The Sins of the Father
Pairings/Characters: Dean/John (non-con), Dean (27)/Sam (23), Adam (16), Bobby.
Warnings: Hmm…Wincest, swearing, angst, and violence, non-con…Did I get it all? I think so.
Author's Note: This is in a little non-existent angsty bubble of time that never happened, since all four of the Winchester boys were never in the same room together. Sigh.
This is my muse's response to all the schmoop I've been writing – apparently she was willing to put up with the schmoop_bingo but not the kiss_bingo at the same time, so she just threw a shit fit and demanded I write abusive incest. So…I had to. If I didn't she'd never let me write again. :/
In this little non-existent bubble, John took Adam in with the boys before he got eaten and they all hunt together. Anyway, I apologize in advance. Dean is very pretty when he's in pain, though. I blame Kripke and Ackles. On that note, I own nothing. I think if I did I would get arrested for the things I would make the actors do to and with each other. Oh well; maybe I'll get extra lucky this year. (:
Dean had never said anything about it. He didn't mention it to his brothers – his younger brothers, who he was meant to protect and keep safe above all things. John always told him to keep Sam and Adam safe, even though both of them were pretty much full-grown men now. Still, it always fell on him – the eldest by four and eleven years – to make sure Sammy and Adam were always taken care of, whatever the cost.
So Dean never told them.
Of course he didn't. No one burdens their brothers with things like that – like this. No one, especially Dean 'take-the-weight-of-the-world-on-his-shoulders' Winchester, who would die before letting his brothers fall prey to the knowledge of what he'd endured for six years…to keep them safe.
There was a reason John had stuck around with them this long. The man was a genius, in that fucked-up kind of way. By giving Dean an inferiority complex no amount of therapy or even God himself could cure, and keeping his boys under the constant threat of attack and enemy fire, he made sure Dean stayed firmly under his thumb, and Dean couldn't protect his brothers if they were separated from him.
Dean was the oldest by four and eleven years to his two brothers, and he would die – kill – to protect them. Even from something so close to home, even from their father. He could justify to himself doing it, at night when he was alone and his father snored deeply next to him. John wasn't…well, John was damaged. His wife had been killed, and two of his sons served to be reminders of that tragedy every day, and Dean…Dean looked like Mary. John's oldest boy was pretty, prettier than the other two, and even though Sam looked more like her, feature-wise, Dean just had this way about him. And John hated him for it. But John did love his boys, he did, and that's what Dean told himself every time John drew him into their second room, locked the door behind them, and then…well…
He needs closeness, Dean would think to himself, willing the aches and burns of his body to tighten into a small box, and he would push the box away deep inside himself – another layer of emotion no-one was allowed to see. He needs us and we need him. Tit for tat. That's the way the world works.
It wasn't like it was bad. Dean knew that if he didn't step up to the plate, John might turn to Adam or Sam to take his place, and Dean would never let that happen. By keeping his father satisfied, he kept them all safe; the Protector, like he was born and bred to be.
So Dean never told them. He lied when Sam or Adam would find a new bruise that shouldn't have been there; results of a hunt that he might be able to pass off. Once, Sam had walked in on Dean in the second room they rented when Dean was getting dressed, and had seen the slight redness on his thighs that no amount of scrubbing had been able to clear away. When he asked what it was, Dean claimed it was residue that had collected when a werewolf decided his liver would be a good scratching post. Sam let it drop and it was never spoken of again.
He thought he was busted when he and Dad were in the middle of it and Adam had knocked on the door, asking what they'd wanted for lunch. It had taken all of his willpower, acting skills and energy to keep his voice steady as he'd told his littlest brother that they had both eaten earlier when questioning the witnesses, and no – that wasn't the sound of moaning he heard, as John had used the precise moment when Dean began to speak to pound into his oldest son in earnest, spilling into a channel that was torn and bloody, and his come stung Dean's insides.
It would have gone on like that for God knows how long if Sam and Adam hadn't come back from the library early. They knocked on their father's door, and got no answer, but from within came the sound of someone in pain, and so they'd picked at the door and forced it open, thinking that maybe John or Dean had been injured or that something was going on and their family needed help.
Well…something was definitely going on.
The first thing Sam saw was his brother's head, hanging down between arms that were bunched and shaking under the effort of holding up the weight of two bodies. One of Dean's forearms was invisible under a bruise, the exact shape of a hand, and his pendant hung down below his face. His eyes were squeezed tightly shut, full lips bloody and open as he tried to suck in air that would be immediately forced out with a powerful thrust into his spasming body.
The second thing Sam noticed was that the man currently fucking his brother was none other than his father. There was no way his and Adam's entrance hadn't been noticed, but John gave little to no indication of having seen them – he kept up the brutal pace inside Dean's body, thick and bloodied cock withdrawing and pushing back in, punctuated with animal grunts and soft moans of pain from his older brother.
