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zmediaoutlet · 3 years ago

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in support of Texas relief, @starlightcitys donated $10 and requested Dean/Walker. Thank you for donating!

to get your own personalized fic, please see this post. (no longer taking prompts)

(read on AO3)

It's possible, Cordell has decided, after careful and long hours of study, that US-290 is the most boring stretch of road in Texas. Considering the size of Texas that puts it in the running for most boring roads in the country. Considering the size of the country—but then, he guesses, there might be real long roads in Russia or China or some other wide place that are duller. He imagines a stretch of highway in Siberia, without a lot of success or detail other than figuring it might be snowy, and sighs. Even snow would be an improvement, here, although Texas drivers would panic and he'd be dealing with a bunch of fender-benders. Still. At least it'd be something.

Four in the afternoon. No rush hour started yet, although out here by Blanco there isn't much of a rush hour to speak of. His Tahoe's idling and he's got the window rolled down to let in the December air and the grass on the far side of the highway is brown and sad. The radio's silent. He sighs again, stretching his boots out as much as he can in the footwell. He got his share of adventure—more than his share—over the last few years, but he thought when he signed up for the troopers that there'd be something to do more than—

A black monster blurs by and his radar shrills. "Jesus," he says, sitting up fast. 92—jesus!, he thinks, again—and he gets the Tahoe in gear and punches the accelerator and hits the lights all in about the same second, lurching out of the turnout he's been dying of boredom on and hustling out onto the road. The car's already well down the highway but he can still see it—straight stretch out here, and honestly 92's safe enough with all the absolutely zero traffic in midafternoon in the hill country—and Cordell might let a casual relationship with the speed limit go most of the time because he's not a hardass no matter what his sergeant says about the ticket quotas they've got to meet, but—

"Ninety-two?" he says, when he gets to the driver window. The guy squints up at him, the light behind Cordell and bright. It's not the script he's supposed to use but he's honestly—impressed, sort of. Black Chevrolet Impala, Kansas plates, KAZ-2Y5, blah blah, all that's memorized already. Old beast of a car, huge chassis kept in gleaming shape, and he'd expect an old guy to be driving it, but instead it's—

"I don't know what you're talking about, officer," the guy says, and Cordell takes a breath. "Aren't you supposed to ask me why you pulled me over?"

"License and registration, please," Cordell says, instead, and there's a flash of grin, white teeth and a full mouth, before the guy reaches over to the glovebox, pops it, and Cordell takes a step back enough to see one—two—three cell phones tumbled all over each other in the box before he gets a grubby piece of paper shoved at him and a plastic ID, paperclipped to it. The license is from Ohio, not Kansas—Dean DeYoung, apparently, born in 1979, the license scheduled to expire in January 2005, and the car registered to an address in Lawrence. He looks at the picture, where Dean DeYoung's got his head tipped back and smirking at the camera like he's got a secret no one else knows and no intention of telling it, and then looks at the man himself over the top of card. He's getting a look right back—a stare, really, and not a smirk but instead pure puzzlement.

"Do you know why I pulled you over?" Cordell says.

"I think you covered that already," DeYoung says, but distant, like he's just saying something to say it. He squints at Cordell, tips his head. "Have we met? You look…"

Cordell hasn't been doing traffic that long, but this one he knows. "Not unless you were class of '99 at Sacred Heart High, sir," he says, easy and dismissive, but DeYoung's still just—looking at him, open-mouthed, like Cordell really is some kind of ghost out of his past, and Cordell's about to go into a spiel about felony speeding but something about that look is making him—huh.

A car does go by, finally, easing past them mostly in the wrong lane. DeYoung's eyes don't flicker from Cordell's face. "Mr. DeYoung?" he says, and leans down, a hand on the barely-warm steel of the door. "Sir? Are you okay?"

"I'm—sorry," he gets, in response. The guy's good looking but now that he's closer Cordell can see the bruise-dark spots under his eyes, like he hasn't been sleeping. Big eyes, green, that track all over Cordell's face before they close and DeYoung turns away, taking a deep breath through his nose. "Sorry," he says again, quieter, almost like he doesn't mean for Cordell to hear, and then louder: "I really am. Sorry. I know I was going fast but it's an emergency, I've got to get somewhere."

"Okay," Cordell says, slowly. "At almost a hundred miles an hour?"

DeYoung sucks his lower lip into his mouth, lets it go slow. Opens his eyes, and looks at Cordell sideways. "I was keeping up with the flow of traffic?" he says, and Cordell looks back down the empty road and snorts, can't help himself.

He should give this guy a ticket. He really, really has to give this guy a ticket. Thirty over is—ridiculous. A felony. He has to.

He gets another quick look, that flicks from his eyes to his mouth to his name-badge, and DeYoung frowns and flinches and drops his head, bracing his hands against the steering wheel and curling them tight enough that the knuckles go white. These should all be really bad signs. If his sergeant were here he'd be writing out a laundry list of citations.

"Wherever you're going," Cordell says, abruptly, "try to get there a little slower, huh?"

