RockStarPeach

Title: Up To You

Pairing: Dean/2014!Dean

Rating: Adult

Word count: 3200

Summary: Missing scene from The End. Dean doesn’t think he’s handling things so well in the future. Also, he's missed the Colt and decides to use it to make a point. It ends up maybe not being the ponit he'd intended. Gun!sex! Based on the prompt of ‘dean/dean gunplay’ that was given to me by beatlemaniac9.


***

Say yes… but you won’t…

His future self’s words are harsh, they echo through his head like it’s made of tin, bouncing over and over and it takes a good minute for it to stop. Fucking guilt.

Say yes.

Dean rolls the words over in his head, twists them and turns them and flips them inside out and they come out the other side just as funny as when they went in, just as painful as when he said them, when his future self gave him an order that he knew he wouldn’t obey.

Say yes.

It’s frickin’ hilarious. No way in hell is he going to say yes, to become Michael’s bitch and torch half the planet, be directly responsible for putting his brother in the pit, sealing him in with Lucifer for all time.

It’s just not going to happen and he doesn’t get how he could ever want it to, even in this world that’s fallen down around him, around all of them. Even in this world that’s turned Sam into the devil and Cas into a poor man’s Joan Baez. Boiled Dean’s existence down to the survival of humanity and nothing else.

“You’re kidding, right?” he asks, taking a step closer to the table between them, eyebrow raised in a challenge. Only he’s not kidding, Dean can see that. He can see how much it kills his future self to even ask, to admit that he should, that he has that he wants to. It goes against everything he knows, but Dean, the other Dean, he’s completely serious. He wants him to go home and say yes. He wants to give up.

Hell, he already has.

“I look like I’m kiddin’?” other Dean asks him and he knows that Dean knows he isn’t. Just like he knows Dean won’t listen. This is their future. Nothing they can do about it because they’re stubborn, self-important assholes.

Dean doesn’t answer. Doesn’t have to. Just shakes his head, huffs out a laugh and reaches into the duffle bag. The second his fingertips touch the cool metal Dean’s eyes close, he lets out a sigh of what he won’t call relief, won’t call happiness or anything comforting at all. Can’t afford to. Because it’s his gun, but it’s not his gun and he can’t take it back with him, much as he wants to.

It’s a fleeting touch, a tease, something to lull him for the moment, make him feel at home in this strange place even while he knows that in a matter of minutes he’ll have to give it up. The other Dean will take it back, stuff it into his holster and keep it safe, keep it close to his body until dawn and then shoot Lucifer in the face with it.

Shoot Sam with it, but he can’t let himself think that. It won’t do anyone any good.

It’s not really his, but still his fingers curl around the barrel, slide down to the hilt. His knuckles crack as they bend, forefinger sliding along the trigger and gripping it tight. Fuck, it shouldn’t feel this good, the cool of the metal against the warmth of his fingers, the weight a satisfying heaviness as he lifts it up and out into the air of the room.

He takes in a deep breath, lets it out slowly. He looks down at the Colt, slides his thumb over the dips and grooves on the handle slowly, feeling every contour through his nerve endings and right down his spine. He knows them. After so long with that gun he knows every single inch of it and the familiarity of it, along with the power, the knowledge that it’s in his hands again and he could take it, run, not let his brother’s body die along with the devil five years from when he’s supposed to be, it’s intoxicating.

And son of a bitch, he’s actually getting hard. Well, money never really did it for Dean, since he’s never really had any, but firearms paired with the ability to save the world, topped off with fucking himself over? That seems to be sort of a turn on.

It’s fucked up. Nothing about him has ever been not fucked up but this… Yeah, this is about as fucked up as it comes.

He can’t help himself. He breathes in again, hard through his nose as he holds the barrel up and all he can smell is himself and gun oil. It’s not what he’d call great, but he’s willing to go with it. His scent is all over the Colt, sure. It’s not like he expected anything else, what with it being stuffed inside Future Dean’s pants all the way home.

