With anybody else, he’d bullshit. Give them the spiel about how humanity kicked ass, and they would always pull through in the end. The Greater Good, the power of mankind, blah blah.
In the dark, in the quiet of Oliver’s bedroom, a roadmap of scars between them and a silent understanding that this ends the second one of them has to put something else first (Felicity or Sammy, it depends on a roll of the dice and who has worse karma), it feels like he can tell the truth.
Even though it’s ugly, even though neither one of them really want to hear it.
Everything he’s got with Oliver is built on a foundation of but’s and even though’s. It’s not healthy, it’s going to blow up in their faces.
They shouldn’t be doing this period, because Dean’s got to make an appearance at some Queen Consolidated gala, a little right place, right time to stop a fake robbery. In front of a suspicious detective.
It’s nuts, abso-friggin-lutely nuts and Dean is so on board. His life is demon deals and death, loss and agony. When’s the next time he’s going to get to pretend to be a super hero in front of a room full of rich douches?
Not that it matters. Not right now.
All that matters right now is where Oliver’s big hand is smoothing across his chest, leather going taut against his skin.
It’s the kind of tight that serves a purpose, a second skin and it feels all kinds of intimate to be wearing Oliver’s. Dean manages to croak out take my jacket into the slick heat of the other man’s mouth, rewarded with breathless laughter.
He’s never been subtle about what seeing Oliver in his clothes does to him. It makes all his blood rush south of the border, just like it’s doing right now. The hood hides the way Oliver’s hand palms at the back of his head, and Dean groans into the kiss, hitching up against those hips where they’re pressed against him.
Dean knows a thing or two about stress relief. He knows what it’s like to be so worked up in knots that there’s no way out. Especially with adrenaline slamming through your veins.
It doesn’t matter if you popped the baddie with one easy shot. Your body is raring to go, all cylinders firing.
Just like he knows that picking a fight with Oliver right out of the hood is a bad freaking idea, but he does it anyway. Because this is too good, it’s too nice, and he doesn’t know what to do with having a home he can just show up to, a warm bed he’s welcomed in.
There’s too much truth between them, and Dean is desperate for distance. So he takes the cheap shot, and it ends up a screaming match in the middle of Oliver’s living room, until he throws up his hands and says I’m going to go take a shower. Don’t. Leave.
Of course, Dean shouts “Don’t tell me what to do!” after him, because he’s a moron.
There’s steam rolling across the floor when Dean steps inside of the bathroom, vision obscured in white for a few seconds until that blast of cool air from the living room clears it.
He can just see Oliver, head bowed and forearm against the tile, and damned if he doesn’t know what that other hand is doing.
Oliver freezes with the click of the door shutting. “Don’t stop on account of me.” Dean’s voice is all gravel, already tugging his shirt off and toeing out of his boots.
This is how he knows to solve problems, how to ease the way between them. He hangs the amulet off of the side of the medicine cabinet, peeling layer after layer, eyes never leaving Oliver.
Oliver, who has dropped his head to the spray again, lazily stroking himself like he doesn’t have a care in the world. It’s one of those things Dean needs to commit to memory, the sight of him like this. Scarred and tattooed, hard muscle and smooth lines.
Perfect.
The shower curtain rings jangle when he pulls it out of his way, and Dean fits against the line of Oliver’s back like he was made for it, dry lips pressed against wet skin. Open mouthed apologies that he won’t ever speak.
“I took care of everything.” It’s a reckless invitation. They’ve been good up until now, they’ve been safe. But Dean’s just spent the last ten minutes aggressively fucking himself on his fingers like it was penance, and he’s offering himself over to Oliver.
It’s his turn to put his forehead to the shower wall, and goosebumps follow Oliver’s palm down the line of his spine before he hears turn around against the shell of his ear.
Dean isn’t as young as he used to be, but he still gets his leg up high enough to hook it against Oliver’s back, standing on the tips of his toes to hold himself steady.
Oliver slides himself in slow, careful, even when he has every right to take and God, Dean loves him for it. He loves this man who is violence and kindness in equal measure, filling him up and breaking him open.
He tips his head back against the wall, warm water running down his lashes and pooling in the hollow of his throat, where Oliver is lapping at the skin. His patience is wearing thin, those incremental rolls of his hips getting sharper.
So Dean does the only thing a man in his position can do.
“Please.” It’s breathed out, and Dean watches the way it chases the tremor down Oliver’s spine before those bright eyes are meeting his, hips slamming up into slippery hips.
They don’t talk. They don’t need to. The bruising grip on Dean’s hips say enough. The hands clutching and pulling at Oliver’s short hair is all but a scream.
Their bodies collide with panting, rasping breaths and Dean has never felt more free than when he has to hold on.
There’s something almost tragically humorous (and frustrating) about heroes’ collective belief that they are destined for damnation. He thinks of Dean and his refusal to believe that he deserves Heaven, his conviction that his soul is something ugly and ashen, something to be disgusted by, when the truth is the exact opposite.
On that same line of thought, and equally vexing and ridiculous, is their stubborn belief that they know better than someone who can actually see their soul.
He can see the frosted edges of their breath with each exhale, and Dean has to remind himself that Oliver is more than capable, no matter how much this feels like walking a civilian into the middle of a case.
“Follow my lead.” Oliver cocks an eyebrow at him and Dean gestures to the mirrors propped against every surface, their reflections covered in fractals of ice.
“I know you can handle yourself. This ain't about me trying to protect your delicate sensibilities, this is about making sure we gang this thing the right way, so she doesn't come back.”
That’s enough to pull those shoulders down. Dean gives himself a long, greedy second to look. Oliver's in street clothes, bow strung over his back.
(Sam had questioned the sleek black wood in the trunk once. Dean shrugged it off. He's got knives stashed all over Oliver's apartment. Least he can do is return the favor in his home.)
There's a whisper of breath behind them, words inaudible but still evident. Dean pulls his eyes away from taut muscle, watching the closest mirror out of the corner of his eye.
“You stay inside the salt and she can't get to you.”
Dean toes the thick white line and steps over it.
She comes at him like a bullet, screaming through the air with clawed hands outstretched. Dean only just side steps her, but she takes a chunk of his outer shirt with her.
“Hold steady.” All the bravado, all the bullshit is gone. Dean is utterly focused, back to Oliver. He trusts that he'll stick to the plan.
The phrase ‘scream like a banshee’ exists for a reason. And this one is gonna make Dean's eardrums burst if they don't ice her fast.
She makes a loop around, and this time she gets her hands around Dean's throat, sending him skidding on his back across the floor and into a massive mirror that wobbles dangerously over his head until it rights itself.
“Dean!” Oliver's voice rings out, concern etched into the words.
Cold fingers scrabble against the concrete, reaching, reaching until they can cure around the tire iron and-
Dean brings it down hard through the banshee, her body exploding into mists of snow. “Now! Three o'clock!”
Oliver doesn't hesitate. He spins on his heel and fires the iron tipped arrow into the mirror where the banshee was coalescing.
Her final scream as the mirror shatters is enough to leave his ears ringing.
The next thing Dean knows, he's being offered a hand up. It pulls him up into Oliver's space, where the tip of his nose is red from the cold.
(There might be frostbite on his throat, the way Oliver is looking at him.)
“Not bad for your first time, huh?” If it comes out a little too loud, well Oliver is just as temporarily deaf as he is.
This definitely feels like an ambush, even as much as he’s trying not to make it. (Dean’s fully clothed now, boots on and up on the table, prepared to hit the road, to be told to get scarce and never come back.)
“Because she got an eyeful when I got out of the shower earlier.”
