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John Constantine doesn’t have much use for morality. Most of it’s a con. Meaningless and restrictive rules for an already unwinnable game. But even he knows he probably shouldn’t be doing this. Knows there are some boundaries you just shouldn’t push. Knows there’s a line between self-destructive and just plain destructive. Doesn’t sodding stop him though.
He’s gonna blame the suit.
For John a suit and tie is a sort of street magic. With a few adjustments it lets him hide in plain sight. Pass for normal, respectable even, if he needs to. The rest of the time he just looks like a scruffy school boy but that’s okay too. You can take the boy out of punk but you’ll never get the punk all the way out of the boy. Literally actually, in the case of one of the scars on his knee which still has a scrap of one of Gazza’s jacket spikes in it. And that’s a longer story than it should be.
But if John’s usual attire is a road side card trick then Winchester’s fed get-up is a bleeding Las Vegas stage show. Smooth lines and sleek fabric over a soldier’s body forged on the front lines. Shoulders back and confidence all pulled on as part of the disguise. The epitome of the man in black that John’s youthful politics had reviled.
It didn’t help that John was in nothing but half-open shirt and hastily grabbed trousers when Winchester had turned up, panting at the hotel room door with rain in his hair. In the suit. Smelling like gun oil and old spice. Come straight from whatever case he was working in Portland. Already pulling his tie loose and grinning like a lunatic. Which he probably is seeing as he was here at all. About to let himself be talked into feeding this strange hunger. Putting his humanity on the line just to get off. That was probably the definition of completely barmy.
“You really want those bleeding translations done, don’t you mate?” John had said. Opened the door all the way to let the damp hunter inside. Not bothering with a real greeting.
Dean had rolled his eyes. “That was weeks ago, man. We dealt with it. You seriously need to read your email more than once a month.”
John shrugged. They might be on the run but they knew how to use a phone. Not that it would have done them any more good of course. John had been in Purgatory and then the Dimensional Library. Looking for answers to the latest bleeding Leviathan mess.
“What’re you biting your arm of for then?” John had asked. He had a good guess of course. But you could never tell for sure with Winchester.
The grin turned predatory and Winchester kicked the door shut behind him. Stepped right up and took the half-drunk glass of whisky right out of John’s hand. Threw back the scotch like cheap bourbon and discarded the glass on a nearby table. Grabbed John’s belt and pulled them together.
“You,” he said in that scratchy mid-west Yank accent that John really shouldn’t find as sexy as he does. John doesn’t think Winchester had ever been this direct with him before either. Maybe he can blame that as well as the suit. He usually makes John at least pretend to work for it.
“Yeah,” John had said. Narrowed his eyes and looked Winchester over more speculatively this time. “Make me.”
John hadn’t said those words to Dean for years. At least not in this context. Not since the lad’s resurrection. And because he is a truly fucked up individual he was half hard just thinking about the implication. Waited to see if it was too far.
But Dean hadn’t even flinched. Just pulled a pair of police issue handcuffs from somewhere and said “I can do that.”
So, yeah, John’s blaming the suit. And the cuffs. And that sodding Winchester smile.
And that's the start of how they got to this moment. Where he is about to get his own blood on someone else's hands for once. And felt just as bad about it as the blood on his own. But he knows what's coming. Knows what he's wanted for bleeding ('scuse the pun) months and the opportunity has literally turned up on his doorstep. So he knows he'll take it. It is starting off simple, of course. But nothing ever stays that way.
John is just trying to decide if the suit is staying on or coming off when Dean makes the decision for him. Drops his jacket onto the sofa and surges forward and starts kissing John like there’s no tomorrow. Knowing the Winchesters there bloody isn’t either. That was always Dean’s thing wasn’t it – ‘Might be your last night on earth, Hellblazer. Whatcha gonna do with it?’ God that had been a good night. John hadn’t bothered telling him that there was no way in hell he was scared of a useless pair of Vetala – even if they had some stolen Green magic. It had been absolutely worth it.
John is brought suddenly back to the present when Dean bites his lip a sharp little taste of pain. Makes his breath catch. Then Winchester surprises him for the second time in two minutes by lifting him off the ground and crushes them into the wall. Saving the world obviously does more for the lad’s physique than it ever has for John’s. But he isn’t about to complain. He just wraps his legs around the hunter’s waist and kisses him with unrepentant ferocity. John can already feel where there will be bruises on his arse in the morning form the hunter’s fingers. He presses in rougher, demanding more contact.