Sitting in his cruiser afterward he's not even sure why he did it. He sat there and he watched the Chevy pull back onto the road, sedate, and accelerate all slow, and on his notepad Cordell wrote the plate number and the model, although of course he had it memorized and would for a while. It didn't make sense to let the guy go. It was stupid to let the guy go. If anyone knew he'd be getting his ass handed to him. There was that look, though, and the way his hands curled around the wheel, and how he stared at Cordell's face like…

It's a slow shift, after that. Some activity on the radio—a barn burned down, out on some abandoned place out in the hills, but the fire department has it covered and the Rangers send someone out to investigate—and by the time ten o'clock rolls around he only gets four more speeders, someone with expired tags, and a mom in a station wagon with burnt-out brakelights that he gives the nicest possible lecture and lets off with a warning, and all told it's just… boring, boring, boring.

Cold out. He exchanges the Tahoe for his truck, back at the station, and files what little paperwork he has to file, and sits idling at the red light waiting to turn left and head back to the house—but the house is empty, and he's had this whole day of nothing, and he needs something. What? He hasn't decided by the time the light turns green but he turns right, instead, and decides to go find it.

Not the Side-Step. Not Charlie's, where the music's usually poppy country and a few good ol' boys are always looking for a fight. Cordell's size makes him a handy target for idiots trying to prove themselves and he's just not feeling it tonight. He rolls the window on the truck down, gets that blast of chilly December. He wants to talk to no one, wants a good drink, wants—The Green Spring, he realizes, and wheels around for the outskirts, and finds the small bar with a taco truck outside, and the parking lot half-full, and the air smelling like woodsmoke and a little like another kind of smoke, but he changed out of his uniform shirt and doesn't have to care, on a Thursday night when all he wants is some quiet.

He buys two tacos from the truck and wolfs them, quick, standing at a high-top out in the dirt. He's sucking his thumb clean of the hot sauce when his eyes finally tell him what he's looking at. KAZ-2Y5. He laughs, crumples the paper wrapper between his hands. Jesus. What are the odds?

Blues playing low, inside, and the light low from lamps in the booths and neon over the bar, making everything green-and-amber. Two pool tables in the back, and a game going on one, and that's where he is: DeYoung, in that leather coat, lit gold by the big lamp over the table, leaning in to sink something into the corner pocket. Cordell goes to the bar, finds the stool in the crappiest corner backed right up to the wall, smiles at the bartender when she sees him and gets a bourbon and soda in short order. "Darlene, you seen that guy before?" he says, and nods, and Darlene shakes her head but says, "Wouldn't mind seeing more of him, sugar." Hell. Cordell gets what she means.

He sips his drink, watches the game. DeYoung's playing some guy in a black hat. Grinning a lot, and grinning more when black-hat seems to get pissed off. Music's not loud but loud enough to cover the bar's conversation, and certainly too loud to hear what they're saying back there. It isn't loud enough to cover the rocketing sound of the eight going into a corner pocket, like DeYoung shot it from a cannon instead of a cue, and black-hat swipes his hat off his head and loses his name, annoyed, but not enough to pick a fight apparently because he just stomps down the two steps from the pool area and DeYoung gets to sweep their bet off the rail. Cordell watches the guy leave, just to make sure he won't pull any stupid, and looks back to the pool tables in time to see DeYoung pick up a glass, drain it, wipe his mouth clean, and leave no trace of a smile at all.

He doesn't move while DeYoung comes closer, doesn't pretend he's not watching. "Make this one a double, darlin'," DeYoung says, putting on charm, and the glass arrives in record time. He winks, and Darlene giggles—Darlene, who's fifty if she's a day—and he takes a swallow too deep and too easy and not looking like it stings even a bit, and when he puts the glass down on the bar he licks his lips, slow and showy even if he doesn't seem to know anyone's looking, and then he looks up, and only then sees Cordell.

"It's not Darlin'," Cordell says, enjoying the subsequent if muffled shock.

A blink. In the wash of green neon his eyes look strange, greyed and dark. "What?"

"Her name," Cordell says, nodding. "It's not Darlin'. It's Darlene."

"My mistake," DeYoung says, after a second. "Gotta get my hearing checked. Thanks for letting me know, Officer Walker."

He says it in this precise way, like he's reading the words from a cue card. Cordell nods at a seat near him. "Cordell," he says. "Or just Walker. I'm off-duty, Mr. DeYoung."

Very high eyebrows. "So am I," he gets, in return—what?—"Call me Dean," then, and after dragging his half-full glass around the corner of the bar and sitting on a stool one polite space apart from Cordell, a long look, and then: "Cordell."

Cordell grimaces. "Family name," he says. "Mostly people call me Walker."

"I bet," Dean says, and keeps giving him that look.

"You still think I look like someone?" Cordell says, after too many seconds of it have passed. He smiles, to make it not seem like accusing him of something. "That wasn't just a line, huh."

"If I hit you with a line, you'd know it," Dean says, with a half-grin that doesn't reach his eyes. Flirting like a thrown glove. Cordell wonders how often it gets him a punch. Dean lifts his glass, a little fake toast. "To looking like no one in particular, Walker."

Cordell lifts his glass, too, and sips it. Dean knocks his back like medicine, lips pulling back. "You get to that thing you were meaning to get to?" Cordell says.

Dean tips his head. "Done and dusted," he says, and leans forward, enough into Cordell's space that he flinches back—but Dean's just reaching over Darlene's bar for a napkin, and his smile at Cordell then is a little ironic. He smelled like smoke, when he was close enough—smoke and cologne—and Cordell's mouth floods wet.

