#deanxjohn

But he hears, too, the late night conversations when he’s supposed to be asleep, after Dad’s emptied the Wild Turkey and leans heavy against stained motel walls to speak in hushed voice into a burner cell receiver, at Sam. Never with, no, there’s no pause in conversation like he’s actually talking to someone.

Just at.

Dean doesn’t even have the balls to do that. Call Sam for no reason and say ‘hi’. Leave a voice message whether the twerp wants to talk or not. It’s been months since Dean’s even heard his voice, tinny and fake-cheerful, in a voicemail recording of ‘after the beep’.

The steam is warm in the bathroom, eases some of the tension out of his shoulders. Rinsing off his razor, scrape and rinse and scrape, Dean finishes and stands in front of the mirror. The white washed light of the main room still slants under the bathroom door. Scowling at himself, Dean unplugs the sink to drain. Rinses the short bristle hairs away. Hangs his towel against the back door.

Dad’s sitting on the edge of one of the beds, the other turned into the supply spread, guns opened their guts and sprawling as he cleans them.

Naked, Dean goes for his duffel and finds a pair of boxers. They had a good hunt. Hell, they’ve had a good run the past few weeks taking out a couple of spirits and a witch, but it’s always on to the next hunt. The next threat. No rest for the wicked, and the Winchesters are as wicked as they come.

Dad finishes reassembling the ivory handle Colt he’d given Dean years ago, sets it gently on the bed spread with the supplies.

Wetness dripping from his hair down the line of his spine, Dean shifts between the table and bed, the bathroom light still on behind him. He shoves dirty grave-mud stained jeans into his duffel bag. They’ll have to find a laundromat soon. The window is open to humid night air, but Dean closes the heavy curtains. Shuffles to the unoccupied bed. Sits on the edge and runs his fingers through too-long hair. He can smell it. The blood, still. The salt that lines the door and windows.

Dad taps a smooth glass bottle against his shoulder, and Dean takes it. Turns into it. Cheap whiskey that burns down his throat, but he doesn’t cough.

Shuffling silently over dirty carpet, Dad shuts the light out in the bathroom. The glow of the alarm clock and the faint insinuation of the red motel ‘vacancy’ sign against the cracks of the curtain give some kind of definition. Not much.

The other bed is spread with weapons, and Dean lays down on top of scratchy polyester. Heavily, John stretches out too. He has a careless way of breathing, when he’s had a little too much to drink. Dean wants more, but when he grabs the bottle off the nightstand, it’s empty.

The bed dips as John curls onto his side, one hand outreaching to tuck the hair past Dean’s ear.

It’s a soft thing, light muted in the room, edges going dimmer as the little whiskey he’s had sinks into his belly.

“You look like her,” John says.

Soft, quiet. Intrusive even here.

“Just like this, sometimes.”

Face to face in the darkness of a motel that will be left in the rear view mirror tomorrow, who’s name they will forget. Just like this.

Dean knows he does. Look like her. He has only one photo. But he’s shown it to Sam, and Sam will say the same. Just like this. Just when I want you to. You look like her.

A single nod, curving his cheek against callous palm, Dean doesn’t say anything. It’d make it worse. He eases closer, to the heat and weight and whiskey sour breath. If he closes his eyes it almost feels sweet. The flutter of lips against his forehead, the tip of his nose, one cheek then the other. His lips. Breathy and gentle and almost shy.

Almost.

Putting on boxers was pretty much a waste of time.

He doesn’t care. What John sees, what he wants. Because there’s an almost tender touch against him, the shivery plane of his stomach and the aching between his legs.

Does it matter, whose touch this is, when Dean thinks about his brother.

Quiet, halting breath and whiskey jerking touch, over the covers in the dim of the room that won’t remember them, he won’t remember, every place, every time, quiet, it’s good. God, it’s quiet.

Dean slinks away to a chair afterward. Pulls a pair of jeans on. Brings the empty bottle with him, an excuse. He falls asleep there, after hours, of looking and waiting and thinking.

