#casjack

HOW DOES THIS WORK? Leave a prompt, claim a prompt, fill a prompt. Prompt submissions are now open! Fills will be accepted through January 15th. Make sure to link/cross-post to tumblr so we can reblog and save your creations for posterity!

WHICH DADS AND WHICH FUCKERS? John Winchester is the daddiest and most fuckable of all dads, but other eligible dads include Chuck, Cain, Crowley, Castiel, Sam, Dean, etc. Any dadfucker is allowed as long as the dad they’re fucking is their dad, or they’re otherwise fucking some other dad in a dadfucking way.

HOW LONG SHOULD MY PROMPT BE? A prompt can be as long and detailed or as abstract as you want. You can request a “vibe” in a couple of words, or you can specify a pairing and an act and a line of dialogue; the prompt tagging feature is your friend!

HOW LONG SHOULD MY FILL BE? Your fill has to be zero words long! Art and gifsets and edits and mixtapes are most welcome! If you do want to write fic, however, a minimum of 500 words is probably a safe place to start.

HOW MUCH DADFUCKING? We’re here to celebrate dadfucking, obviously, but sometimes just a little hint of dadfucking is enough. This is to say, we’ll gladly take all ratings as long as the work can be reasonably tagged with a slash (“/”).

MUST MY PROMPT/FILL BE HOLIDAY-THEMED? No. The holiday is the dadfucking we jerk off to along the way.

I WANT TO MAKE SOMETHING THAT NO ONE HAS PROMPTED. Send in the prompt yourself! Prompts are anonymous! Otherwise you can just mention @dadfuckerfest on your lovely creation and we’ll go from there. And don't forget to add it manually to the AO3 collection!

It's Kelly he sees first. She's still pregnant, and she's standing in the surf, ankle deep in seawater and smiling when she glances back to where he stands at the edge of the beach. Behind him, a path leads back toward a cabin called home, at least for now. He doesn't look back.

He has the feeling as he looks at Kelly, as the wet sand shifts under his feet, and sweet scent of pine and stone and cold air surrounds him, that he could linger in this moment if he wanted. But something compels him forward. Beckons him, almost, like something greater is waiting just out of reach. Something that will make him understand that the nephilim's continued existence will be a blessing.

He lifts. Scatters from his body like ocean spray. Settles into himself again in some other time. Some other place.

A field. Waist high grass rustles against his coat and tickles his fingers as he's warmed through by the high sun, and he hears the pounding of feet moments before Sam appears. He's running, but not fearful. Not exercising. He's playing, Castiel realizes. Chasing someone or something, but only for the joy of it.

It's a pleasing sight, but it's not the thing that's truly calling him, so he leaves it behind. Floats up and out on the summery breeze until he's drawn somewhere else, clicking into place like it's precisely where he's supposed to be, and oh...

This is it. This is the future that he's been hurtling towards.

The first thing he knows is a swelling warmth, throbbing tension low in his gut, in the hard length between his thighs, enveloped by wet heat. Sensation slams into him, arousal so strong that he's certain his future self has been in this moment a long time already. He's envious at first. Wants to find some way to extract himself and go back to the beginning so he doesn't miss anything. But then the heat undulates, ripples around him, and he truly takes in his surroundings, and he knows he couldn't pull himself away from this if his life depended on it, even for a moment.

He's in the bunker, or somewhere like it. Heavy concrete walls and dim lighting and a hard, unforgiving floor, and Dean is there, leaning into his space, close but not close enough to be the source of the sensations. He's naked. Flushed and glistening with sweat as he bites his lip and meets Castiel's gaze to deliver a breathless thank you before he looks down between them, and Castiel follows his eyeline, and knows the reason for his gratitue. Because between them is a boy, maybe 20 years old at Castiel's estimation, and he's their son. He knows it implicitly, like he knows the weight of his blade in his hand. Their son. The nephilim. Jack.

His sandy brown hair is clinging to his sweaty forehead, and he's on his hands and knees, and he's gazing up at Castiel with golden-bright eyes as his mouth stretches wide around him, spit leaking from the corners of his mouth and dripping down Castiel's cock. Behind him, Dean's hips are pressed flushed against his ass, and he's rolling deep and steady as his fingers dig bruises into his sides to pull him back into each thrust.

"Fuck, he feels so good, Cas," Dean grunts out as he shoves in a little harder. The motion knocks Jack forward, forcing Castiel's cock further down his throat so he chokes a little, but he doesn't pull off. Just hums and whimpers, the sounds sending vibrations through his body and making his balls ache with the need to release as they grind against Jack's chin. "He's so- so fucking soft inside."

Reaching down, Castiel traces his fingertips over Jack's cheek where he can feel his own cock sliding under the skin. Jack's eyes glitter as a thought drifts up to him. To both of them. A projection or a prayer.

I made myself that way for you, daddy, he prays, and Dean groans, throaty and low. Castiel slides his hand down to feel his throat. Made myself your perfect hole.

"Oh, fuck," Dean pants. "Yeah, baby. You're perfect."

"Fill him for me," Castiel hears himself saying, and Dean nods, frantic as he picks up the pace. Switches from slow, heavy rolls to fast, hard thrusts that have Jack whining his pleasure into Castiel's groin.

When Dean comes it's with a heavy shudder, and he's still spurting when he pulls out, trailing the last thick pulses of cum over Jacks ass before he slumps back onto the floor with his legs spread, wet cock twitching as it slowly softens against his thigh. Jack pulls off of Castiel, then, looking up at him and licking his lips before he turns around to lower his mouth to Dean's spent cock, tilting his ass up in invitation as he swallows Dean whole.

Castiel doesn't hesitate, taking Jack's cheeks in his hands and spreading them. His hole is puffy and pink, glazed white with Dean's cum and gaping open. Waiting for him. He leans down, breathing in the heady, musky scent of his sweat and Dean's arousal, then swipes his tongue through the cum that's already leaked out. Laps it up, sucking on his rim until Jack's thighs start shaking. Fighting the urge to swallow, he savors it, rolling Dean's cum over his tongue before he spits it directly back into Jack's gaping hole, then shuffles in closer, gripping his cock and swiping it back and forth along Jack's taint before sinking inside.

He's perfect, like Dean said. Hot and wet and so, so, soft, and the sounds he's making as Cas fucks into him have him on the edge of orgasm within seconds. He pushes deep when it overcomes him. Pumps cum into him, mixing with Dean's, and he has the wild, twisted, irrational thought that they're breeding him. Making him theirs, wholly, in flesh and blood.

Dean is watching him when he pulls out, Jack slumped, satisfied and pliant in his lap, and the sight of them both makes love surge through his veins.

Being dragged back into the present, into the cold, dark of the playground, feels like losing his grace all over again. With the promise of a perfect future at the forefront of his mind, he draws on the power Jack is extending to him and destroys Dagon where she stands. Kelly was right. Jack needs to be born.