Dean… Sam knew his brother was beautiful, had seen him without his shirt and sometimes with only just a towel and knew that Dean was gorgeous, but seeing him then…Dean's torso was covered in bruises, his back sporting what looked suspiciously like the result of a blow from the butt of a shotgun, creating a long bruise just below his shoulder blade, as well as pressure bruises created by John's caging hold.
Where Dean was gripping the bed sheets, they were stained red – he'd dug his fingernails into his palms, drawing blood in an effort to keep his cries of pain in. His head turned into one of his arms, muffling his cries against a bicep, and Sam was pretty certain he kept his head down when they'd busted in the door, unable to look at his brothers out of shame. He moaned brokenly when John thrust into his dry channel particularly hard, the bastard probably getting off on Sam and Adam watching him fuck Dean.
"Oh, hello boys," Dean heard his father's voice, seemingly light-hearted and like he wasn't committing incestuous rape. "Come to enjoy the show?" Dean felt a hand run up his spine and managed to whimper out a broken 'No', to no avail, as John curled his fingers under the leather thong keeping Dean's pendant around his neck, pulling back so Dean was forced to move his head up or risk choking or suffocating. His horrified eyes met Sam and Adam's, and he tried to look away, to hide his face, but John's hold kept him still. "Your brother makes a lovely little whore, dontcha, Dean?" And John leaned forward, and Dean could feel him along his spine – he shuddered, closed his eyes and turned his head away when John's breath skated past his ear and neck.
John chuckled, and the sound was oily. "Don't be shy now, Dean. Come on…"
"You don't get to answer back, Dean," John growled, giving another pull at the pendant until Dean felt the cold metal spikes dig into his Adam's apple, making breathing more difficult. He gasped for air and arched back into his father, the pressure letting up around his throat as he did so and John 'rewarded' him with a kiss to his now-reddened neck.
That seemed to snap Sam and Adam out of whatever daze they'd slipped into, and immediately Sam stepped forward, presumably to put a stop to the scene, but was stopped when John slammed hard again into his big brother, making Dean whine, and his head fell forward again when John let go, instead digging his fingernails into Dean's flank, where a particularly large and painful-looking bruise lay. That brought Sam to a halt.
"You bastard," he growled, fists and jaw clenching in frustration, at a loss of what to do. The most obvious option seemed to be the only one he couldn't bring himself to do – just like Dean had known; his brothers were ashamed of him now that they knew he played Daddy's whore.
"Oh come, come now, Sammy, let's not throw names around," John said, grinning like a madman as he slowed his movement inside of Dean, and the eldest son whimpered to himself, hanging his head and just willing John into orgasm; Don't let this torture continue. "After all, it is your fault Dean's in this position, isn't that right, beautiful?" Dean shuddered when John's hand stroked through the sweat-dampened hair at the back of his head. "It could be you here, Sammy, or little Adam. Dean's taking the fall for you. If you want your turn next, I'm almost done."
"You son of a bitch!"
"You won't regret it, Sammy," John said, slamming his hips one more time against Dean's, his breathing loud as he blew his load into his eldest son, and Dean's channel clenched deliciously at the painful burn. He rocked into Dean a couple of times, milking his orgasm for all it was worth before pulling out his flaccid, bloodied cock – a sight that made Sam and Adam blanch – and stretched his arms over his head. "Boy really knows what to do with a cock in his ass, or his mouth."
"I'm gonna fucking kill you," Adam said, speaking up for the first time as he stepped forward, pose mirroring Sam's and glaring at their father – Adam had no love lost for John, but he liked and respected Dean and Sam. They were the brothers he'd never had and he loved them like family. To see one of them so helpless and at their father's mercy – the man they were meant to trust above all else – just screamed of wrong and it made him angry; Dean wasn't meant to be the victim, damn it.
"I'd like to see you try," John replied, and smiled when both his younger sons simply glared at him, knowing that without him they wouldn't really be able to survive – John had made sure to keep them dependant on him and Dean, and Dean wouldn't go anywhere without a serious attitude adjustment on his competence. "Well boys, I'm having a shower then I'll go get us something to eat," he said, like he hadn't just been caught raping his oldest son, who was still silent and stone-still on the bed, on all fours, deliberately ignoring the three of them. "Clean him up, would you? And close the damned door behind you – don't need the maids seeing."
Adam kept up the glaring at his father, but Sam immediately sprang into action, heading over to Dean. He carefully pulled up the stained sheets around his brother, pulling Dean unceremoniously to his feet. Dean stumbled but kept upright, leaning on Sam when his knees gave out and he had to be carried, arm over Sam's stupidly high shoulder, to their other room.
They set him down carefully on Adam's bed, treating him like fine china. Dean didn't move, didn't even acknowledge them, just kept his head down as they watched him warily – Adam in one of the chairs by the window, Sam on the edge of his bed, staring at Dean like they were expecting him to just explain himself. When their eldest brother said nothing, Sam finally sighed and stood again.