Somehow Winchester gets it for once and moves. Stumbles backward a few steps and collapses on the bed bringing John down on top of him. Dean buries a hand in John’s hair, as he is want to do, tugs then bites down Constantine’s neck; sharp and hard enough to mark. Rakes his nails into the meat of John’s thigh, scratching and dragging through the worn wool-blend. John can’t help the harsh little sound that escapes him and Winchester responds to it. Bucking up into him then rolling them so John is on his back with the hunter’s weight pressing him down.
Winchester starts kissing him again and John opens to it lets it turn filthy – hands everywhere and more teeth than anything. Then Dean pulls back harshly taking John’s lip with him and nipping in hard enough to draw blood. John tastes it, hot and coppery with the burnt sugar aftertaste of Nergal so he knows it’s his own. He licks at the wound and looks up. Their eyes meet. John forgets to breathe. Sees something he’s only ever found at 4am in his own mirror. Violent scars and Hell’s fire. And fuck, that should scare him. Blood on his tongue and a Hell trained torturer on his chest. But it doesn’t. It really fucking doesn’t.
Dean must see it too because his initial purpose is forgotten for a moment. They both get lost in a deep primal sort of kissing that tears down more layers than getting naked ever will. They shift against each other. Hands everywhere. Something dark and wild. John wraps a leg around the hunter as the sweet aching friction builds.
Dean gets back on track first. Breaks the kiss to start unbuttoning John’s shirt and biting and sucking into the flesh of his chest. John digs his fingers into the hunter’s short hair, almost long enough to tug, the other hand bunched up into the quilt. Urges him lower but just gets bitten harder for his trouble. Each blunt edged bite makes John’s breath hitch and back arch up into the feeling. Dean doesn’t break the skin but the mere threat of it is enough to set John’s skin on fire with anticipation.
When the last button falls free John fights his way out of the rest of his shirt and props himself up on an elbow. Winchester notices and sits up; shoos John further up the bed then climbs over him. Drags the exorcist’s arms above his head instead and cuffs both his hands around the top bar of the bedframe. Bit of luck that not all hotels have proper bedframes. John glares but doesn’t fight it. They both know he could slip the cuffs in seconds but the real restraints are all the way on the other side of the room. So he lets his shoulders relax, puts his weight into his body and rests his slack wrists in the handcuffs. Cold metal digs in to hot skin but he’ll last the position longer if he relaxes.
“Think you can stay put for me Hellblazer?” Dean whispers. Old spice, leather and hell-wrought menace. John supresses a shiver.
“That depends, mate,” he says with a sneer. “You gonna get on with it?”
“Don’t know, love,” Dean says in a poor mockery of John’s accent. “I haven’t had something as gorgeous as you in my bed in a very long time. I might just take my sweet time.”
John laughs because that was the point. Repeating his words back to him. Something didn’t sit right though. He can almost feel it. Dean’s a good liar, a good actor and he likes to play. The only reason he would shift the tone so suddenly is if something made him uncomfortable. Probably something in himself. Maybe it’s the taste of blood and burnt sugar. And if John was a better person he would call it off on the hunter’s behalf. But he isn’t. So he doesn’t.
“C’mere,” he says instead. And Dean obliges. Still a good boy even when he’s trying to take control. Leans down and places a firm hand on the back of John’s head. Pulls them into a strangely tender kiss. It’s John that finally shifts away this time. When he can feel Dean relax again. Grabs the bed frame and uses it as leverage to try and urge Winchester back to task.
“Bossy,” Dean says. Even though Constantine thought he was being quite polite about the whole thing really. But he takes the hint. Digs his nails into John’s chest and starts to slide down torturously slow. John lets his head tilt back. Focuses on each sensation. Each scratch and slide. Sweat settles in some of the welted red scratches and burns human salty and demon sweet. Winchester drags his body over John’s. All stiff cotton and hard muscle pressing into him. Followed by biting suckling kisses. Scratch and tug of nails and hands on skin making him ache in expectation.
