bloodwrites

Part 2 of the Fucking Ryan series.

News websites are open on the laptop, and there's an unsteady pile of books at Sam's elbow when he notices the mark on Dean's neck, so he's distracted. All he does is indicate the spot on his own body and lift an eyebrow.

At first, Dean was mortified to discover Ryan had left a dark purple bite on his throat. He pulled up his collar, tried to hide it, but he's given up. It's a sickly yellow colour now. It's been a few days since those moments in the closet, and Dean hasn't been able to stop thinking about it.

He shrugs. "The place is full of hunters, Sammy. And hunters are gonna wanna blow off some steam."

"Don't tell me," Sam says. "I don't need the details. Long as it doesn't cause any problems. We're in close quarters here, Dean."

"Yessir, Chief." Dean gives his brother a mock salute. "But I'm itching for a hunt here, Sammy. Find me a job."

"Soon as I find you someone you're willing to hunt with. Buddy system, remember?"

Dean considers telling Sam that he'll hunt with Ryan, but he's aware his dick is doing the thinking for him where the scarred hunter is concerned. Dean doesn't actually know the guy at all. A quick fumble means nothing. Sam says he's a good hunter, but there are a lot of good hunters Dean would never trust to have his back.

So he shuts up.

---

The lights are off, but Dean's not asleep, so he hears the footsteps when they stop outside his door.

It could be anyone. The bunker is full of people, many of whom wander the halls deep into the night, but Dean's still on high alert, and his hand closes around the grip of the gun beneath his pillow as he waits for a knock.

Instead, the doorknob rattles, then turns, and the door creaks open.

Dean half expects light to spill across the floor, but it's dark in the hall, and the shape silhouetted in the doorway is indistinct, unrecognisable.

"Not one fucking step," Dean hisses, his gun pointed at the shape in the darkness.

The shape freezes. Then snorts. "Gonna shoot me, Dean?"

Dean lowers the gun. "Ryan?" He hasn't heard much more than a handful of words out of Ryan's mouth, but he remembers his voice, remembers how warm it made him inside when he whispered in Dean's ear. "Are you trying to get yourself killed?"

Ryan creeps closer to the bed. Now he's recognisable, with his telltale limp. "I was trying to be stealthy."

Dean tucks the pistol back under his pillow, and he sits up. "You failed. Do I gotta ask why you're here? In my room? In the dark?" He lets a little heat into his voice at the end. A little invitation.

Ryan accepts it. He turns around, kicks the door closed. Then, in the dark, he slides his feet over the floor until he reaches the bed. He crawls up, from the foot, over the blankets, placing his knees between Dean's spread legs under the covers. "I made you a promise," he breathes, leaning close enough that Dean can feel Ryan's breath on his face. "Remember?"

"Fuck," Dean says. Must be hot in here. He can't catch his breath.

"Yeah," Ryan says. "Something like that."

"Oh, fuck." Dean grabs Ryan by the lapels of his flannel, drags him into a clumsy kiss.

Dean's got him where he wanted him all along. In his bed. Once again, he can't see a fucking thing, not that it matters. All he wants now is to feel skin, and he starts pulling at Ryan's clothes.

Ryan pulls out of the kiss. "Shh," he breathes, and somehow he finds Dean's mouth with his finger, pressing it over his lips. "We got all night."

"Yeah," Dean says. "Yeah, okay. But fuck, man. I been thinking about this for days."

Ryan's thumb slides over Dean's lower lip. "I know. I can't stop thinking about this pretty mouth of yours."

"Yeah?" Dean playfully grabs at Ryan's thumb with his lips, pulls it between them and then off, with a pop. "You like it?"

Ryan makes a sound, something between a hum and a growl, and the fingertips of his right hand trace over Dean's lips in the dark. Then he pushes two fingers past Dean's lips and gently pulls his jaw open. "Fuck yeah, I like it." He makes another sound, like before, as he leans in and licks at Dean's open mouth. "I wanna get in there," he says. "Feel it stretched around my cock." His fingers probe deep, press on Dean's tongue as Ryan dips his own tongue in alongside. "Will you let me? Let me fuck your mouth?"

Dean's stomach clenches as his cock jerks, leaking precome into his pyjamas. He breathes past Ryan's fingers and his tongue and a little drool runs out of the corner of his mouth.

God, he feels utterly debauched already, and both of them have still got their clothes on.

He doesn't even think before he moves. Dean slithers down the bed, knocks Ryan's knees out of the way, forcing him to make space as he slides between Ryan's thighs.

"Fuck," Ryan says, and "oh fuck, yes," as he fucks Dean's mouth with his fingers while Dean unbuckles his belt and rips open his jeans.

Ryan's cock is long and thick and velvety smooth in Dean's hands. It's damp at the tip, and as Dean pulls it towards his open mouth, precome burbles out and spills over his fingers.

Dean scoops it up with his tongue. It's earthy and bitter, makes Dean think of gravedirt and salt and fire.

Ryan gasps and falls forward, one hand on the headboard. The bed shakes, Ryan's thighs quivering as he guides the tip of his cock between Dean's lips. He pushes in slow, breathing heavy and stilted.

Dean's impatient. With his hands on Ryan's still-denim-covered ass, he pulls him forward, lifting his head to stuff as much of Ryan's cock as he can fit into his mouth.

"Fuck," Ryan says, as his hips jerk and he stabs Dean in the back of his throat. "Fuck, you're gonna kill me." In the darkness, he grips the base of his cock but that's not his goal, as his the backs of his fingers stroke over Dean's stretched-out lips.