"Let's get you cleaned up, 'kay, Dean?" he said, placing a hand on Dean's shoulder, speaking like one would to a wounded or frightened animal, afraid that it would suddenly spring claws and attack. Dean certainly felt like he could – he withdrew deep inside himself when he was with John and now, coming out of it, he didn't quite get the sense that he was out of the woods yet. His body tensed, pain flaring up his back and between his legs as he did so, but he ignored the pain in an attempt to zero in on the assumed attacker.
His father taking advantage of him was one thing – Dean wouldn't let a stranger get the better of him.
Adam murmured a low warning of 'Sam' right before Dean was up and on him. He slammed Sam into a wall, turning him around so they were back to chest, his arm twisted high up behind his back, ready to dislocate his shoulder at the slightest increase in pressure. The sheet fell from around his body, exposing his back to Adam who gasped at the sight – he hadn't been able to get a good look at his brother's injuries, but now he could, from the hand-shaped bruises on his shoulders, to the ring of red around his neck to the trails of blood and come drying on his thighs. Dean looked like the victim of a gang rape and lynching. He looked like he was too hurt to be able to even be standing on his own, let alone get the jump on his little brother.
Dean's body was a line of heat against Sam's back, burning fever-like – too warm to be healthy. He felt his older brother relax as Dean's head cleared, letting him recognize his brother for who he was. "Don't. Touch. Me," he growled into Sam's ear, jerking up once with his hand before he let Sam's arm go and stepped back; a warning this time. Sam turned around and looked at Dean, silently rubbing his shoulder, but Dean couldn't face either of them; he picked up the soiled bed sheet and slung it around his shoulders, heading to the bathroom. Neither Sam nor Adam tried to stop him.
He didn't come out for another hour and a half. Almost fifty minutes of that time, the water hadn't been running. Dean stared at himself in the mirror, wondering if he looked different now that his brothers knew – now that his shame was out there for them both to see. Now they knew…they knew almost everything. Did they care? Would they look at him any differently?
Of course they will. You're a whore.
It's not like that.
It is to them.
Dean sighed, scrubbing a blood-crusted and nail-marked hand through his hair, and stopped when he saw the bruise on his forearm John had left, caused when Dean had tried to resist him – "Just this once, Dad, Adam and Sam could be back any time soon." – and ended up slammed into the ground for his trouble, landing awkwardly on his shoulder while John gripped his forearm hard behind his body.
He'd been taken dry for his disobedience.
It's all you're good for, Dean, he growled to himself, that voice sounding exactly like his father's; you're a convenient hole and a willing fuck, and you're a passable brother and a shit son. Only good for one thing, boys like you, and ain't that the truth.
When Dean had finally gotten into the shower, he'd spent all the time trying to scrub himself clean. It didn't work – the harder he scrubbed and tore at his skin, trying to get his father's marks off of him, the more red showed up, the more blood to remind him of what an abject failure he was, of how much he didn't fucking deserve it – any of it. It wasn't his fault his mom had died. It wasn't his fault his father was an obsessed, twisted bastard. None of it was his fault. He didn't deserve it.
But he did at the same time, because he can never do anything right. If he'd locked that door better, put more than just the flimsy, easily-picked bolt on, had attached the chain too, Sam and Adam would have never found out.
John must know he wanted to be caught, wanted it to end. It'll be worse for him next time.
By the time he was done he was red all over, new scabs healing over old ones, and the towel was pink already as he tried to dry off. His skin was too sensitive to do more than just sit on the edge of the sink and let himself air-dry, every brush of air against his skin feeling like iron wool and jagged glass. He shivered, his body temperature dangerously low, and at the same time he was aware he was sweating – infected. Fantastic, now he was becoming a burden, a liability. If this didn't get him thrown out on his ass he didn't know what would.
The shower had been over for twenty minutes before Sam's tentative knock came. "Dean? You okay in there?"
"I'm fine, Sam. Leave me alone."
And of course that was the completely wrong thing to say, because that was all the incentive Sam needed to open the door and step into his personal space – because of course, if Dean said nothing was wrong then everything was wrong. Dean wondered briefly how Sam'd react if he well and truly broke down in front of his little brother – guy would probably just sit there with a stupid gormless look on his face, mutter some Hallmark sentiment and offer him some pie.
Dean blinked back into awareness, suddenly uncomfortably aware of how close Sam was to him now, and also to find that his little brother had gone ahead and started touching him even though Dean had almost broken his arm as a deterrent. The back of his hand was pressed against Dean's forehead, a frown darkening his eyes.
"You're burning up," he said under his breath. "May be an infection. Come on, let's get you changed and rested."