Cordell puts a boot on the rung of the stool between them and sips his drink again, and Dean tips his head back, looking at him. He's always looking and Cordell's never sure what he's looking at. Cordell takes another drink. Dean's eyes flick from Cordell's glass to his eyes, and then low—at what?—and then he says, louder, "Hey, darlin'," and when Cordell gives him a narrow look he just lets his mouth curl lazy at one side—"Another for me, and one for Officer Giganto, here," and Cordell says, "Hey—" and Darlene laughs and says, "Coming right up, sugar," and while she's pouring Cordell says, "You know, she calls everyone sugar," and Dean says, "Don't worry, sugar, you're still sweet to me," and that time it wasn't an invitation to a fight but—an invitation—maybe with a fight still on offer but real, either way—and while Cordell's blinking the drinks get delivered. Dean slides off his stool to standing and says, "Come on and play, if it won't break a law, Mister Officer," jerking his head toward the tables in back, and Cordell just stands right up, like it was an order instead of—

Instead of what? Cordell hasn't had—all that much experience, with this sort of thing. He and Em started dating in high school and he never really turned to anyone else, not when he had all that at home. But he and Hoyt—just twice, when they were high and happy and Hoyt was actually home instead of in whatever shitty place—and Emily didn't mind the first time when he confessed all miserable, and sent him to the second time herself when she said it'd be hot—and there was a guy in Germany when he was coming circuitously back from deployment, who had that same indeterminate not-brown not-blond hair that Dean has and who looked at him a certain way with an invitation in his smile, in a beer garden, when Cordell was dry-throat parched from hard days behind and long nights alone. He told Em about that one, too, when he got home to Texas and they finally got time to themselves, and she smiled at him and wanted to hear every detail, so. He's in the clear, with these guys with strong shoulders and full mouths, who just want a good time, and Cordell can provide that. He knows, too, when someone wants him, and if he's big-headed about it that happens more often than he'd think it was polite to admit.

Dean, though. There's an air to him, an edge. He's older than Cordell but just by a few years, and shorter and slighter but with an attitude about him that's pure physical confidence. In a fight Cordell's not sure which of them would win. His leather jacket's too big, his lips too soft. He racks a game of nine-ball at the table and says, "Want to make it interesting?" and Cordell nods but doesn't put any money on the rail, and Dean smiles at him after a second of stillness and nods, and taps the one with the cue before lifting away the rack and saying, "Your break, Cordi," a little fuck-you and a little… something, this come-on that's not a come-on, disrespectful and deferring all at once.

Cordell sinks the one, misses the two. The corner of Dean's mouth turns up and he slams the two into a side pocket, show-offy. The three gets kissed into a corner with a hint of English that rolls the cue back into prime position for the four, and—so on, Dean moving competently and quickly around the table and slotting in every ball and setting up for the next like he's been working tables since he was born, and when he rolls the eight into the top right corner Cordell's just leaning on his cue, eyebrows raised, wondering what the point of the whole endeavor was. Dean leans over the table, his eyes flicking between the cue and the nine and the left side pocket where it could go with zero effort at all, and then he looks at Cordell. In the lamplight his eyes are dark but Cordell can still see the green. His mouth curves, just slightly, a dimple appearing briefly at one corner, and then he lines up and takes his shot and—the cue barely kisses the nine, rolling both balls lazily around the table, the nine not dropping and then the cue stopping where Cordell would have to be paralyzed not to make the game-winning shot.

"Whoops," Dean says.

Cordell tips his head. Dean's watching him. He rounds the corner on the table, comes to stand across from where Dean's waiting, and lines up, and of course makes the shot, the nine clicking into the pocket without fuss. When he stands back up Dean's biting the corner of his mouth, tugging the full shape of it into a curve Cordell wants to touch. His eyes are steady. It's practiced. Almost professional, Cordell thinks, and wishes he hadn't thought it.

"Double or nothing?" Cordell says, instead. Dean smiles at him and it looks a little more natural, but Dean says then: "Fine, but you're buying the next round," and by the time Cordell's back from the bar with two fresh bourbons Dean's racked up a game of eight-ball and has taken off his jacket, slung it over a stool, and he takes his glass from Cordell in such a way that their fingers brush. Definitely practiced, that move, but then Dean clinks his glass with Cordell and nods, casual, offers to let Cordell break again, and something in Cordell's gut relaxes when he didn't even realize he was nervous. It's going to happen. It's going to be okay, when it does.

Doesn't mean Dean's not going to make him work for it. The few times Cordell's screwed guys it hasn't been nearly this coy, or this fun. "Oh, come on, officer," Dean says, when Cordell misses a tough shot, "don't the troopers train you better than that?"

"I think I got that one from basic," he says. Dean whistles, eyebrows high but eyes questioning. "Marines," he explains, in case it's real, and Dean's eyes skip all over his body in response, tongue pushing so-lightly into the corner of his mouth where Cordell can just barely see the pink shine of it. His balls pulse, pleasantly interested.

"Man," Dean says. Drawls. "This tall drink of water's a big tough cop and a big tough hero, too? What the hell kind of luck do I have, huh?"

