stephanometra

Title: just living
Pairing: Dean Winchester/Pete Wentz
Rating: NC17
Summary: "Strange kid," Dean mutters to himself.
Warnings: IMPALA!SEX. BANDOM CROSSOVER.
Notes: For the Porn Battle V prompt "dreams," posted in brief (er...in porn?) here. Thank you

anoneknewmoose, who dared me to do it, and

hegemony, who was there to help. Also, check out that pretentiously lowercase title. 1600 words.

***

Dean stumbles into the diner just before three, gives the lone waitress a tired smile, and slides into one of the green vinyl booths with a groan. Salt-and-burns are fucking hard work when you're alone, and as glad as he sometimes is to be out from under Dad's thumb, Dean sure could use a second pair of hands. Or a third.

The waitress brings him coffee, leaves the pot when he asks, but he's pretty sure that it's because she wants to get back to gossiping with the short-order cook, rather than because he's particularly charming when he's been digging half the night. He's the only customer, which isn't really surprising given that it's barely Tuesday and the place isn't situated for pulling in city traffic. Frankly he's amazed that a suburb can support a place like this at all.

Five minutes after Hi, My Name Is Jeanne drops a plate of eggs and homefries in front of him, a dark-haired kid in a hooded sweatshirt walks in, jangling the bell on the door and yelling, "Hey, Jeannie!" before helping himself to a cup of coffee and sprawling in the booth next to Dean's, back to the door.

"Man," the kid mumbles into his cup as he tears open two packets of sugar. "Can't even get a respectable crowd of drunks in here on a Monday night."

Dean snorts and continues to demolish his breakfast. He can feel the kid's eyes on him as he eats—dark and fey and lined thicker than any girl's, peeking out from behind bangs that needed cutting at least two months ago—but there is nothing that can interfere with Dean Winchester's enjoyment of fried breakfast foods.

Dark-haired hoodie kid drains his coffee and looks appraisingly at the half-full pot on Dean's table. "You mind?" he asks.

Mouth full, Dean nods and waves benevolently at the pot. "S'burned," he says, as soon as he's able.

"Well, no shit." The kid gets up and sits back down across from Dean, dumps more coffee into his chipped ceramic mug. "So. You're not from Chicago. Where's home?"

Dean answers by shoveling more eggs into his mouth, chasing the runny yolk with a piece of toast. He swallows and then says, "Look, kid—"

"Not a kid."

"What?"

"I'm twenty-two, man, I'm just short. And my name is Pete."

Dean blinks. "Okay, fine. Pete. It's the middle of the night."

"So? You don't look tired."

"Maybe not, but I'm covered in graveyard dirt." He'd maybe feel bad about spilling a detail like that under normal circumstances, but this kid is obviously on something and probably won't remember anyway.

"Well, I play bass."

"That so."

"Half my band's still in high school. If they weren't all really fucking good I'd probably be really embarrassed about it."

Dean smiles a little. "My brother's like that. The good part, not the high school part." Shit, he wishes Sam were still in high school.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

They both take thoughtful sips of coffee.

"I'm Dean," Dean says.

Pete nods. "What were you going to say before?"

"What?"

"When you called me 'kid.'"

"Oh. I was gonna tell you that if you were trying to pick me up, then you should just say so."

"Yeah?" Pete grins, and knocks his knee against Dean's under the table.

"Yeah," Dean says, and grins back.

***
Pete kisses like he's got something to prove, long enough to make Dean dizzy, hard enough to bruise.

Dean suggested going back to his motel, but at the rate things are going, with Pete pressing eager against his hip, he's not sure they'll make it that long.

"Easy, easy," he says, twisting away to unlock the car and clamber into the back seat of the Impala, Pete climbing in and settling in Dean's lap in one quick, smooth motion.

Pete keeps making these noises, soft needy sounds that make Dean grind up hard and get both of their jeans open in record time, wanting to feel Pete's heat against his own, wanting to see what Pete will sound like then.

He's rewarded with a breathy groan, muffled against his jaw, when he does finally get his hand around Pete's cock; Pete's already wet at the tip, the scent of it sticky and bitter in the air.

"God," Pete says. "I've got condoms if you've got lube."

Dean shudders. "Fuck yeah," he says, flailing an arm towards the passenger-side footwell, where there's a small bag of necessities.

If Pete's bothered by the 9mm in the kit, he doesn't show it, just shucks off his pants and climbs back into Dean's lap, his thighs lean and white in the dim light, reaching back to touch himself with fingers coated in slick.