"I'm not a kid, Sam, you don't need to mother me," Dean growled, and ignored the flash of pain in both Sam and Adam's eyes. Why were they feeling pain for him? They should be ashamed – only a weak man would let himself get into such a situation as Dean was. Only a pathetic, poor excuse for a human being would let himself be violated because he was too incompetent to take care of his little brothers.
Soon Adam would be old enough to leave them. Sam already was. It wouldn't be long until Dean had outlived his usefulness and be cast aside like the stray piece of crap that he was.
"Just humor us, Dean, please?" Adam begged, taking Dean's hand and pulling him from the bathroom into the brothers' bedroom. The room smelled clean and like the boys, a scent Dean found strangely comforting – it was nice not to constantly have the scent of blood, semen and gunpowder in your nose. Like a breath of fresh air to a miner, Dean inhaled deeply, eyes falling closed as he let Adam guide him to his bed – the furthest one from the door – and sat him down, pulling a sheet up to cover his lower half. "I'll go to the store and get some antibiotics and alcohol." Dean didn't open his eyes, but knew from the noise Adam was talking to Sam, shuffling around the room as he gathered his jacket and keys, heading for the door. When he heard the door open and close he sighed, lying back against the pillows, opening his eyes and staring up at the ceiling. Sam's shadow hovered around the edge of his vision.
"Go on," he muttered, rubbing his forehead with his fingers, "let me have it."
There was a dip in the mattress when Sam sat down. "Let you have what?"
"Come on, Sammy," Dean said, voice thick with sarcasm and repressed pain as he gestured vaguely above himself. "Let me have it. 'You're a weak, pathetic excuse for a human, Dean'; 'I can't believe you would stoop so low, Dean', 'Why the hell are you fucking our father, Dean?' I know you're thinking it, so just come out and say it so that we can be done with this."
"Is that what you think about yourself? That you're weak, and pathetic?" Sam asked, suddenly leaning over Dean, and this position was too familiar, too recent and raw and Dean pushed him away, sitting up suddenly. He ignored the dizzy feeling he was rewarded with for such a swift movement. "Is that what that son of a bitch's been telling you?"
Dean didn't get it; "What do you want from me?" he demanded, turning on his brother, who still had the audacity to look confused – bastard was toying with him, probably Adam too. John had gotten to his baby brothers and they were all playing one giant joke on him now. Well ha-dee-fucking-ha-ha. "Fucking playin' with me now, Sammy? Gonna tell me I'm above all this, and I don't deserve what I'm getting, and then just gonna bend me over and fuck me anyway. That's what you want, isn't it? Seeing John get a taste of what you can't have, well," he threw his arms out to the sides, glaring at his stunned younger brother, "I'm all yours Sammy, so get it fucking over with."
There was a moment of nothingness; both brothers staring each other down, one defiant, the other wary, and each willing the other to break first, to throw down the walls and just understand what was going on, since it was clear that neither of them had a clue.
Sam reached out, and Dean had just enough presence of mind to notice that his hand was shaking before it landed on the side of his face, stopping him turning his head away before he even thought to do so. Sam flinched when Dean visibly shut down, accepting whatever Sam was about to do to him, bracing himself for the blows, and again Sam felt a surge of hate for that monster that lay in the next room. He'd never even known…He wouldn't have known had he and Adam not come back early.
To think…How long had this been going on? Obviously for a while and you'd think you'd notice shit like that, but looking back Sam hadn't seen a single this amiss with his father and brother – they were professional, casual on a hunt. Dean never flinched from John's touch, and always obeyed orders, and would pull John out of danger if it was a choice between his life or John's. Given the chance, Dean would sacrifice himself readily for his father, and Sam would never have known.
Dean was a better actor than Sam gave him credit for.
He brushed a thumb over Dean's cheekbone, and wondered how much of this, right now, was acting. How much Dean was forcing himself to not act out and try and get away? Even as he watched Dean tilted his head towards his palm, rubbing his lips against the soft underside of Sam's wrist, eyes fluttering open to half-mast and giving him a 'come hither' look that would put prostitutes to shame. The rough of Dean's tongue made contact with his skin and Sam shivered, fingers curling a little at the ends to dig into Dean's skull and the tender, fragile skin at the side of his neck, underneath his ear. Dean moaned as Sam's pinky dug into a pressure point on his neck, and it had to hurt, and Sam knew Dean was acting, then.
"Enough," he said, but didn't let go. In fact, he leaned closer, pulling Dean towards him until they were hardly an inch apart from each other. Sam could feel Dean's heartbeat, fast in his chest and the pulse was strong under his finger, and he wondered how much of that was caused by fear. Dean didn't get scared. Of anything. He was impenetrable. "Enough of this, Dean." His big brother's exhale was shaky and rough, warm against Sam's lips and jaw as Dean looked down, ashamed of himself, but he didn't quite understand. It's all he was good for, right? – A good fuck? Maybe Sam didn't even want him for that. God, he was useless.