Cordell wrinkles his nose. "Maybe not the hero part," he says, and Dean's head tips. But he's keeping it light, here, knows that something good's waiting, and after a beat he says: "Big, I'll give you."

Dean scuffs chalk over the tip of his cue. "Don't make promises you can't keep, Sasquatch," he says—and then blinks, freezing for a second in place—and then shakes his head and smiles, wide, and leans over the table, and sinks the twelve into the side pocket with a show-offy reverse roll of the cue ball that sets him up easy for the fifteen, and Cordell sighs and resigns himself to lose.

He does lose. Dean didn't let him get in another shot. He did let Cordell watch him, moving around the table, easy and confident and… letting himself be looked at. He jerked his thumb at the far corner when it came time to sink the eight and Cordell leaned on the table, watching Dean's face and not the action, watched how he was concentrating, how his mouth was set. His skin pale and ill-green in the neon, and the shadowed line of his throat, and the thin henley he wore gapping around his neck, and a necklace swinging out from his chest, surprising, a little odd. Much like the man himself.

Dean rolls his cue onto the table. "Double or nothing, right?" he says, looking at the felt.

"Do you want another drink?" Cordell says, and Dean's mouth turns up at the corner, and he looks up at Cordell after a second, steady. Cordell takes a deep breath. "Okay. Let me settle up with Darlene. Wait outside?"

"Not forever," Dean says, and Cordell can tell he means it. Dean picks up his big coat and disappears to—the bathrooms, actually—and Cordell goes back down to pay, like he said, and leaves a big tip for Darlene in cash feeling drunk on his hopefully-good fortune, and stands for a second, still, listening to the low thump of Stevie Ray Vaughn on the jukebox and feeling his blood high and ready against the surface of his skin, before he goes to the bathrooms, too, and finds the men's empty—he splashes water on his face, looks himself in the mirror—and then goes out the back door of the tiny hallway and there's—Dean, looking up at the half-clouded night sky in the cold, his hands in his pockets and his face remote.

"Not many stars," Dean says.

"We can go further out," Cordell says, and Dean looks at him, and says, "Is that what you want to do? Officer."

Cordell steps closer. No one back here. "You keep mentioning my job." He slides his fingertips under the heavy hanging edge of the leather coat and touches Dean's hip, light, his warmth leaping up through the layers of shirt, denim. "Starting to make me think you've got a thing for the badge."

Dean laughs, surprised. "Maybe something like that," he says, and doesn't remove Cordell's hand and doesn't lean into it, either. Just lets himself be touched, and Cordell usually likes something a little more enthusiastic but Dean's eyes are on his, and it's not anything even close to a no. Dean licks his lips. "So. Further out? You've got someplace in mind?"

He does. They're already out past the city. He drives his truck and Dean follows in the big Chevy and their train curves fast through the darkness in the no-traffic of half-hour to midnight on a Thursday, on these roads out in the hills. Cordell watches the headlights behind him as much as he does the blacktop and he—god. He wants this. He wants it very badly.

He turns down a farm road, gravel crunching under the tires. When he parks there's nothing around but bur oaks and wild-grown brush and maybe night-critters skulking through the grass but no people, not for miles. He's fucked his wife here, both of them giggly and wild-feeling; he flushes, getting out of the cab, thinking of her smile, and then Dean's. The Chevy rumbles up next to him and by the time the engine cuts he's leaning on the sidewall of the truck, glad for the moon shining free of the clouds for when it lights up Dean's pale face, his hands, his silver ring glinting when he braces it on the edge of the open door. "I was kinda expecting a no-tell," Dean says. "Cold out, don't you think?"

"I run hot," Cordell says, not making it a line but Dean's teeth glint anyway. Cordell shrugs. "I'm game if you are. Anyway, you won. You get what you want."

For a second Dean looks like he has no idea what Cordell's talking about. He shuts the door, then, and steps forward, and says, "Yeah, the game is called I win," and Cordell snorts but Dean's come up close, his hands sliding over Cordell's hips and up under his shirt, freezing, and Dean tips his head back and says, "You're not going to say any dumb shit about not kissing, right?" and Cordell shakes his head, and Dean says, "Good," and pushes up on his toes, and his mouth is—

Taste of whiskey, of a long day. Shocking-hot and soft, tender-open as a shy girl but heavy stubble scratching over Cordell's chin, which combination absolutely rockets to Cordell's dick. He breathes out hard, gets a hand on the back of Dean's head, tries to give back as good as he got. It's good to kiss someone almost as tall as him—to feel the strength in Dean's body, pressing in close, the muscles in his stomach clenching when Cordell gets a hand under his shirt.

Dean's lips drag over his cheek, find his jaw. Light touch over Cordell's hip, his belt-buckle, dragging over the line of his fly, and he's already chubbed up but oh, man. He's cupped, easy and firm, and his dick swells further caught up in the too-tight denim and Dean laughs, light and high, breath hot against Cordell's throat. "God, you're even—" and Cordell knows he's big but it still feels—wild, drains all the blood from his brain straight downstairs, to have it acknowledged just straight-out by someone this hot. He's going to have a hell of a story to tell, later, but he puts it out of his mind in favor of covering Dean's hand, rocking into it, ducking and finding his mouth again and getting it open, his tongue surging inside and Dean letting him, letting him. A fumble and he finds Dean stiff, too, in those washed-thin jeans, and drags him in close by both hips, spreading his legs enough that they're near the same height, pressed together where it counts.