He raises the gun, holds it pointed up with his forefinger resting gently against the trigger as the fingers of his other hand reverently trail down the barrel. Next to the Impala this is the best piece of man-made equipment he’s ever come across. She’s a thing of beauty and he’s not ashamed of how much he loves her.

The other Dean opens his mouth, wants to say something but Dean shuts him up with nothing other than a clearing of his throat and the narrowing of his eyes.

He must know that look. Of course he knows that look. Because he licks his lips and takes a half step back, eyes darting down to the gun before they look back up at Dean.

“Um…” his future self starts, like he wants to say more, but Dean won’t let him.

“Dean, don’t,” he says, with a shake of his head. “Just…”

And he doesn’t even finish, doesn’t tell the other Dean not to kill his brother, doesn’t tell not to give up, doesn’t tell him to find a way, some way, any way to save Sam and send Lucifer down under even though there has to be a way. There has to be, but Dean has the feeling he won’t be hanging around here long enough to see that play out so he just angles the gun down, points it straight at Dean 2.0’s chest, lifts his thumb and pulls the hammer back.

He’d like to say he’s a hero. He’d like to say he can shoot himself in the chest for the good of this world and take it over himself instead. He’d like to say he’d stay here to save his brother and to die right along with him if he can’t. He’d like to say he’d give the gun to Cas, or Chuck and let them fight the good fight while he locks Sam in with Enochian wards for all time and joins him so he’s not lonely.

He’d like to, but he can’t.

He’s no hero. He never has been.

He’d gladly give up his life for Sam, but he’d also give up everything else for him, too. The entire world. He won’t let Sam die. He’ll let the world burn before he’ll let his brother go, so no, he’s not a hero at all. He’s a coward.

“What do you think you’re gonna do with that?” Future Dean asks him, one perfectly shaped eyebrow cocked and his mouth in a thin line.

Looks tough, Dean thinks. And he’s made that face before and he’s been just as willing to die so he knows his future self isn’t bluffing. Which kind of sucks, because that means he has absolutely no leverage here. He’ll shoot himself in the face, yes, but where will that get him? They both know the answer is ‘not very far’.

Cas seems sort of stupidly devoted to Dean (not that that’s news) but here that’s bound to work against him, so that’s something to consider. Angel or not, Cas is sort of badass. Not to mention, everyone else in the camp appears loyal to his counterpart. Dean really doesn’t have any options here.

It doesn’t stop him from walking the other over to the wall with the gun pointed at his chest, smiling smugly when he complies, eyes widened in surprise. Future Dean’s back slams against the wall after just a few steps and he blinks with the force, eyes turning down and hardening when his shoulders straighten and his spine stretches.

Taller than Dean now, standing up like he means it, but Dean means it too.

He’s hunched over, he’s ashamed, he hates himself, both now and in the future and hell, in the past too. He’s never been able to make the right decision. If he had, things wouldn’t have gone this far.

“Turn around,” Dean hisses, leaning in close so his breath puffs out over the other’s chin. He uses the gun for emphasis, presses it to Future Dean’s temple and slides it down across his jaw and under, gives a little shove and smirks inside at the jerk he gets in response.

The Dean in this time he’s come to know doesn’t jerk. Doesn’t flinch. Isn’t afraid of anything. But he knows himself, just like Dean does, and he knows he can go out any second on a sketchy trigger finger. It’s sick, but it’s sort of validating.

So he does turn around. He does it slowly though, licks his lips and sneers as he moves.

“What’s the matter?” He asks. “Want to shoot me in the back of the head so you don’t spoil this gorgeous face?”

“Just shut the fuck up and move, asshat,” Dean growls. He ignores the slight truth in that statement because what the fuck? He thinks he’s just about the hottest thing since sliced bread, but that’s narcissism on a level he’s never before entertained.