"Don't you want me?" he murmured, voice low and purposely fucked-out, like someone had already been at his throat and, given the recent discovery, probably had. He grabbed onto Sam's hair, fingers lacing through it quickly to stop his little brother pulling away. "I'll make it good for you, Sammy," he said, begging almost, voice frantic. "I'm good, I am. He wasn't lying, you know. It'll be so, so good; just don't toss me away. Please, Sammy, please, I'm good, real good, and -."
"God, shut up, Dean, just shut up," Sam pleaded with his older brother, tears forming in his eyes at how positively wrecked and broken Dean sounded, astonished that John had managed to take this proud, beautiful man and had just fractured him. He pushed Dean away, but Dean kept his grip so it meant Sam had to follow him down, and he ended up on his hands and knees over his brother. Immediately Dean took advantage, spreading his legs so Sam could fall between them and keeping him there with a tight, strong grip. Sam froze. "Dean…let me go…"
"What do you want me to do, Sammy?" Dean asked, the stubble on his jaw rasping against Sam's as he moved his head to growl the words in Sam's ear – though even that drawl was desperate and agonized. "I can do anything you want, anything. I just want to make you happy, Sam. You and Adam and Dad, and it'll be fine. You'll never want for anything with me here." He pet through Sam's hair, biting lightly at his little brother's Adam's apple, and it bobbed as Sam swallowed. "I'll keep you safe, Sammy, I promise, whatever it takes. You and Adam, I promise."
"For fuck's sake, Dean, stop talking," Sam growled, and his hand clapped itself over Dean's mouth. He was breathing hard, shaking and he felt himself shaking, knew his body was being affected by Dean's proximity – hell, you'd have to be an eunuch not to desire Dean – he was pretty, and sexy and there was just something about him…maybe the set of his strong jaw or the brightness in his eyes, the play of light and shade across his face or the strong pulse thrumming in his neck…The rock hard body Sam could now feel every line of and the feminine curve of his full, soft lips, that were currently hidden under Sam's palm. Sam watched, enthralled and a little afraid as Dean's eyes fluttered closed, his eyelashes long, thick and black against his cheekbones, and Sam felt his brother's tongue flick against his fingers, whether as a deterrent or encouragement he wasn't sure yet.
Dean felt wetness on his cheeks, and opened his eyes to see Sam crying above him. He frowned; why was Sam crying? Wasn't he getting what he wanted? He reached up, but Sam stopped him, locking both his wrists above his head. Dean sighed and smiled slightly; this was more like it. He arched up into his little brother; head thrown back against the pillows, throat bared and damn, okay, this was not playing fair. Sam could feel his mouth watering as he watched his brother, so desperate for it, so willing…
Damn it, he shook himself out of his thoughts; this is your brother, man. Fucking pervert.
But…their father had…
No, damn it. Fucking no. Sam pushed himself away, flushed and panting and pointedly trying to ignore the tightness in his jeans, the way his body tried to pull itself back to Dean's side like a compass to North, and he turned away from one brother in time to see another come through the door.
Adam's white shirt was stained with blood. It was even, uniform, starting from his heart like he'd stabbed a guy and held him close while he bled out. His hands and forearms were coated with it, and there was a little spatter on his chin and neck, which matched the dangerous and satisfied spark in his grey-green eyes. It wasn't enough to cover the shake of his hands, though, or the unconscious clenching of his fist around the handle of the bloody knife he carried, and the red on his shirt just made his skin look even paler.
"Adam, what -?" Adam snorted; like you need to ask.
The youngest Winchester looked down at the bloody knife, as though surprised it was still there and hadn't disappeared to some alternate dimension after the deed was gone. He held it in front of his chest, running his forefinger across the serrated edge, where little bits of John's flesh and blood still stuck – the flesh and blood he shared with that monster.
His eyes flashed back to Sam. "I didn't want him coming after us," he said, sounding so young, so lost, and Sam took a step closer before he stopped, torn between comforting his older brother and his younger. "I just…" Adam's hands and shoulders quivered, tears in his voice, "I couldn't let the bastard live, after what he did to Dean…"
And Sam understood. His only regret was not being there himself to watch the son of a bitch choke on his own blood. He could only hope Adam had made it painful.
"How's he doin'?" Adam asked, voice hushed, eyes silently grateful at the accepting glance he received from Sam as he shut the door behind him quickly, before his eyes flickered over to Dean, then back to Sam.
Sam…couldn't answer. Dean was messed up. Mentally and physically, and Sam had no idea how to pull him back from it. He found himself thinking bitterly that this would be a situation where he'd have called for John's help.