At Eight thirty, Dean picks up his date in his father’s car [midnight black and dangerous, roaring engine; what girl could resist?]. Maybe she’s a cheerleader this time or one of those nice girls that thinks she can fix him. Not that it matters to John. He’ll make his boy forget about them soon enough. At nine they’ll park at the drive-in theater, towards the back. Nine-thirty and they’re making out in the front seat. Fifteen minutes later, they move to the back. By ten Dean has his hand down the girl’s lace panties, fingering her pussy open. She’s wet, of course, it’s his son after all: tanned, freckled skin, bright green eyes and lashes that go on for miles [what girl could resist?]. Maybe she’s the bold kind of girl that’ll wrap her cherry-red lips around his boy’s hard prick, or maybe she’s shy and waits for Dean to take the lead. Either way, by ten fifteen the girl is spread out on her back, legs wrapped around his son’s waist, moaning prettily. She probably feels like the luckiest girl in the world, then, to have his son all to herself, lithe and muscular, moving on top of her. Poor thing. If she only knew.

John pours a nice big glass for himself and waits for his boy to finish, for him to come back home, for the game to start.

“You’re late." John flips on the light switch in the kitchen. Dean freezes, caught. “I told you to be back by eleven-thirty. It’s well past midnight.”

Dean sighs, pushing his hair back with one hand. “Yeah well Mindy wanted a second round. What can I say? I'm a giver.”

Dean flashes his father a cocky grin. Such disrespect, the boy needs to remember his place. John taps his fingers impatiently on the table, slowly draining the rest of his glass. “No. Boy. She didn’t want a second round,” he sneers. "She was never satisfied to begin with. How could she? With that tiny teenage clitty of yours.”

Dean’s eyes go wide, like he'd been hit.

John sets his tumbler down and stands. He'd only just begun. Undoing his pants, John removes himself for his son to see: already aroused, fat and pulsing in his own hand. “This is what Mindy wanted. This is a man's cock. And you're no man, yet, are you boy?”

To prove the point, he shoves Dean up against the fridge. The teenager tries to fight back, but John is far bigger, far taller, every inch the fearsome hunter of growing legend. Slipping his hand down Dean's pants, John grips his boys cock and balls, twisting them, hard. His son yelps, stills. Then John pulls Deans pants down and holds their cocks side-by-side to compare. There's a serious difference in size. John is massive, at least nine-and-a-half inches with a bulging purple head. John strokes himself, milking some precum that drips down the length of his eager shaft. Dean’s dick is a toy next to his, miniature like a doll, tiny, pink and prepubescent. It’s pathetic to call it a cock, and Dean’s dick knows it. Aligned to John, it retreats in defeat, shrinking, smaller and smaller, until it’s soft and flaccid in his father’s gun-calloused hands.

Dean’s face turns crimson red. John laughs.

“That’s not a cock, boy. That’s a clitty.” John pets Dean’s dick with his thumb [doesn’t need more, it’s that small]. He can feel Dean trembling in his hands. “Tell me what it is. I want to hear you say it .”

“I-it’s not-”

“It’s not what, boy: a clitty, or a cock?”

They both look down at John again, massive and brutish beside his son’s baby-pink pee-pee. Finally, Dean confesses.

“It’s...it’s a clitty,” he says. Mutters it, beneath his breathe. John demands he say it louder, pushing tears of shame to his son’s eyes. “A clitty. It’s a clitty !” Dean cries, body shaking, tiny pink dick engulfed in his father's hand.

John smiles. His son’s obedience heals something dark and broken inside of him. “That’s right,” he praises. “And boys with clitties don’t fuck. Only men fuck. With their cocks. Boys with clitties take those cocks inside their pussies.” John slips two fingers between Dean’s thighs until he finds son’s puckered hole hidden between two fleshy cheeks. “And you’ve got a very hungry little pussy, don’t you Dean?”

Dean whimpers at his father’s thick teasing fingers.

“Show it to me.”