Winchester finally reaches his waist so John looks up again. Watches the hunter move. Dean starts to unbuckle John’s belt and pulls it free with simple, precise efficiency. Doubles it over and cracks it making John jump. But then he just drops the belt to one side. Slides a hand across the stretched fabric of his crotch instead. John bites his lip because it’s way too early to start begging.
Dean looks up and catches his eye again. Then when he’s sure he’s got John’s attention he bites at his lust hard cock through the rough fabric of his trousers. It’s gentle really a bare scratch of not quite too tight pressure. But it still makes him moan and twitch for more. And as usual that's enough to get Dean moving again. Scratching his nails down John’s sides hard and fast enough to make him really bleed this time. And fuck does that feel good. It leaves stinging hot trails on his skin. He arches up to the pain/pleasure throb of it.
Dean finally slides a hand to John’s fly. The exorcist helps kick away the last remnants of fabric so he’s completely naked and laid out like some sacrificial offering. Which you could argue he is. Sacrificed to his own perversions. Spread upon the altar of his own carnality. Trussed up an throbbing for more.
Dean licks his lips. Looks like a kid in candy store. Can’t decide where to start. And there’s something ego boosting about that. Being able to bring a man like Dean Winchester to his knees, literally in some cases. And the gobsmacking bit is that it isn’t even trickery. No deception required.
“You got…” Dean interrupts his thoughts. Slides a callused hand along the tender skin of John’s thigh.
“In me bag. On the sofa. Side pocket.”
Dean gets up and rummages in the exorcism kit. Until he finds what he’s looking for.
“You keep lube and condoms in your weird ass magic bag?”
“You know me, Winchester. Whatever works… No matter what.” He winks for good measure.
“Gross.”
“You didn’t say that to Mama Xala.”
“You’re never going to let me live that shit down are you?”
“Nah, mate. Prob’ly not. S’not exactly something I wanna forget.”
Dean sighs despite a slight smile at the memory.
“Oh, an’ grab the knife,” John says quick and breathless. Tilts his chin to indicate where it is at the other end of the bag. He watches Dean’s reaction carefully through half-lidded eyes. Winchester hesitates for a fraction of a second. But it’s enough that John knows he’s at least thought about what he’s about to agree to. “Nah, not that one. White handle.”
Dean tests the blade against his thumb. Spins it over his hand in an impressively swift move to assess the weight and balance. It’s flashy. Not something John’s seen him do before. Vamping. Drawing out the show.
He puts the blade between his teeth and smiles around it when he hears John’s breath catch. Throws the lube and condoms onto the bed. So he can roll up his sleeves. Because he’s still mostly dressed. Even the tie is still in place if loose. He looks more like the goddamn ’Hellblazer’ than John does right now. Rumpled, a bit debauched, and the blade in his teeth making his smile manic.
His sleeves are rolled up as far as they’ll go, makes the lines of his arms bulge and ripple with every movement. He pulls off the tie next; folds it and places it aside. John can actually see him psych himself up. Push himself into the role. The way he pushes his shoulders back and takes a deep breath before climbing back onto the bed. Slides himself between John’s legs and perches there. Waiting. Deciding. At this point John wouldn’t be able to keep his eyes off him if wanted to.
John feels that jolt again when their gazes lock. And the bit of John that really is the Hellblazer rises up. The bit that has him sometimes waking with Lucifer’s name on his lips. The part that reaches all the way down to the Cage. That bit. It burns hotter than Hell. Makes his body scream out to be touched, and twisted. Reaches out to its mirror. And the rest of him almost blanches. Almost looks away. But there’s too much raw sexual instinct at play now. So he grips the bed frame and lets his unruly breath do what it wants. Holds eye contact until the first slice cuts in.
Dean runs his hands up John’s thighs first. Warm and gentle. So soft it would tickly if he was so turned on. Drags the pad of his thumb over old scars. Some of which were probably made by a much younger version of Dean who had never been to Hell. Who just did what he was told. Played for the sake of playing. This one knows exactly what he’s doing and walks a much darker path in doing it.