And then he winks at him. Seriously, he winks at himself and turns, puts his hands up on the wall by his head and spreads his legs to shoulder-width. Like he’s under arrest. Well, it’s not like Dean doesn’t know the drill and he assumes that five years down the road it’ll be even more familiar.

Dean keeps it up after that, but he doesn’t even know why.

He’s not going to shoot himself. It won’t to any good and he doesn’t like to kill people, as a rule. He wanted to scare him, that’s all. Wanted to maybe show him that Sam doesn’t have to die even though they both know that in this future he does.

He presses the muzzle against the back of the neatly clipped skull in front of him, digs it in hard behind the bone and smiles when Future Dean sucks in a sharp, uncertain breath. Serves the bastard fucking right.

He angels the gun and slides it then, slowly and without letting up any pressure, down and across, along the man’s neck and down where he sees his pulse bob and jerk, ends in the dip at his shoulders where Dean watches his other self swallow and blink, watches his breathing speed up and notices his body tense and his hands clench against the wall when he presses the muzzle harder against the skin under his ear.

“You’re getting off on this,” he says, almost whispers, taken aback by the reactions he knows so very well.

“So are you,” the other Dean counters, pushes his hips back so that Dean’s erection is helplessly caught between his ass cheeks, the pressure only increasing his arousal. It sort of sucks to be up against himself. No secrets and all.

“Shut up,” he warns again, sliding the gun down the other’s back, over his shoulder and down his spine. He stops when the muzzle is settled just over the small of his back, steps in close and rests his chin on Future Dean’s shoulder.

He notices a hitch in breath, a slight back-thrust of hips and fingers curl against the wall and then lower, clench at Future Dean’s hips and steady him against the wall.

“Take off your pants,” Dean says, growls it low and harsh and he nearly jumps back with the arousal that shoots through him when the other Dean chuckles low in his throat, bucks back to put his hands at his waist and asks, “you promise to follow through?”

Dean has a little bit of an idea what that means, being Dean and all, so he just grunts in agreement and rolls the gun down, down, ever so slowly over Future Dean’s tailbone and between his cheeks.

“More,” he says, voice so shaky he can’t even begin to disguise it. This is so fucked up he can’t even see straight but he wants it, his future self wants it and the gun in his hand wants it so he’s not going to fight it. “Spread further. Let me in.”

“Greedy bitch,” Future Dean mumbles, but does as he’s told, opens his pants and lowers them to his knees, cants his hips back and lowers the muzzle of Dean’s gun to that it’s nestled against his hole. “Fuck yeah.”

The last words are a whisper, pained and pleading at once and Dean freezes, holds the gun in place, places his free hand so Future Dean can’t slip back onto the barrel without permission.

“What…” he starts, coughs and rolls his eyes at himself. “I mean, how… How many…”

“How many guys have I let fuck us?” his future self asks, turning his head and smirking as he tilts his hips up just enough to put the muzzle inside his tight pucker. Dean hisses in pleasure even though his future self doesn’t react at all. He’s really kind of impressed. This guy might be a bastard but he could give him some pointers when it comes to keeping Zen.

The Colt slips a little further inside and Dean’s cock gets even harder, he watches Future Dean’s face twist and turn in pleasure, watches him lick his lips and watches his mouth drop open.

“I… Yeah. That. How many?” Dean’s not sure he wants to know. For him so far it’s been zero. He has tendencies, sure. He’s thought about men, thought about what it would be like to be with them, but he hasn’t. Probably because he likes the idea of women just as much and there are plenty of them willing and able where he comes from.

Maybe it’s different in the future. There’s a moment when he wishes he hadn’t asked.

“One.”

“One,” Dean repeats, pushes the barrel further in, feels it in himself even though it’s not really him. His ass clenches and flutters, his eyes close against his will and the gun just pushes in further.