"God," Dean says, bursting like it got dragged out of him, and Cordell dips, kisses under his ear, kisses his throat and drags his jacket over off his shoulders and kisses there, too, rolling his hips, and when Dean surges back into him, sweet pressure giving right back, he sets his teeth against the curve of muscle through the henley and bites soft, and then when Dean shivers bites harder, loving—christ, loving how hard he might be allowed to go, after so long of holding back. He drags a hand up under Dean's shirt, finds a pec and shocking soft skin, no hair at all, and thumbs one nipple to prickled-tight hardness while Dean breathes hard against his neck, a hand tight in Cordell's hair and the other locked against his hip, keeping him close.

"You want me to take it off?" he says, quiet and tight, and Cordell groans, bites hard and sharp again, says yeah in some deep barely vocalized way, and Dean shrugs, his coat slipping down his arms, and Cordell catches it, slings it over the side of the truck-bed, and while he's leaned away Dean peels the henley up and off, tosses it to follow. Necklace black against his too-white skin, the weird little pendant glinting in the moonlight, and Cordell breathes in crazily and then says, "Hang on," and grabs Dean by the thighs and—lifts him, god, he knew he could, lifts him right up and Dean says fuck and gets his arms around Cordell's shoulders, a hand slamming down on the roof of the cab, his thighs tight against Cordell's hips and his knee banging into the door by the sound of it but as long as he's not hurt—even if he is, christ—it doesn't matter because his dick's snug right up against Cordell's and his ass is flexing and full in Cordell's hands and his skin's all goose-pimpled and soft and god, so fucking biteable, and Cordell bites there at his shoulder again and licks over his nipple and bites that, too, and Dean grunts, grips Cordell's hair, says—harder—and Cordell bites harder, switches to the other and bites that too, his dick throbbing in his shorts, pulsing up a gob of precome just at the weight in his arms, the muscle all against him, the realness of Dean's reactions.

He squeezes Dean's ass, licks the tight skin. "Turn," Dean says, thin and raw, "fuckin—turn around," and it takes a second for Cordell's brain to kick in but he does, he rotates so that Dean's back is pressed up against the side of the truck, Cordell's hips locking him tight up against the door. Dean's head rolls back for a second and he throws one bare arm out, gripping the rack hard enough that his bicep stands clear in his arm—Cordell groans and leans in and bites at the muscle standing out in his underarm, smelling the clear pine of his deodorant in the sparse light hair and the sweat of the day and whatever else, his skin, the salt of him—and Dean breathes high and gaspy and then his free hand's fumbling between them, his weight pulled just enough off Cordell's waist that he can get at the buckle—the button—fingers moving fast and practiced and ripping open Cordell's flies, dipping in and gripping him through his briefs, squeezing hard and underhanded, dragging up and forcing Cordell's dick straight up from its trapped curve, Cordell groaning again when the head's forced up over the waistband, kissing cold air, wet and furiously needing. Christ alive, he wants to fuck this guy.

"I'm clean," Dean gets out, echoing the thought somehow. He squeezes again and more precome blurts up, and Dean swipes his thumb after it immediately. Cordell shakes his head, trying to think. They're—god, they're on a sideroad in the middle of the night, this isn't exactly the best place for it—nowhere to clean up, nowhere to hide—and then Dean says, low, "Double or nothing?" and Cordell laughs, lifts up, kisses him—

Carries him, dumb maybe but he doesn't care because he can and Dean's letting him—Dean's arms tight around his shoulders and then fumbling for the latch on the truck bed, swinging down the tailgate—and Cordell sets him down careful as he would Em, Dean's thighs as tight around him as hers would be, and when he's free of handling precious cargo he slides his hands up Dean's triceps, his shoulders, squeezing, forcing Dean's chin up and taking the kiss he needs, if he's going to—if they're really going to—

"How do you want to—?" he says, because he's not assuming, and Dean shakes his head, huffs warm against Cordell's cheek, says, "You got stuff?" and Cordell has to shake his head no, of course no, and Dean nods like it's what he expected. "Let me up," he says, instead, and Cordell really, really doesn't want to but does, and Dean's legs don't wobble when his boots hit the dirt but he does sway into Cordell, cool skin, promising. He slips past Cordell and goes to the trunk on the Chevy, opening it up with keys from his jeans pocket, and Cordell's given thirty seconds there in the cold to rethink what he's doing, to second-guess. He waits, instead, holding his dick warm and stiff against his belly against the cold. When the trunk slams Dean's got a bottle in one hand and a box in the other, and he comes back and puts both on the tailgate next to Cordell's hip and then says, "Feeling a little underdressed, here," smirky and practiced like he was before, but Cordell's too far into this to mind, and he shrugs out of his jacket, tosses it into the bed, peels off his button down and lets it follow, and when he's down to his undershirt Dean puts a hand on his chest and says, "God, you're—" –but Cordell doesn't get to hear what he is because he kisses Dean instead, and pushes his ass back against the tailgate until Dean hitches up onto it, and then he shoves, and Dean scoots and squirms backwards while Cordell climbs up after him and then they're—jesus, they're in the back of a truck like the night Cordell lost his virginity, in a farm-field not too different to this one, and he has a feeling this is going to be nearly as good. Better.