He takes the knife out of his teeth with his right hand. Leaves the left on John’s leg. Does another fancy toss and catch. Runs the tip of the blade along his lip before finally pressing cold metal into the warm skin of John’s leg. Even then it’s still a tease. Tracing feather light lines across the surface but not yet breaking the skin. The anticipation is worse than the pain. John has to fight his body – fight against the impulse to tense up. Just breathe. Watches the hunter’s eyes for some sign of what’s next.
And he sees it. The tell-tale flicker of intent. John closes his eyes then. At the first exquisite slice. Feels the cold of it first. Metal on turned-on skin. Then the sharp pinch. The real pain before… the blissful second shock. As his lungs and brain register the damage. Endorphins. Chemical reactions. Hot slide of release, catch, and fall. He makes a noise. Halfway between a sob and ecstasy. Because even when he knows it’s coming it’s still a surprise. But it’s what comes next that makes his eyes fly back open.
Dean slides his thumb over the incision. Literally rubbing it in. It’s a long shallow slice perfect – just deep enough to sting and bleed. Just another little reminder that he’s in the hands of Hell’s finest. Another reminder about how very wrong this is. Now the free hand is on John’s side, rubbing soothing patterns, and Dean is nuzzling softly sweet kisses into his stomach. A complex jumble of sensations. The soft touch and the pain blending into something confusing and beautiful all at once. Binds him back down into his flesh and away from the tangled mess of his thoughts.
Dean’s working his way down John’s other leg now. All sweet and smooth kisses, lustrous touches. And he knows the matching slice is coming next. But he doesn’t know when. Holds his breath. Knows that is what Winchester listens for and it’s spur him to act faster to hear it. God the waiting is so much worse. John pushes his fingers into the hard wood and lets his wrists pull on the cuffs. Doesn’t twist because that will just prolong the wait.
He doesn’t see it this time. Dean is still in that indulgent subtle range so he doesn’t realise it’s coming until he feels the stinging slice directly opposite the first. And the sound is all whimper this time. He pulls in air. Gasping in the smell of gun oil and old spice; sweat, blood and arousal. Closes his eyes and breathes through it.
He can feel hot blood roll across his skin. The tip of the blade is being dragged over his chest. Cold metal tease. Tracing some kind of abstract pattern. Hang on, no. That’s not abstract. It’s the Key of Solomon.
“I’m not a demon,” John presses out between half panted breaths. “Yet.” Opens his eyes and can see the welted devil’s trap on his chest. It’s all right work if a bit basic. Wouldn’t hold anything other than ex-humans for long.
“Neither am I,” Dean says, voice husky. “Sorry to disappoint.”
And John laughs but it catches in his throat when Dean sinks his teeth into his skin again. It’s a different kind of pain – blunt and bruising and sexy as all hell. He cants up into it.
And then Dean is actually cutting over the lines of the devil’s trap. Fuck. Doesn’t even give him a second to adjust from bruised to sliced. And oh fuck yes. His eyes slide shut. He can still feel every pinch and sting but it’s becoming defuse. What they call the masochist’s high. Each cut and incision pushes him further across that floating edge. He’s breathing hard but his body feels light. Riding a warm endorphin wave through his own flesh. Each tear is sweet agony and so fucking good. Sure it’s fucked up. But he’s hellbound and blissful. It’s a start.
“Hey, Hellblazer,” Dean’s voice breaks through the satisfying cloud of pain and pleasure. “Eyes front.” He jerks John’s jaw, tugs with his thumb so they’re eye to eye when John relents and opens his. Winchester’s taken off his shirt at some point. Which, yeah, that is pretty bloody nice to look at. He’s willing to concede that it was potentially worth opening his eyes.
John glares a bit anyway. “Look who’s bossy now, mate,” he says through gritted teeth. Which was still an impressively coherent sentence all things considered.
Winchester just smiles and kisses him. Presses down on top of him sweat and blood mingling to make a slippery harmony of skin. Both hands are roaming across Constantine’s chest now. So he must have lost the knife as well as the shirt. John vaguely wonders just how long he rode that fucking high. But then there’s teeth on his lip and a slick finger demanding entrance to his body. So he kisses back harder. Spreads his legs and draws that half-dressed wonder closer.
