
SEQUEL: Heart_Made_of_Parts
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