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Charlie Kirk has died, and Dean Withers has found out about it on live. The words could not explain the pain he felt when he learned about it, how he held himself back during the stream to not absolutely lose himself but cried his eyes out anyway. It was unbearable, breathing properly was a luxury for him at that moment, his throat in a Charlie shaped knot preventing him from caring for anything else. Dean hasn't seen anything that upset him more than the news of Charlie's death.
Maybe the reason he was this upset over it was that he never got the chance to tell him how he feels. Charlie was so important in Dean's life, they didn't interact much, especially when they weren't debating, but when they were Dean felt like Charlie was the only thing that mattered in this world. His words would sweep him away, creating a space where only the two of them existed. The adrenaline, the rush, the ego boost Charlie provided was so toxicating and Dean was addicted to that. He kept thinking about their next meet up, how their debate would go, how Charlie would try to push him to the edge as Dean did the same, trying to overpower one another. It would feel so ecstatic that Dean got a boner when they first fought, he chalked it up to the intense situation he was in at first, but no, it was Charlie. No other person made him feel like this and Dean was destined to chase that same high again and again.
He wanted to invite Charlie out for a drink at first, to seek that feeling again. But he decided otherwise later on, knowing that just debating wouldn't be enough for him and as a lightweight he could do something he would regret.
Dean Withers really wanted to fuck Charlie Kirk, to overpower the older man and show how he was in the right, to have him begging under him. He knew this wasn't really an option for the notoriously homophobic Charlie Kirk, he would never consent to Dean fucking him and Dean really didn't want to rape anyone. And the thought of Charlie outing him and using it to push his homophobic agenda was another thing that stopped him. He could not be the faggot who tried to get with Charlie Kirk, the harassment he'd experience, the slurs the everything would be unbearable.
So he shut up, he acted somewhat professional around Charlie and never really crossed that boundary, never asked him out, never even texted him properly after having to exchange numbers.
And now he'll never have the chance to do so ever again.
Dean woke up in the middle of the night with tears running down his face, his breathing uneven under the covers, the heat unbearable with the cloth sticking to his skin with the sweat. He rubbed his face to awaken it, remembering his dream.
His body was pinned against the bed by unseenable forces, his back stuck against the bedframe, unable to move a single inch. The dark consumed every part of his room besides his bed, the atmosphere too thick to live.
His face was forced to look forward, to stare into the dead man. Charlie towered over him, unlike a ghost he had his limbs around Dean almost as if he still wasn't used to being one. His body was almost fully solid, Dean could only see his legs behind Charlie's figure.
Charlie stared dead into his eyes, there was no life behind them, dark browns digging into his skull and making his head hurt. He had a smile on his face that made Dean feel uneasy. It was meant to be comforting, and yet Dean wanted nothing more than to look away.
Then there was the bullet wound.
The red was still pouring out of the fresh hole, leaking down Charlie's neck all the way to his white shirt he was wearing when he died, the wet cloth sticking to his torso. It revealed his skin, showing the shape of his red colored chest that Dean was unable to rip his eyes away from.
“Dean…” Charlie reached out to him, his fingers slowly cupping his face, thumb hovering over his lips. Dean instinctively parted his lips, waiting for Charlie to do something. Charlie's smile became more conniving, he ignored Dean's clear need to kiss and lowered himself.
Dean felt like he was suffocating, his inability to move becoming a torture method. He shed tears, his hands itching to touch Charlie, to cover themselves with blood and kiss him raw even if it meant he would steal Charlie's last breath. He wanted to squeeze his neck to stop the bleeding and to feel him, he wanted to make sure he was alive with him.
And he couldn't.
Charlie traced over Dean's shirt with his fingertips, Dean's breath hitching at the touch. His body started burning and he needed Charlie's touch to cool him down, needing his cool hands all over him so he could be satisfied. Charlie finally made his way to the waist of his sweatpants, slightly lifting up Dean's shirt instead of getting rid of the barrier Dean was desperate for. He got close to Dean's tummy, softly leaving a kiss on his happy trail.
Dean felt the butterflies in his stomach run away into his lungs and clog up his trachea, a pain emanating from his chest that ached his heart. His cock throbbed pitifully in his boxers, needing someone to do something to him, begging Dean to get any part of Charlie around him and Dean knew if his body wasn't paralyzed he'd fuck Charlie's throat raw until he couldn't spew his bullshit anymore.
Charlie answered his prayers by setting his cock free, the long shaft twitching for attention. Neither of them cared how Charlie was bleeding profusely on him, unreal levels of blood already covering both of their bodies and the bed, both men soaked in red.
