AN: Sorry.
"I mean, I don't think I look like a little kid. I can't believe that chick said that man, I think she just wanted to make an excuse and-"
"Shut up." Dallas rubs the bridge of his nose as he cuts off Johnny's monologue, words edged with a poison that makes the boy in the passenger seat's words stop and grow as thick as cough syrup on his tongue. The tow-headed boy still couldn't figure out how this kid could be so quiet for so goddamn long, but as soon as one girl rejects him he won't stop talking about how much he had liked her. On and on and on. It was just a fucking broad, a dumb one at that, some red headed girl with a dumb boyfriend. It was a crock of shit.
"Dally, I'm real sorry man, but did I-"
"I said shut the fuck up." The words are repeated this time with more of a snarl, hot and full and making his breath all too visible in the freezing and stale air that filled the borrowed car. No matter how many times he spits out the line though, Johnny keeps on trying to talk, apologize, continue on. Dallas practically moans in frustration. He hated that, he hated how all these damn Okies thought shut up was a warning.
He turns to Johnny, and his blue eyes narrow into slits as the boy tries to stammer out how damn sorry he is. Sometimes Dallas really hated him. Not how he hated everyone else. It made the same feeling in his gut and made bile rise in the back of his throat. But it wasn't the type of hate that made him want to kick rednecks in the face until all their insides poured out. It was the kind of hate where he wanted to jam his face against Johnny's until their skin and muscle melted and they grinded away their teeth to dust and he could only taste the back of the boy's throat and the boy could only tell Dallas how much he liked him. That kind of hate. It made him sick, it made him fucking sick.
And Johnny just wouldn't shut his fucking trap. Blah fucking blah. It all blended into an annoying noise that made Dallas' headache throb and struggle like some dying animal, and he found his hand jammed underneath his seat and feeling up the bottom until he felt the weight of homicide lie heavy in his hands. Fucking perfect. Pulling out the pistol he heard the suction of air that popped firmly as Johnny leaned back against the window, his voice starting up in that kicked dog/terrified animalistic tone that practically made Dallas scream.
"I told you to fuckin' shut up." The blonde loves the look in Johnny's eyes, complete fucking terror. He loves that, loves the control, but in those pupils there's still trust. He hates that. Pressing the gun firmly to the dark haired boy's hard line of a mouth, he leans over the seats, breath smelling like menthol cigarettes. Without warning, he flips off the safety and jams the pistol in between Johnny's perfect lips, chipping teeth and tearing some taste buds away in the process, a smirk twisting across his jagged features and making him look far sinister than normal.
"Gee kid, you better thank your lucky fuckin' stars I like you, or I'd blow your brains out right now." That's a lie, a big lie. He could never hurt Johnny like that, dear sweet precious Johnny, but Johnny sure as hell doesn't know that. And with that thought and a big goofy grin on his face he jams the gun hard against the back of Johnny's throat and forces his head to smack against the window with a sickening crack. The greaser feels tears prick in his eyes and struggles to breath around the metal, and Dallas only finds it more entertaining. Kinda' hot. Sliding the pistol from his mouth for a moment, he sees Johnny relax, relieved. He takes the opportunity to jam it against the back of his throat harder an watches as the sixteen year-old fights for air and tries not to gag. Poor baby, poor sweet baby. The blonde barely thinks about how bad it is he's getting a hard-on but blows it off, and presses the pistol harder and harder down the boy's windpipe, murmuring as he shakes his head, teeth glinting in the light from a streetlamp outside Johnny's window.
"If I tell you to shut the fuck up again, you'll listen to me, right Johnnycake?" He allows the kid enough freedom to nod his head, and he doesn't mind the illusion of the act being dangerous, knowing the gun in hand isn't loaded. It'd never be loaded. He'd never take the risk with Johnny, with any other fucking slut but not Johnny. Never Johnny. Going from a gentle force and back to brutality again, he forces the gun deeper down the kid's throat, tearing the insides of his mouth and roof of the warm little cave. The blood trickled down the back of Johnny's throat, with little bits of flesh, with the taste of metal and bullets and bile. And when Dallas pulls the gun away it all tears him down the middle and a lovely wave of slushie flavoured puke rushes from his swollen lips and across the front of shirt and his lap, blood and soft skin spilled in the mess and getting trapped in weak bubbles.
Johnny chokes and gags over himself, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand as his closest friend watches him with amusement, laughs at him terribly and drops the gun back under the seat. Even when his throat burns and his mouth is numb with blood, he can't help but smile back, laughing softly and leaning in the seat in all his rotten glory.
"Take off your shirt, dipshit." It's said with all the affection in the world. And Johnny doesn't argue even a bit, peeling away the ruined fabric and tossing it in the back seat, and he doesn't mind when Dallas leans back over the seat and crams him back against the window. The dark eyed boy doesn't even do anything but smile when the blonde wraps his hands around his throat and kisses him harder than the gun. And Dallas doesn't mind that his mouth tastes like vomit.