Begs for it before he’s really ready. Because he’s already scratched and bloody why not add feeling it for sodding days to the list. Wants that bruised sweet ache when he moves. Wants to hang on to this desperate painful moment of peace. And Winchester unbuckles his belt and relents with little more than an unimpressed roll of his eyes. Because he knows. This is the sort of self-destructive bollocks that righteous men get up to. This is what you do to live with yourself. Break the body so it won’t break your soul.
Getting fucked, when you’re already flying high on that pain edge, it’s something else. Words don’t really describe it. Each jolting thrust strikes something hot and true inside. Floods his whole body with sweet fire. Each slide out almost brings him crashing back to Earth. The sting and burn of the slices on his skin pull then Dean moves again. And he’s riding high once more. He closes his eyes. Each breath coming louder and faster than the next. Evolving into words. Like ‘harder’, ‘fuck’, ‘more’, ‘faster’, and variant of ‘yes’ in 16 languages - maybe one or two that sound like Dean Winchester’s name too.
Then there’s a tongue in his mouth and fingers in his hair. And a slippery hand on his cock – blood and lube and who knows what else. And that’s too much. That final flood of pleasure hurts more than some of the slices did. He grips the headboard and arches his whole body with the feeling of it. That final wash of real release. Comes hard crying out the true name of God.
He hears Winchester swear. Pace becoming erratic. So he slips one of the cuffs and puts a hand in the lad’s hair, just the way he likes it, and tugs him down into a rough and ready kiss. Takes over the rhythm, rides the last vestiges of pain high and orgasmic delight; pushes Dean off that same sweet precipice. Lets him bite and suck one last mark into John’s shoulder as he comes. “Thanks, luv,” John whispers unheard into the hunter’s hairline. Then draws him back into a slow sensual kiss. Drags out every last second of the come down. Pleasantly spent and post-coital pliant.
That bright quite place between sex and reality is fantastic. It’s even better than the threshold consciousness after sleeping or dream walking. Blood hot, endorphin high and drowsy. Couldn’t be better. And because he’d shagged Dean bleeding Winchester he got to enjoy it for all of three minutes.
He winces when Winchester pulls out. Which considering everything else he just put his body through is fairly ironic. But there you have it. He sits up and stretches looks for something to pick the lock on the remaining cuff. He could slip it or magic it open but he’s already consuming all the sex energy back into his core. It’d be a waste now.
“I thought I had you locked up?” Dean says from the edge of the bed. There’s blood everywhere. Not just all over them but on the bed too. Lucky he conned his way in with a few charmed cards and his own charming smile then really. He might not be on the Levis' radar yet but he's trying to keep it that way.
“You did. Now you don’t,” John says mildly. Lock up a magician with standard issue Smith & Wesson handcuffs and what you get is picked cuffs and a free magician. Dean goes to his jacket and tosses him the keys but he’s already got it off by then. Constantine rubs at the bruises on his wrist half-heartedly.
“Heal it,” Dean says refusing to look at him. Fuck. He knew he was pushing it too far.
“No.” Because it's done now.
“What do you mean no?” At least he turns around again for that one.
“I mean it costs energy, mate. Entropy an’ all that. Energy I don’t have. I’m not a fucking demon. Or an angel for that matter. And I’m not killin’ some poor bunny or scraping days off me own life just for your sex games, Winchester. I meant, no.”
“Use mine.”
“What?”
“Use mine. My soul or whatever. I know you can do it.”
John glares at him and means it for once. Because yes he can but it is unnecessarily self-sacrificial nonsense. It’ll already heal quicker than it should thanks to Nergal’s meddling. But then he sees it. A shattered mirror of himself in hazel-green instead of brown. And he understands. He gets it. He doesn’t want to understand it but if anyone can it’s him; and he does.
“Fine,” John says. “Once. And only once.” He holds up a single finger in case the meaning of the word isn’t clear enough.
Dean nods.
“It’ll hurt. A whole sodding lot,” John says. Pretends he doesn’t know that it’s the whole sodding point.
“I know.”
“And I really don’t mind it? Probably won’t even scar – gotta go real deep to scar me, mate.”
“I know!”
“C’mere then,” John sighs.