"Your mouth," he says. "Your fucking mouth."

Dean breathes noisily through his nose. He chokes on Ryan's cock, savouring the shiver that runs through Ryan's ass and thighs every time Dean's throat clenches around the head as it fights to expel the intrusion, pulling Ryan forward when he tries to back off.

His voice will be ruined tomorrow and he doesn't care. He grunts and moans for more, and finally, Ryan gives in, one hand behind Dean's head as he fucks his throat.

Dean's hands slide down Ryan's ass to the back of his thighs. Then he stops. Stops breathing, freezes...

Just for a moment. Maybe Ryan doesn't notice that Dean stopped, but he sure notices when Dean's hands grip Ryan's thighs, one large and firm, and the other—

That's Ryan's gimp leg. Dean should have expected something, but he didn't expect that the muscle at the back of his thigh would feel as though it had just been cleaved away, or torn, because it's ragged, like something took a great bite out of him.

Dean doesn't get a chance to have a decent feel, as soon as his hands reach the horrendous scarring, Ryan grabs his wrists, starts to pull away.

Dean lets him pull his dick out of Dean's mouth, but he breaks the hold on his wrists easy, follows Ryan up as he leans back, and he flails in the dark until he gets a grip on Ryan's shoulders. "I don't care," he says, and his voice is hoarse from the throat fucking. "I don't fucking care, you hear me? We all got scars. Every single one of us, and I'll tell you something, the ones on the inside, they're even uglier when someone gets a good look at them."

Ryan stops fighting. His shoulders slump and he tips forward, and Dean finds his mouth and pushes his fingers through Ryan's hair, and he doesn't think anything of the wetness on his face.

Yeah, sometimes people have got scars inside and out, and there ain't no way Dean's gonna judge him for that.

Dean pulls back for a moment, just long enough to strip off the t-shirt he sleeps in and drop it over the side of the bed. Then he reaches for the hem of Ryan's shirt, and it comes off along with the flannel he's wearing.

This time, he pushes Ryan down onto his back. He still can't see a thing, but he can feel, and he runs his hands over Ryan's chest, lingering over peaked nipples and the wiry muscle that covers him.

Unlike his face, and his leg, Ryan's chest is comparatively unscarred. There's a sliver of tightened, shiny-smooth skin to the left of his navel, but that's all. Dean drops his head to run his lips over it. "You're fucking perfect," he breathes, huffing hot, damp air over Ryan's flesh as he makes his way back up again. He stops at a nipple, pulls it between his lips and sucks until Ryan relaxes and moans and puts his hand on the back of Dean's head.

"You like that," Dean says, as he shifts to the other nipple and circles it with his tongue. "You like it when I put any part of you in my mouth, don't you?"

Ryan grunts, and his hips jerk as he rubs his cock, hard again, against Dean's thigh. "Love your hot mouth," he says, and then cries out as Dean pulls the nipple between his lips and sucks, hard.

Dean had hoped that Ryan would fuck him, but he's sensing that it's not going to happen. He doesn't think Ryan is ready to switch on the light, doesn't think he's ready to get naked.

And that's okay. But he'll be damned if he's gonna come in his pants again.

He squirms as he wriggles his way up Ryan's body, kicks his pyjama pants down and off his ankles. He licks at Ryan's mouth, and he wraps his hand around both their cocks. "Here we go," he says. "Gonna make you feel good, baby."

Ryan moans and thrusts up into Dean's hand, and he grips Dean's head in both hands and he just opens up into Dean's kiss like he's starving and Dean is the only thing that will cure his hunger.

Dean starts off stroking them both, but his arm is wedged between them and Ryan's kissing him like it's his last night on earth, so Dean just starts fucking. Rocking his hips, driving his cock into his own fist and against Ryan's cock.

Dean's past thinking about anything except for how close he is to coming, how hot Ryan's cock is as it moves against his own, and how the friction, the drag of skin against skin with only spit and precome to guide them feels like it's close to setting a fire between their bodies.

Ryan starts coming first. Pain flashes though Dean's head as Ryan jerks beneath him and smacks their foreheads together, but it doesn't stop Dean tumbling over the edge with him.

Then they're warm and sticky and panting into each other's mouths. Dean's head is spinning and he's just grateful that he's horizontal this time.

Ryan shoves him off. "Always so fucking messy with you, Dean," he says.

"You love it." Dean stares up into the darkness. He's disoriented, even though it's his own room and he could navigate it blind, it feels weird, and maybe only half of that is the fact his head is where his feet should be and his feet are on his pillow. "We should hit the showers. Together."

Ryan stiffens. "Those fuckers roam the place all goddamn night, haven't you noticed? Don't fancy being a peep show."

The bunker shower room isn't known for it's privacy, Dean's gotta admit, but he doesn't think that's the reason. Still, he's not gonna push.

Ryan's already rolling off the side of the bed, feeling around for his shirts. "I'll see you around, Dean," he says, as he finds the door and slips out into the hall, leaving Dean alone, upside down on his bed, naked and covered in come.

Maybe he should be pissed. He's not. Dean's more like Ryan than he'd ever tell anyone out loud, except that Dean's scars—most of them, anyway—are on the inside.

Dean can hide them. He's got it easy. So he got ditched in the dark? He can let it slide.

He'll let a lot slide if it'll get Ryan back in his bed again, and maybe, eventually, the lights'll be on.

Dean really, really wants that.

fin