John takes a step back, points to the kitchen table. Dean nods. With shaking hand Dean steps out of the pants and sits on the table, lies back. Curling his legs up to his chest, Dean reaches back and pulls apart the pale white flesh of his ass, exposing his hole for his father to inspect. John nods approvingly, tracing the rim. At his touch, it blossoms open. Dean must have fingered himself before coming back home, or asked his hapless date to do it for him. Poor girl. She couldn’t have known what a daddy’s boy Dean was. His swagger, his bravado; they were all false. This was his real son, lying on the table before him, spreading himself wide, hungry for his daddy’s attention.

“Did Mindy know you had a pussy?” John asks. He spits on his hand, slathers it onto his cock.

Pupils blown with with lust, Deabn bites his lip and shakes his head, no.

“So she couldn’t have known who this pussy belongs to, could she?”

“N-no sir.”

“Because you lied to her about who you belong to,” John scolds. He places his cock against Dean’s entrance like a threat, watching it clench-gape-clench with anticipation. “So it looks like I have not choice but to remind you.”

With one forceful push, John buries his cock deep inside his son’s body. Dean throws his head back on to the cheap formica table with a tortured moan as John stretches his boy’s asshole impossibly wide. It had been difficult, at first, training Dean to take such a huge cock in his hole. Too small, too tight. But Dean had always been eager to please. It had been a suffocating trait as a child. He looked up at John, wide-eyed and hungry. For...what? Assurance, stability, basic parental affection; John was too empty and broken to provide any of it. Then one night, after drinking heavily, Dean came home after a date. He tried to brag about it—booze, women, and fast cars—anything to relate to his father. But John felt this ugly urge to possess rise up from his belly. His boy, his family. He pushed Dean onto a bed, dragging his son into the darkness with him. He kissed his own son, ran his hands across the body he helped create, shaping it, now, for his own use. And the boy never resists. After every fuck he looks up at John with a kind of religious ardor, as if John was a saint, blessing his body instead of ruining it.

“Yes. Good. Fuck,” John grunts. “You can feel that can’t you, a man’s cock. Look at it,” he commands, starting to pump his hips slowly. “I want to see yourself getting fucked by it.”

Obediently, Dean lifts his trembling head from the table. Spreading his ass wide, Dean watches his father’s fat cock plow in and out of his abused hole. He can feel it carving space out of his own guts, claiming every part of him for his father. And Dean allows it, is greedy for it. His asshole hungrily sucks John's cock back inside him with every thrust. More, more, more! Dean is desperate to belong to John in every way.

When he feels himself close to coming, Dean reaches between his legs and starts to tug at his own tiny dick, but John slaps his hand away.

“No,” his father huffs. “You don’t touch your clitty. It lies there limp, and useless. You only come from your pussy, sweetheart, from my cock stuffing up your slutty hole.”

To stop Dean from touching himself, John leans over and picks him up. Dean cries out surprise, wrapping his arms around John's neck. Holding his son up with thick sinuous arms, John continues to fuck his boy, bouncing Dean up and down onto his cock.

“You understand now don’t you boy?” He growls possessively. “You understand who your pussy belongs to.”

Dean is helpless to stop John’s raw cock from bruising his hole. He hangs there, forced to take its merciless pounding. He’s reduced to nothing but a fuckdoll, but a hole for his father’s pleasure. And Dean loves every second of it.

“Y-yes, sir,” he answers. “This pussy belongs to daddy. Daddy’s little fuckhole to rape as he pleases!”

“That’s right, daddy’s pussy,” John pants. “Now daddy’s gonna come inside that pussy. He’s going to fill it up with his come and I want you to take it all, understand? Don’t waste a drop.”

Dean whimpers his assent and with a final thrust John explodes inside of his son. His cock shudders, shooting a thick stream of hot come. It floods Dean’s insides. John can feel his little boy’s belly expand there’s so fucking much. And that’s when Dean finally comes too, stuffed full of his father’s cock and bloated with his come. Dean lays his head on his father’s chest moaning as his clitty stutters, squirting a tiny stream of liquid onto John’s belly. John feels his boys ass clenching rhythmically in the waves of his orgasm. A a reward, he leans in to kiss the boy on his forehead.

“You won’t try and fuck another girl again with your stubby little clitty, will you?” John asks. “Because you and your pussy belong to me.”

Dean nods blearily. “Yes sir,” he promises.