Dean could only whimper when Charlie rubbed the dick on his face, blood staining everywhere the cock touched and leaving its imprint on the older man's skin. The nudge made Dean's head hazy, he needed more, he needed to fuck into Charlie's mouth and use it like a fleshlight, he needed those tiny lips wrapped around him desperately trying to please, tasting both Dean's precum and his own blood.
Dean thought this could be a sleep paralysis, being unable to grab Charlie's receding hair was a real nightmare for him, especially when the man acted this submissive despite his haunting look, basically begging Dean to take over but deciding to do the work instead because Dean was unable to do so. Like his ghost showing him mercy until leaving forever for good, as if he saw and knew Dean's pain and was trying to comfort him.
Dean was brought back by the noises of blood dripping into the pool of blood on his pelvis. Charlie had moved his head so that his mouth would be closer to the tip, his hand wrapped around Dean's length. Dean could see the way he pulsed between the cold translucent palm, unable to thrust into the ghost's hand and forced to just take, every single second without friction driving him insane.
Charlie gave a coy smile, mocking how desperate Dean looked before giving his cock a pump. Dean responded with a moan coming from his throat, pre leaking from his tip. He wanted to throw his head back, fuck into Charlie's hand as the older man jerked him off, to shun everything out and let himself feel the pleasure. He wished he could close his eyes so that he wouldn't have to see Charlie's blood stained face, or his red cock painted with his fingerprints, forget the wound that was leaking enough blood to fill out an entire pool.
A single drop of blood dripped onto Dean's tip, making the man cry as it exacerbated his need for friction other than Charlie's lazy strokes. And Charlie let out a little chuckle, laughing at the boy whose face was all messed up from crying, blue eyes filled with tears, white skin flushed beautifully with his blonde hair sticking to it. So, Charlie parted his lips, lowering his head down to wrap them around Dean's tip, Dean watching himself descend into Charlie's mouth as the older man tasted his own blood on his cock. Dean was hopefully waiting for Charlie to bob his head…
Fuck…
Dean quickly moved the sheet over him to the side, facing his own raging hard-on (OwO) that was leaking into his boxers. Tears started rolling down his face again, the guilt and need overwhelming him, his grief felt in every part of his bones. His body ached, with longing, with loss, with unfathomable sadness that he never felt before.
Dean gave in and reached for his cock, stroking himself as he sobbed uncontrollably. His red, sweat ridden skin reflected the light of the nightlamp, Dean hunching over to make himself smaller.
Sweat and tears dripped down his nose, joining the noise of him weeping and tugging on his cock, his breath was shaking just like his body, the image of Charlie occupying every part of his brain. He felt disgusting thinking of a man that died just today as he jerked off, that he couldn't seem to forget all that blood while relieving himself, the image of Charlie getting brutally shot playing in his mind over and over again.
Whenever it became too much again, he sped up, using his pre as lube to make things easier.
“Charlie…” he cried out, the spit in his mouth in the consistency of honey, choking his voice. He imagined Charlie beside him, touching him instead, his tall body towering over him to kiss him, fixing his breathing. Oh how he wished that Charlie could take away his breath, that Dean could wrap his arms around his naked body and fuck into him as Charlie reassured him that everything was fine, that he was fine and that he got Dean.
“I love you.” Dean breathed out, his cries becoming uncontrollable and loud. “I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you…” His grip on his cock tightened, fist speeding up. He choked on his own spit, his rhythm uneven as he jerked himself off thinking of Charlie. Dean felt the man beside him, stroking his hair and kissing his cheek as Dean cried, words to comfort the young man.
Dean cried out his name as he came, spreading his seed all over his palm. His tears didn't stop, and neither did the pain in his chest. He curved into a ball as he wept, his tears burning his eyes as his body was consumed with agony. He would never get to see Charlie again, never get to debate or watch him debate, never tell him how he felt and how much he meant to him. The cum in his hand proof of his cowardice as he'd rather jerk off to the dead man than sucking it up and confess.
In the end, nothing changed. He was getting backlash for crying over Charlie, he could've just braced himself and made a move and the outcome would be the same. But at least Charlie would know, maybe he wouldn't even mind or even feel the same way too. Maybe Dean could've learned how his lips felt against his instead of jerking off pathetically imagining it. Maybe he would have the right to grieve then, maybe his nightmare of a wet dream could become acceptable.
Dean spent the whole night thinking about Charlie instead of sleeping, his disgust towards himself for disrespecting him like this, his anger towards Charlie for not being more careful, and the agony of losing the man he pined for keeping him awake.