Well, it was time to step up. "He's not doing well. We'll get some rest, then pack up and move out. We'll head to Bobby's while Dean rests up, and make sure there's no trail to follow. Lie under the radar; make sure no one's got our scent before we move on again. That's all I can think to do right now." He looked from the floor to his younger brother, seeing Adam nod, jaw set, and eyes hard. Hell, they would be after killing a man. Sam turned around, expecting to see Dean watching them, but he was pleasantly surprised to find his older brother curled in on himself in sleep, one arm under the pillow where Adam kept his favorite hunting knife, the other wrapped around his torso. He was shivering and Sam knew his infection would be setting in – they needed to get him meds.
"Did you manage to grab some antibiotics?" he asked, going over to Dean to pile more blankets on him, content to let him sweat out the fever if nothing else.
Adam hesitated. "I grabbed our First Aid Kit from…" the 'His Room' went unsaid, "And there should be some stuff we can use in there."
"Alright, can you get it for me?"
Dean slept for three hours after Sam coaxed him awake long enough to swallow some pills, and then he was out. John had really worn him down and Dean was exhausted – it was clear in the darkness underneath his eyes and the paleness of his skin. His forehead had his hair stuck to it from sweat, his body red and burning underneath the sheets and Sam and Adam did as little as they could to disturb him as they packed up their things, from both their room and John's. Sam deliberately ignored the scent of blood coming from the still-running shower, and how the water was stained red, and the tile was soaked and flooding with the rising pool. The water would wash away any DNA evidence of Adam or Dean, and Sam praised his younger brother silently on his cleverness. They tossed the soiled sheets in the water too and packed up all the weapons, loading them in duffle bags and put those in the trunk of the Impala. Sam had had to search through the clothes on John's body to find the keys, and he took a silent satisfaction in the knife hole that marked John's torso, stretching from his navel to his sternum. A clean cut and a savage one, angled upwards to pierce his heart. Adam deserved a treat for that.
Sam would let him pick breakfast when they were on the road.
By the time the Impala was loaded Sam was getting antsy, ready to head out and put some miles between them and the monster they'd called 'Father'. There was a heavy tension lying in the room, where Adam didn't ask about Sam's flushed face and heavy breathing, and the half-heard begging of Dean before he'd come in the room, and Sam didn't talk at all either. Dean muttered and tossed and thrashed in his sleep, in the throes of nightmares and delirium from the fever, which broke just before he woke up. Sam was relieved, as was Adam, and when the alarm clock on their bedsides table told them it was eight at night, they shook Dean awake.
They gave him clean clothes and let him shower, and then they were off. Dean, for once, let someone other than John drive his baby – Sam, in fact, as Adam sat in shotgun and Dean sprawled out along the back, taking reassurance from the low rumble of his girl, the thrum and heat of her under his body and the strong, loving hold of her metallic skeleton. He let himself relax around the scent of his brothers – who didn't smell like blood and gunpowder and semen – and the smell of his car; leather and warmth and engine fluid, gasoline and the slurry of the fields they passed by and the open, fresh wind coming through their windows, and the cool breeze that drifted through from the small crack in the front door where it didn't quite shut right and let in air. Dean let himself relax and drift, comforted by the somehow instinctual knowledge – for how could he know? – that he was safe, now, and out of the woods, and that it would be okay.
They drove non-stop, halting for neither food nor rest, and only stopping once for gas before they reached Bobby's. It was nearing two in the morning but the lights were still on, as though Bobby had been expecting them. Maybe he has, Dean had the presence of mind to think, but it truth his thoughts were still hazy from pain and trauma and the drugs they'd given him for both, running on too little sleep and too little food and too much strain on his body.
He let himself fall asleep as soon as the engine cut off, dozing peacefully as he listened to his brothers' voices and the rough, older tone that managed to be at once patronizing and paternal, friendly and exasperated as only a role model could be. Dean may have walked into the house, but he can't remember. He just remembered feeling warm and solid – but it wasn't him; someone else, supporting him – and the vague sensation of ascending stairs, and he fell asleep on an old, newly made bed. And the warm solidness didn't leave him throughout the night.
Dean woke with the dead weight of a sleeping arm around his waist and a muscular chest against his back, and for one terrifying moment he thought it had all been a dream, and he was still stuck in the hell of his life.
But no…this chest was different. It was more muscle than fat – there was no gut pressing into his lower back – and Dean couldn't feel any hair on it. It wasn't John's. The body behind his was too long to be his father, and the soft snores weren't the deep bass rumbles of the man he'd been sharing a bed with for what seemed like forever. No…this wasn't John.
So who, then?
The man stirred behind him, and yes, it was definitely a man. Dean could tell by the hard length of flesh that had buried itself between his legs, skin against denim against skin and covering nothing. The arm around his waist tightened, manhandling him with ease and pulling him back more tightly against that strong chest – stopping Dean from escaping before he realized he'd just lost the opportunity to.