It'd be easier to bend Dean over but Dean's staying firm on his back, unbuckling his own belt, opening his jeans. Black boxer-briefs, soft when Cordell digs his fingers in. Dean's heeling out of his boots somewhere south—one hits the dirt with a thump—and Cordell hauls his jeans and boxers down all in one, tugging off his socks too until he's totally naked in the moonlight, shivering hard, bare but for the necklace and the bracelets on one wrist and the ring. He's absurdly white—does he ever spend any time out of jacket and jeans?—but his dick's heavy and dark, lolling against his hip, his sack dark below, light trimmed hair at his crotch and hardly any everywhere else. Cordell crawls forward, kisses a thigh and feels the muscle flex, kisses the thin warm skin of his hip and feels the thigh draw up by his shoulder, kisses the warm stiff side of the pretty dick—not as big as his, sure, but big enough—and is surprised when Dean says, "No," and grips his t-shirt, pulls him up. Cordell's unsure, braced on one hand, but Dean just shakes his head and pulls Cordell down, kissing him, spreading his legs around Cordell's hips. "Sorry," he says, hitching, "but it's not—I just—"

Another strange not-statement but Dean's still raring for it, for how he pushes his dick up against where Cordell's still trapped in his briefs. Get the—he fumbles back to where the stuff's been shoved against the side of the bed and Dean grabs the lube out of his hand, pushes the condom box against his chest. Cordell kneels up between his spread thighs and opens the box—a string of four left—and while he's tearing off a packet Dean's drawing his heels up, smearing slick over his fingers, reaching past his nuts and—god, no hesitation, muscle in his forearm flexing, shoving up inside. He shivers again—a breeze sifting over them, freezing—and Cordell ignores his job to cover Dean's hand, his fingers curving down and feeling, fuck, feeling where Dean's hot and tight and split open, working wet into himself to make it easy. He rubs two fingers against the hot rim and Dean's dick flexes up off his hip, one ball leaping in his sack, insane shadows in the moonlight, and Cordell says, "Fuck, you like it, huh?" and Dean says, "Shut up, b-bitch," and then, thinner, "C'mere," and Cordell leans over him and kisses him, tucked close, shielding him from the cold air, wondering, ready.

Dean has to help him get the condom on, he's so distracted. Their fingers slip together, Dean's slick and hot, and Cordell manages to get the packet open while Dean fists him tight, underhand from root to tip, and his hand shakes while he's trying to settle the slippery circle on the head and it's Dean who slicks it down, tight and smooth and just barely big enough. "God," Dean sighs, and cups Cordell's balls warmly, just barely freed from his briefs, and then it's—nothing, easy, to spread Dean's thigh out high and push up between his legs and Dean guides him in, nosing up against the heat and then holding his hand in a loose circle while Cordell pushes, the tightness unimaginable right at the entrance until everything dissolves into the vague scorch inside, a muffled clasp that feels so good Cordell grunts, hitches forward even if he knows he has to go slow—he's done this with a woman and with a guy, he knows to go slow—but right this second that doesn't feel important, and anyway Dean only lets out this little unformed sound and then grips his ass, his free leg curling around Cordell's and pulling him in, tighter, until Cordell's pressed in as close as he can be and Dean's—shuddering, flexing around him, his face turned away against the cold metal, his dick still stiff and shoving against Cordell's stomach.

Cordell presses his forehead against the tight clenched line of Dean's jaw, squeezes Dean's thigh. Rocks his hips. Dean catches his breath like he's been hit. "Jesus," Cordell mumbles. Kisses the skin in front of him, apologizing vaguely for what he can't help—dips his head, kisses Dean's collarbone, his shoulder. Dean shifts under him—his lower back rising—and it shifts his ass against Cordell's hips, makes him clench, and Cordell flexes inside, shoves, and Dean shudders all over like a flystung horse and then says, "Come on, go—go—" and Cordell groans, lifts up, thrusts free at last, and Dean clings to him and wraps his legs around Cordell's waist, knees high and his ass up and his hand sliding up into Cordell's hair, gripping, and it's easy to fuck him that way, shoving in and in and finding a rhythm, making the truck sway on its struts.