“Cas,” his future self answers, almost cries, cants his hips back to slide the barrel all the way home. “It was Cas. No one else.”

“Did you like it?” Dean asks. He doesn’t even want to hear the answer. Of course he liked it. If he didn’t he wouldn't be voluntarily getting fucked by a fucking gun right now.

“We did,” Future Dean tells him, looking straight in his eyes. “I know you… But we did. One time.”

“So…” Dean says, sliding the gun out and then in again, jerking his own hips in time with the other version of himself. He can almost feel it, almost wants to feel it. “Us and Cas?”

It’s been something he’s been wondering about for a while.

“Not really,” Future Dean says, shaking his head. He rotates his hips, takes the gun in, pumps and pumps until Dean gets with the program and speeds up. Fuck. He doesn’t want to admit it but it’s fucking hot. He wants to be on the other end of this, wants to get fucked by this gun, but his saving grace wants to be on the other end of the danger. “We fuck sometimes, but we’re not good enough for him. We used to be. You are. But I’m not. Fuck, don’t fucking stop!”

So, Dean doesn’t stop.

He also doesn’t think about what happened to make him not good enough. He knows already and there’s nothing he can do to stop it. It’s funny, this was supposed to be his show, not the other way around.

“Yeah,” he says, pushing the gun inside his future self over and over, other hand sliding down his pants to wrap around his impossibly hard cock. Seriously. It’s impossible. That expression has always pissed him off, but now he understands it. He honestly can’t believe he’s this hard and hasn’t come yet.

“Fuck, harder.”

Dean pushes harder. He’s sort of scared to, doesn’t want to hurt him. He’s fucking him with a cocked gun, after all and one little flinch could end things in a big way. But it appears that’s what he gets off on, in any time frame.

Dean’s own hand clamps down hard as he physically can on his cock when his future self screams. It’s loud, it’s high and it sounds like the end of the world that it no doubt is in the year 2014 and Dean jams the gun in hard enough to hurt and jerks his own wrist quick enough to get himself off in a matter of seconds.

It’s a quick end, sharp and harsh not at all what he’s used to, but there’s a copy of his own body panting and splaying against the wall and his hand is still on the fucking trigger of a gun inside someone’s ass and really, he can’t fight that.

He coats his hand in spunk in short order, blushes while he does it and hides his face in Future Dean’s shoulder.

“Shit,” he whispers.

“It’s okay,” he hears, head turning to half face him. “A lot of fucked up shit goes on here. This… This you don’t need to feel bad about. I promise.”

He laughs, a short, hysterical burst, because yes. Yes, he does need to feel bad about this. He doesn’t even know what this is, but he’s sure he needs to feel bad about it.

“I don’t…” he says, slips his hand from his pants and wipes it along his hips. Still messy, but maybe if he spreads it out it will be a little less noticeable. Fuck.

He jerks his hand back, pulls the gun from the other Dean’s ass a little quickly, if the hiss he hears is anything to go by, and he apologises in hushed tones as he rubs a hand over his future self, soothing as best he can, helps him work up his pants and fasten them.

The other Dean turns around, eventually. Smiles crookedly.

“It’s okay,” he tells him. “Like I said, lots of fucked up shit. You won’t get it, not yet, not until this is you.”

“I won’t ever get it. You’re wrong,” he says, because Dean has to be right. This future can’t ever be.

“That’d be nice,” other Dean tells him with a half smile. “I’d like that.”

Dean’s determination fades in the face of his own expression mirrored, hopeful and dejected and insistent and resigned, all at once.

“Come on,” his future self says, letting him off the hook as he wipes himself off with some tissues and them tosses them to Dean. “Wheels up in fifteen. We gotta round up the troops.”

“And you’re okay with all this?” he asks, can’t quite believe it.

“No. Of course not,” Future Dean answers, even as he heads out the door and holds it open for Dean to follow as they head next door to Cas’ cabin. “But I’m counting on you to change all this.”

END