kumquatix: Dean smiling (dean)
[personal profile] kumquatix
Title: Someone had written "clean me" in the scum around the edge
Author: Kumquatix
Fandom: Supernatural
Pairing: Gen
Spoilers: Season 4
Rating: NC-17
Word count: 1300
Summary: The evil of the world keeps Dean from masturbating.

Notes: This is a remix of The Multi-farious Parking Hazards in Texas by [livejournal.com profile] moragmacpherson.

Thank you [personal profile] alexseanchai for looking this over, and thank you [livejournal.com profile] keerawa for the inspiring beta. You have been a great encouragement and help.

This fic is better thanks to you. Mistakes and oddities remain my own.

-

This one time, Dean was googling for a video he'd seen before. It was about these two gorgeous dominatrixes in patent leather cat suits sloshing scalding coffee on their bound pleasure slave, and the guy was so into it he jizzed all over his stomach before the one with the pony-tail had even touched her tongue to his dick, and worse, before the one with her hair twisted in a tight bun had wriggled far enough out of her pants for him to eat her out. To punish him they jerked his still hard dick off and rolled his balls until he managed a final weak dribble of come, then knelt over his face kissing each other with their tongues out, pinching and petting each other's breasts, and letting their creamy pussy juices rain over him.

The shiny splatters of boy and girl ejaculate decorating the guy had looked totally fake, and he had probably mentally edited and refined it into something much sexier, but he had some alone time and an itch to scratch and the sudden urge to see it again.

Instead he had found an article about child slavery in coffee plantations. He couldn't fap to that.

*

He thought about it the next time Sam brought him a paper cup of wake-me-up from the gas station. The extreme wilting action in his pants had kind of burned the slavery website into his mind, and that was not an industry Dean wanted to support. He might not be a hero, but he didn't hurt and exploit human beings anymore.

The coffee tasted bitter to him, and burned his mouth, even lukewarm and with three packets of sugar. He managed maybe a quarter of it, before he pulled into a rest stop and got a beer out of the trunk.

Mornings were no fun without coffee, and late nights even less. Sam sighed and rolled his eyes and flipped his hair, but he would just have to put up with his cranky, bleary-eyed ass. He had it easy anyway, the big princess. He could retreat into his meditative world of crunches and push-ups whenever Dean's mind fell into its tired sump of sludge and horror.

*

He thought about it the next time he had some alone time too. Sam planned on staying all night at a poetry slam, and Dean almost suspected it wasn't because of the serious hottie who'd latched onto him and invited him to meet her crowd of self-consciously artsy friends. They had had no use for Dean, and the talent hadn't been good enough for Dean to bother putting on the charm, and truth be told, sometimes a man needed to let his own expert hands fine-tune the machinery.

But none of the usual tricks worked, not pounding out the tension with the motel's excellent water pressure, not stretching out and melting into the bed while the fan wafted a soft breeze over his over-heated skin, not gliding the tips of his fingers lightly over his hip bones and the insides of his thighs.

Every time he stopped concentrating on doing something to make himself relax, his thoughts would go there. He pictured boobs, rounded and jiggling above him, swinging back and forth with the rhythm of fucking, and he pictured plush buttocks in his hands, a layer of cushion over tightly working muscles, his thumbs digging into her dimples and his middle finger just reaching wetness, and her hands resting on his pecs, holding her up as she worked, holding him down and anchoring him, but the image would slip and slide and morph, until he saw the pictures from that website.

His hand on his dick felt foreign, grotesque. The rubbing broke his focus, and his concentration on the greatest hits of his mental showreel distracted him from building up any feeling of pleasure. You wouldn't think he had two decades of experience at this.

Finally he put his clothes back on, and polished off the rest of the whisky while the TV blared and flickered at him and he counted the people going to the ice and soda machines.

*

And he thought of it randomly, sometimes. He'd see something out of the corner of his eye, or he'd stop mulling over the case and putting together the clues and planning their actions, or his and Sam's conversation would hit a lull, and the jokes would wither on his lips.

It was almost nothing, compared to what he used to do. A tiny evil of ignorance and negligence. But he was supposed to be back now. He was supposed to be here, with Sam, saving people. Sam slowed his amble down, and turned his head to him. He looked concerned and uneasy, and Dean wanted to smoothe that wrinkle out, but the murky water was closing in over him and he couldn't find his words. He just shrugged instead, and kept walking.

*

He noticed when they were walking back the same way – it was a cheerful blue green logo of a person waving an arm over their head in the window of a store. "Coffee of the Day: Fair Trade Colombia Asoapia", the sign it was on said. He knew that logo from the website, it must have been what reminded him.

"Good idea," Sam said. "Get me a mocha frappuchino." He leaned against an anacua tree, apparently intending to enjoy the shade and the breeze while Dean went and stood in line, the little bitch.

But it was okay, caffeine could only help Dean's mood, and he had a feeling the only way he'd ever enjoy the stuff again was if he tried out this fairtrade thing. Though, with the prices this chain charged, it better be fucking delicious, he'd tell you what.

*

The trees were planted all along the sidewalk, and Dean appreciated that as they walked the rest of the way back to the car. Sam was already gone on his cold drink, rolling the cup against his neck and sucking it down like it was mother's milk.

Dean was holding his coffee gingerly by the lip of the cup. He'd chosen the coffee of the day, which was plain filter brewed coffee, and he'd left off the insulating card-board sleeve and the lid hoping it would cool down some before he had to drink it. And maybe he was holding off on trying it, too, just in case it was tar.

"Oh shit," Sam said. His eyes were wide open again, but he hadn't pulled the straw from his mouth.

Dean saw what Sam was looking at right after. The Impala, so carefully parked in a hard-won space in the shade of the anacuas, was covered in bird crap.

The tree it was under had two trunks and a huge crown canopying the the pavement. It could probably hold a whole flock of birds - and it looked like every single one of them had shot its load. His shiny, freshly washed baby had been splattered all over with drops and clots of white, dirtying up her windshield, running down her hood in stark contrast to her black paint job. The filth was shocking and rawly natural.

The cars flanking his were not in shadow, and had not been punished.

Dean felt hot all over, and sweaty. The collar of his shirt and the waistband of his jeans were circles of constriction, and the coffee burned his clenching hand as he squeezed it. He sipped from it, lowering the level of the liquid in the scrunched cup.

"Looks like something out of a Hitchcock film," Sam said, but his voice was a low buzz in the background.

Dean's dick throbbed, fighting against his tight pants. The coffee was damn tasty.
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