All the teasing, all the foreplay, it's not going to take Cordell long. God, it feels good. Dean's open, and Cordell has no idea what might've happened before him but Dean's no stranger to being fucked and clearly loves it, needs it somehow, clinging and gripping and making these jolted-out little turned on noises, his dick a rock against Cordell's belly. He hauls his t-shirt up to feel it against his bare skin and Dean moans unrestrained, arching up, so that Cordell can shove an arm under his lower back and keep him right there, grinding into him, a close urgent fuck that's making his knees slide, the denim slick against the truck bed. He shoves in hard and Dean scoots up the bed, slams a hand behind him to save his head from hitting the cab. "Say—" Dean gets out, cracked, "say—" and Cordell doesn't know what he's being asked for but jesus, he's close, and any kind of distraction's probably a good idea, and so he grinds in tight and leans on his elbow next to Dean's head and bites his throat—oh, high—too high—but Dean makes this insane sound and grips him closer, holding him there, and so Cordell curves his hips and hopes he's dragging his dick all over any possible hot spots and opens his mouth and says, first, "Fuck," in this too-loud burst, and then with his nose in Dean's sweaty hair and his lips pressed close against his wet throat he says just the stupidest shit that comes to mind—you feel incredible and love this and yeah, you like that? is that what you want? and Dean nods, fast and silent, gripping his hair, rolling his hips against Cordell's so that his dick churns inside, spreading him out all deep. It's not even legible but Dean seems to be responding to his voice as much as anything else so Cordell keeps talking, dumb praise and cursing and anything else that comes to mind, smeared against Dean's hot skin, and Dean stops holding them still against the cab and grips Cordell by the t-shirt, clenched tight and digging into his shoulderblade, says come on, come on, fuck me under all Cordell's mumbling and Cordell groans relief and hitches Dean's hips higher and fucks him easy, simple fast shallow in-and-out that's just insane-making as Dean's body grips him, hot and slick through the condom, tight where it counts, wanting him—wanting, and it's wound up tight enough in Cordell's nuts that he doesn't even think to ask if he can—inside—and then it's punching out of him, his dick flexing and working and furiously pumping, his balls draining into this perfect heat, christ, christ.

He groans, crushing his hips in tight, brain entirely offline. A shove, at his shoulders. Dean—oh, he should—but he's blinking, overheated all over and struggling to work out—Dean reaching between them, rolling his hips in such a way that Cordell slips out—oh, empty air unwelcome after Dean's body but the condom secured—and then Dean squirms down, tipping Cordell off to the side and sliding immediately down the truck-bed, the iffy blanket of jacket and shirt sliding with him, and Cordell lifts up on one elbow and says inanely what but Dean's peeling the condom off, tossing it somewhere, and then—"Fuck!" Cordell shouts, loud enough he claps a hand over his mouth, but Dean's—going down on him, eyes closed tight and brows furrowed in concentration, sliding all the way—holy shit—all the way to the base, when Cordell's still stiff and full and way too sensitive for it. His balls lurch and his thighs spasm, shoving his hips automatically forward into wet heat, and Dean takes it easily, all Cordell's length sliding right into his throat, his nose in Cordell's pubes and his tongue flat-wet and welcoming, dragging in everything he can get.

"Jesus, Dean," Cordell says, and Dean makes this trapped vibrating little sound, buried in his crotch, his eyes clenched so tight he looks hurt. Cordell takes a breath, lifts up higher, cups his hand around the back of Dean's head, says, "Yeah. Yeah, you like that? Take it for me. You can take all of it—you're so good, huh?"—and Dean's working his own dick, his shoulder flexing white in the moonlight, his breath coming shaky in little strangled puffs against Cordell's pelvis. Cordell's dick twitches, overstimulated but interested, and he holds Dean's head very carefully in both hands and shifts, tipping backwards so that Dean's leaning over him, scrambling to follow, on his knees with his ass in the air, working himself furiously, his free hand splayed heavy on Cordell's belly, holding him in place so he can take what he needs. The steady suction's got Cordell half-hard, his body straining painfully to make use of the fresh space to use, but he ignores it as best he can through the half-torture and strokes Dean's temples with both thumbs, thinking of any way he could get him there. "Show me, huh? Dean?" Another tiny noise, and he trails his thumb under the slick wet of Dean's lower lip and says again Dean, and then lifts his jaw, careful, dragging his mouth up and finally off and when Dean's free, gasping, eyes still closed, Cordell says his name again and pushes his thumb into Dean's mouth and Dean spasms and spurts like that, hips curling in like he's fucking, his tongue slick over Cordell's skin.

The guy in Germany hadn't been like this. Hoyt hadn't been like this. Not—needing, this way. With Hoyt it was fun—easy fucking, laughing and sharing drinks and learning how to make each other feel good, daring each other. Dean shakes, puts his head down against Cordell's hip, fingers curling into his barely-shoved down jeans. Cordell drags his wet thumb back to the bare soft spot behind Dean's ear, rubs there, feeling—out of his depth is the least of it. Not old enough, somehow, for the first time in a long time—for the first time since boots-down in the desert of an unfamiliar country—and with that weird connection pulling at the back of his mind he grips Dean's shoulder and tugs at him, pulls him up, and Dean takes a deep breath and crawls forward and lets Cordell get arms around him, roll over him, shielding his body from the cold at least partly, trying to be some kind of ground to shake against. He goes in for a kiss and Dean lets him for a second but turns his face away, ducks down so his face is hiding in Cordell's throat, so Cordell hugs him instead, arm under his head and hand sliding soothing up and down his spine. Like gentling a colt, he thinks, and hopes Dean doesn't make the connection. For a moment he wishes, absurdly, that Em were here.

Icy breeze again, slipping over the bed. Dean shivers and Cordell braces a hand solid at the base of his neck. "Sorry, no blanket," he says. Very quiet.