Dean sighed, eyes closing as he rested. It was the same…different man, different name, same job. You don't change what you do just because you get a new boss, right? Right. So Dean could keep doing his job, and maybe he'd be allowed to stick around.
He turned within the circle of those arms, coming face to face with his little brother, Sam. Of course – Sam was always the most like John, anyway, regardless of what he'd have Dean think. At the back of his mind, he was sad to find his little brother, who he'd fought so hard to keep safe and pure, would step up into the position of his absent master, but Dean wasn't one to question orders.
"Always a good little soldier, aren't you, Dean?"
He started slow – Sam would want to be awake for the main event. He pressed a light, open-mouthed kiss to Sam's collarbone, dragging his lips along the skin until he found the dip of Sam's throat, accentuated by his brother's position. Sam stirred slightly, a smile gracing his lips but he didn't wake, and Dean quietly beamed to himself at the thought of bringing Sam happiness and pleasure even as he slept.
Sam's arm was strong, pinning one of Dean's arms underneath him, but with the other he stroked down Sam's flank, ignoring when the action caused Sam to involuntarily dig his fingernails into the bruise on Dean's side, making him arch and hiss for a moment – fuck, that one hurt. Could be internal injuries…he'd have to get it checked out later, if at all.
Dean's hand found Sam's morning wood, encased in denim, and he dipped his hand underneath the hem of Sam's shirt, stroking the smooth, overly warm skin gently, back and forth, pressing and teasing and light as a feather until Sam was thrusting into his hand in reflex, trying to get closer, to get deeper. Dean smiled; "Soon, Sammy, anything, I promise." He pulled his little brother against him, lips brushing and giving way to teeth which Dean sank eagerly into the skin of his little brother's neck. Sam jerked awake with a startled cry, trying to roll away from Dean and Dean took the advantage immediately, moving with Sam so that he straddled his younger brother, hips perfectly sitting on Sam's so Sam's hard cock rode the valley of Dean's ass.
"Mm…good morning, little brother," Dean murmured, his voice nearing a purr as he spoke against Sam's jaw, one hand supporting his weight, splayed next to Sam's head, and his hips bucked a little, sending friction rolling through the both of them. Sam shuddered beneath him and his hands flew to Dean's hips, and did nothing. Dean took that as encouragement and rocked his hips again, liking that Sam chose to ignore his own lack of desire – it made it easier that way; no obligations except to make the other person enjoy themselves. "Wanna suck you off, Sammy," he growled into his little brother's ear, smirking when Sam groaned audibly at the notion. "Wanna feel you fuck my throat and finally get to taste you. Can I do that, Sammy?" Another rock of his hips, another clenching of Sam's fingers, and he was lost, owned by Dean completely. "Hmm?" He nipped at Sam's jaw again. "Can I? Please?"
"God, Dean," Sam growled, eyes wide as he stared up at his older brother. Dean's face was expressionless – a blank canvass to take on whatever was desired of him – but there was a passion burning in his eyes; desperate, needy. Dean needed this. Sam curled his hand around the back of Dean's neck and pulled him down, their lips clashing together as Sam desperately tried to shut out the sound of his brother's agonized begging.
His lips were soft and full with the perfect amount of give, parting willingly for Sam to take control of the kiss. But Sam hesitated, right on the border between giving in because he wanted to and because Dean needed him to, and pulling away to try and help Dean. Surely there were others awake in the house right now, and they'd have to go downstairs to start telling Bobby what had happened.
Dean smiled against Sam's mouth, sure that his brother was playing hard to get to make him work harder, make Sam feel like he wanted it. He could play that. He dove into Sam's mouth, drawing his little brother's tongue out to play, one hand framed around under Sam's ear, thumb caressing his jaw and pressing in slightly to keep Sam's mouth open, like milking a snake. He moaned at the taste of his little brother – because regardless, it was good – licking at the roof of Sam's mouth lightly before he bit down on Sam's bottom lip and pulled back, just enough to stretch it and made it red.
His little brother practically whined against his mouth, suddenly feral when he began to join in the kiss, taking from Dean like he had every right to, like Dean was his and he was born to kiss Sam, had been made for the precise purpose of pleasing him. Dean smiled at the victory, knowing he wouldn't be thrown out any time soon if things kept going this well.
They're so alike, Dean thought to himself, feeling large strong hands claw at his lower back and the back of his head, and feeling John in that touch just as much as Sam. Learning what Sam liked, Dean drew away from the kiss, dipping his non-supporting hand down under Sam's shirt and pushing it up to give him a clear patch of skin to work with as he slid down Sam's body so he was straddling Sam's legs. His little brother's muscles were twitching wherever he touched and licked at, biting a bruise onto Sam's abs and the jut of his hipbone, just visible above his jeans.
The zip was easy to open, keeping his fingers busy while Dean laved at the skin just below Sam's navel, enjoying the way his brother kept letting out little gasps and moans – pleased that Sam was enjoying himself so much.