Dean complies, walks back over to the bed. His chest is still flushed from sex and exertion. Reddened enough that the grace brand on his shoulder is almost visible to the normal eye as a paler area of skin. To John it shows up bright blue and inhuman. He shuffles up onto his knees and puts his hand over it. Places the other over Winchester’s solar plexus. And then he twists reality a little. And pulls. He hears Dean cry out on the other side of here and nowhere. But ignores it. Focuses on the magic. The quicker he does it the better. He can already feel some of the shite that really brought Dean to his door. Too many cold losses and pain that won't heal. He draws off what he needs and pushes back an accidental taste of stinging angelic grace with it. Then he slams the connection shut.
Dean staggers back. He might have slammed a tiny bit too hard. Can’t win ‘em all. John squirms a little as the magic takes hold. He hates this. It itches like blazes.
“Sorry,” John mutters. About the spell. About the angel. About Death being her usual self. About glorious destinies and never bleeding escaping them. Just sorry really.
“It’s fine,” Dean says.
Then he surprises John yet again. He always seems to. By sinking to his knees. It isn’t the seductively graceful slide that comes before one of those truly spectacular blow jobs. It’s more of a partially controlled collapse. He crosses his arms in John’s lap and rests his head on them. And it shouldn’t be a shock but it is. Dean hasn’t been affectionate to him in years. Even before Hell he’d long since put up clear barricades between sex and everything else. They still shagged like bunnies every time John was in the States of course. But it wasn’t the same after the first few time, never like Louisiana again. As soon as he got Sam back the closet doors had slammed back in place. And that had reflected back on his interactions with John too. So, yeah, he’s a bit surprised.
Dean’s probably a little magic high, John realises. The soul drain must have bleed back enough pure magic to affect him. And because the last energy source John touched was sexual it’ll be even more effective. But it won’t last long either. Sex magic is like sex really - intense but ephemeral. So John stays still. Runs a hand through the hunter’s hair in a softer way than he can normally get away with. Even though he’s dying for a fag. And the wounds might be healing (and itching to hell) but he’s still covered in drying blood and spunk. And he didn’t even bother taking enough to heal the bruises too so they’re still aching sweetly every time he moves. He’ll give Winchester a minute. Maybe two. Least he can do really.
“How'd you find us?" Dean asks. Unexpectedly awake and unexpectedly curious. "You haven’t even said why you’re here?”
“I have me ways. And any road, thought you lads needed translations. I did say something 'bout it when I rang. Less 'an three hours ago... Remember?”
“You came all the way to America instead of answering an email?”
“No, you plonker,” John says but he means it affectionately. Probably too affectionately if he’s being honest with himself. “I’m in America to help Jasper try an’ figure out how to add Levi warding to his bolt hole. I’m in Portland because of you. I’ll go to Atlanta tomorrow. Back to Blighty on Tuesday.”
“Oh,” Dean says. It’s muffled in John’s knee so it almost sounds disappointed. “That’s like a 38 hour drive, man.” Because of course even on his first pure magic high Dean Winchester knows how far all major cities are in driving hours.
“Good thing I’m not drivin’ innit.” He’s going to go via Oblivion but he won’t mention that. Between Hell and traces of angelic grace Dean probably qualifies the doors' standards. But John doesn't think Jim would forgive him for that particular introduction.
Dean just glares up at him.
“After that I’ll be gone, as in gone gone, for a while. So you won’t be able to badger me about shite for a bit. Try not to start any more apocalypses while I’m gone, yeah? It’ll only be a month or two maybe. But I’ll be back this way when it’s done.”
“Why? Where are you going?”
“Long story luv. Just a deal with one of the Endless. Won’t take long.” John kind of likes him like this. All malleable and open. But god damn it is he getting uncomfortably sticky. “Come on. Shower.”
“Why the fuck am I high?” Dean says, some accusation making its way into his voice. Suggesting it’s already wearing off. But he still doesn’t move.
“Magic.”
“Fuck.”
“That too.”
John gives another unsuccessful attempt at prizing off his Yankee limpet.
Fuck it. He’s already expended more magic in the last five minutes than he normally would in a month. He focuses, snaps his fingers and levitates the damn smokes over. It’s a much worse habit that the smoking but it’s probably worth it – just this once. He even lights one with Hellfire like some poncey demon. Concentrates on the hot drag of smoke into his lungs. Tries really bloody hard not to think about how good it feels to have someone wound around him like a giant cat. Especially not this particular someone. To quote Winchester: Fuck.