Groaning, Dean touches Pete's back, feels the dip of his lower spine and then walks his fingers lower to feel Pete's fingers industriously slicking, stretching, feels Pete's delicate whole-body shudder as he fucks himself open. He surges forward to kiss Dean again when Dean gently strokes the taut skin of Pete's rim; this time he's messy and graceless, breaking off and dropping his head forward when Dean wraps a hand around Pete's cock.

"Come on," he breathes, pressing a condom into Dean's free hand, rocking back onto his own fingers and crying out when Dean stops fisting him to grab his hips, pull him close.

Pete's fingers brush the head of Dean's cock as Pete withdraws them, and then Pete hitches his hips a little and Dean's inside, fucking up into the searing heat of Pete's ass. "Jesus," he chokes out, and then leans up, captures Pete's mouth again as Pete picks up a fast, ungentle rhythm that makes both of them groan.

"Yeah," he murmurs into Dean's mouth, one hand curling around the back of Dean's neck for balance and the other stroking his own inner thighs, cupping his balls, pressing teasingly against his own perineum so that Dean can feel the pressure on his dick.

Dean's breath stutters, the muscles in his groin jumping, but he holds it together. "Prick," he says, taking Pete in hand again, and Pete's answering laugh turns into a long moan as Dean works him over with hard, twisting strokes, thumb pressing thick against the underside. "Fuck, you're greedy for it, aren't you?"

Pete nods, breathless as he shudders, and suddenly his body seizes up, sucking kisses into Dean's jaw and throat as he covers Dean's hand with come.

It only takes a few strokes for Dean to come, too, the aftershocks rippling through Pete practically ripping an orgasm from Dean. He cries out hoarsely as he fills the condom, buried to the hilt in Pete's body.

Pete moves first, groaning as Dean's dick slips wetly from his ass. "Shit," he says, flopping down on the seat.

They sit there for a minute, catching their breath, sprawled side-by-side in the backseat.

"What's your damage, anyway?" Dean eventually asks.

Pete scowls at him. "What, because I cruised a strange guy at a diner at 3am on a Tuesday?"

Dean rolls his eyes. "Dude, does it look to you like I have any massive moral issue with picking up strange guys in diners?"

Laughing, Pete says, "Guess not." Then he's serious again, biting his lip. "My damage, huh?"

"You're in a band, man. Why are you out by yourself in the middle of the night?"

"Not listening when I told you my boys were jailbait?"

"I was listening, but I think you probably got out plenty when you were seventeen."

"You've never met my mom."

Dean rolls his eyes again; he's pretty sure he's got the jump on just about anyone in the "strict parent" category.

Pete is silent for a long, pensive moment, but then he takes a deep breath and ventures, "When you were a kid, what did you want to be when you grew up?"

"I don't know. A Marine like my dad, a mechanic. Maybe a fireman. You?"

"This," Pete says quietly. "I wanted to make music with my friends. We're even making some money with it now, but that's never what it was about, right?"

"But that's fucking cool, isn't it? Living the dream."

"Yeah. Except when it isn't."

"Oh, that's fucking deep."

Pete makes an irritated noise. "No, like. When you're just living—not the dream, just living—and everything sucks, you've still got the dream, right? But when everything actually goes the way you thought you wanted to..."

Dean nods, slowly. "Things just suck."

"Yes."

"Well, that's cheerful." He strips off the condom, rolls down the window and chucks it out into the parking lot. "You don't need a ride home, do you?"

"No. I think you just hit my car with the rubber, actually."

Dean peers out the window and scoffs. "Serves you right for driving an import, man."

"Fuck off," Pete says, shoving good-naturedly at Dean's shoulder. He wriggles back into his pants—they look two sizes too small, but somehow he manages—zips himself up, and digs a cell phone out of his pocket, checks the time. "Shit, I should go."

"Okay, well—" Dean starts, but he's subdued by Pete climbing back into his lap and devouring his mouth with another of those ridiculously deep, intoxicating kisses. His dick twitches against Pete's thigh, and Pete smiles.

"Nice to meet you, Dean," he says, and then he's out the door on Dean's side, leaving just the barest draft of chilly spring air in his wake.

"Strange kid," Dean mutters to himself, and hauls himself out of the backseat to drive back to the motel.

***

ETA: There's now a coda in comments. Pleased, Sam/Dean, PG13.

I am so far from ashamed of this that I think I need my head examined.