Dean breathes out a laugh. "I mean, you run hot," he says, quieter even than Cordell was, and Cordell kisses the temple he can reach and that makes Dean shudder again, for some reason, before he presses Cordell's chest lightly, his weight tipping away. Cordell lets him go and Dean rolls onto his back, scrubs both hands heavily over his face, stubble rasping. "Damn it," he says, to himself, and then sits up—naked, white as moonlight. His necklace has swung around entirely backwards, the pendant-thing dangling between his shoulderblades, and Cordell reaches up and settles it for him, knowing how annoying that is when it's his tags. It makes Dean flinch for some reason—the further they get from orgasm the more confusing he is—but Cordell just gets a quick look over one curved shoulder and a thanks, and then Dean dragging a hand over his hair, blowing out air, his shoulders squaring out.

Like a switch flipped. "I'm nasty, man," Dean says, in a normal voice. "You totally grimed me up."

Cordell frowns. "Sorry," he tries, and gets for that a quick flash of a grin, Dean not meeting his eyes as he scoots down the bed. "You sorta asked for it."

"That's what they all say," Dean fires back, smirky, finding his socks and boxer-briefs and jeans all tumbled around the truck bed and reapplying them with no sign of self-consciousness. He stands all the way up, tall, while he's rebuttoning his jeans, and Cordell hops over the side of the bed to find his own shirt and also to not look, something weird curled up in his gut. Shit, he never even took his boots off.

He gets back in his overshirt, his jacket. Dean's pulled his henley over his head, and found one boot. Cordell hands up the other one and gets another brief casual thanks and then watches Dean step into each and hop down from the tailgate. A flinch, when he lands, but he seems to ignore it, and Cordell picks up his coat and Dean reaches for it and Cordell—doesn't give it to him, wrong-footed.

"Isn't it time to head home to the wife?" Dean says, eyebrows high. The moon's behind him now and it's harder to see his face, but he points at the gold band on Cordell's hand. "I've got a vision. Blonde, big hair. Maybe not happy that Officer Walker's looking for love in all the wrong places?"

"Nope," Cordell says, keeping his temper even if Dean's trying to needle him now for no reason he can work out. He tips his head, nods at Dean's own hand. "What about you? That ring tugging you home to someone?"

A half-beat, and Dean turns his head toward his car enough that Cordell can see the smile, weirdly ironic. "Nope," Dean repeats. He spreads his hands, easy. "I'm free as a bird, man."

"Yeah." The skepticism must come through because Dean's jaw clenches and he shoves his hands into his jeans pockets. Cordell takes a deep breath, but—fuck it, this was fun, and he doesn't want it to end nasty. He steps forward and gets a hand on Dean's jaw fast—Dean's hand snaps up to hold his wrist, even faster—but he doesn't insist, just tips his head down, breathes in Dean's smell. Heavier now, rich with what they did. Dean says, "Not that kind of girl," brittle, but Cordell shakes his head, his fingers curled light around Dean's ear, and Dean lets out a short sharp breath through his nose and softens, just enough that Cordell can dip down and press a kiss brief and easy against the corner of his mouth.

Not what Dean was expecting—his lips part, air shaking against Cordell's jaw—but Cordell leaves it at that, and leans back just enough that he can shake out the big leather coat and hold it up for Dean to take.

He does, slowly. Cordell smiles at him, letting it be as honest and thankful and glad as he is. "Thanks for driving like a lunatic, earlier," he says, light. Meaning it.

Dean snorts. "Thanks for being a shitty traffic cop," he says, but not sarcastic. He shrugs the coat on over his shoulders, turns up the collar against the cold air.

He looks at Cordell for another few seconds, studying his face. Cordell says, "If you're ever around Austin again, maybe don't go 95 but you could look me up, if you want," which is a weird impulse and maybe Em wouldn't actually be okay with that but—it feels right to say, in this little private spot.

"You don't want to know how fast I've gone, Officer," Dean says, after a moment, and Cordell doesn't miss that the invite was ignored but Dean surprises him, anyway, tugging his head down and kissing him again—soft, sweet. A goodbye kiss. For him, or for someone else.

Cordell leans against the cab again, watches Dean get back into the Chevy. "Who do I look like?" he asks, before the door closes.

Dean doesn't turn his head, but the dome light's on and Cordell sees the hollow appear in his cheek when he sucks it in. Makes him look a lot older than almost twenty-six. "Cordell Walker," he says, finally, and with finality. He shakes his head, and turns the engine on, and calls over it, "Goofy-ass name, by the way," and the door slams shut before Cordell can get a last word in—and then there's the audible clunk of the big engine changing gears and he roars backwards, an easy j-turn on the dirt-and-gravel, and when he's pointed the right way on the road the engine idles for a second—and then roars—and Cordell laughs, can't help himself, while the damn show-off peels out and the massive Chevy leaps forward, disappearing into the night.

Cordell stands there, listening to the receding sound of the engine until it's quiet again. He tips his head back against his truck, feeling loose and drained like he always does after a good fuck—feeling, too, strange and tangled, and wondering, the way he always does when a puzzle's lingering just out of reach, wanting to be solved. He doesn't think he'll get the chance, with this one. "See you, Dean," he says, to the empty space around him, and huffs into the silence, and gets into the truck to head home. He'll have a story, for Em, when she's back.

#ffcc #my writing #walker/dean #you guys would be forgiven for assuming i'd died #but i didn't forget these requests #and am going to try to get back to them #anyway have dean getting nailed by a brother substitute #for Funsies

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