Sam did look awfully pretty like that; head thrown back, hair flared around him like a halo, cheeks, neck and chest flushed from arousal and his hands gripping at nothing, trying to find purchase and not quite succeeding. He was too scared to touch Dean, afraid that he would either shatter his brother, or encourage him, and he didn't – so, so did – want to do either.
Dean pushed Sam's jeans down over his hips without ceremony, ignoring the startled gasp when Sam's cock hit cool air – commando, of course. Trust a Winchester to always be prepared. Sam was huge – bigger than John – and for a brief moment Dean panicked, fearing he wouldn't be able to take all of Sam in, which would get him tossed out for being unsatisfactory.
Fuck, he had to do this. He had to.
His lips formed a tight seal around the head of Sam's cock as he began to suck like his life depended on it – it did depend on it. Sam groaned loudly, finally finding a place for one of his hands at the back of Dean's head, a mixture between cradling it and forcing it down. Dean obliged, the part he hadn't reached with his mouth quite yet being taken care of with a tight grip that tightened on the upstroke as he sank down further onto his little brother's cock, trying to open his throat up as much as possible so he could take Sam in. Sam was trembling underneath him, desire and guilt warring in him at making – letting – Dean do this, but it felt so fucking good. Dean really did know what to do with a cock in his mouth.
Dean tongued the slit on every rise, his thumb brushing along the sensitive bundle of nerves just below the head before sinking back down again, taking a little more of Sam each time. Sam jerked slightly when he hit the back of Dean's throat, overwhelmed by the amount of warm wetness surrounding his cock, and the action made Dean gag, just slightly, but he didn't pull his head away. He just kept it there, letting the muscle spasms work to his advantage to tighten his throat around Sam, and that was just insane.
By the time Dean managed to work his mouth two thirds down Sam's shaft, Sam was ready to explode. Dean's gaze met his, green eyes meeting lust-blown hazel and Dean smiled, lips stretching obscenely around the thick shaft in his mouth, before beginning to suck again in earnest, humming and moaning around Sam's cock like a goddamned porn star, trying to get his little brother off.
"Dean…Fuck…" It was the first thing Sam had said since Dean had offered – begged – to suck Sam off, and the words seemed to take them both by surprise. Sam was practically unable to stop himself as he grabbed hold of Dean's head with both hands, keeping him still, and his hips began to rise and fall in a steady rhythm as he fucked into Dean's mouth now, trying to get himself off and end this delicious-agonizing experience.
And Dean took it. He opened up his throat like a pro and just took it, letting Sam go as deeply as he wanted, as he could, regardless of whether it made Dean choke or not. The corners of his eyes were tearing up and his breathing was heavy through his nose, but Dean was pliant as Sam fucked into his mouth, right up to the point where Sam held still, coming with a shout, and Dean swallowed down every drop.
His orgasm seemed to last forever, Dean swallowing around him like his come was air and he'd been suffocating without it, before his hips fell back onto the bed and he gasped, loudly, shaking from the high. When he let go of Dean's head his brother didn't move, merely kept sucking and licking at the skin around his groin, nuzzling into the oversensitive spots, making Sam's cock twitch valiantly in an attempt to raise again. Sam felt a vague disappointment and realized that he'd expected Dean to push away from him – for the old Dean to come back – and call him a sick fuck, maybe berate him or hit him or something, and not kiss and lick at his skin like fucking his mouth was a fucking reward. It broke Sam's heart how satisfied Dean's small smile was.
"Come here, Dean," he said – more like ordered, but he didn't want to think about that right now – and his older brother willingly obeyed, covering Sam with his body like a second blanket as their noses brushed together. Sam moved to kiss Dean, to touch him, but Dean shied away from it, letting Sam's lips fall on his neck instead, on the racing pulse beneath his skin.
"Dad never kissed me," he heard Dean rasp into his ear, voice so low and throaty that Sam shuddered, hands gently stroking around Dean's spine, careful in case he came across another bruise and inadvertently hurt Dean. Before he could respond Dean rested his hand on Sam's chest, finger splayed over his heart which was beginning to slow after his orgasm, and Sam felt his older brother's warm breath in his hair where Dean kissed his temple. "I'm not broken, Sammy, not used. I'm still just as good."
The words broke Sam's heart.
"You'll see," Dean asserted, nuzzling into Sam's sweat-dampened hair before he drew back so Sam could see his smile. "Come on, Adam and Bobby are probably waiting for us downstairs."
Sam wondered how much of this reality Dean was grasping. How much of this was still just an act. But when Dean pushed himself up from the bed and headed to the bathroom, the sound of running water just audible behind the closed – but not locked – door, Sam realized it. The revelation almost knocked the wind out of him, making him gasp and hold his head in his hands, realizing what he'd just done.
…He'd replaced John.