#john knows

He tried finding a small box of the papercards but everything is gone. He mutters an apology to Sams teacher and she tells him its fine for him not to worry about it and that Sam will be fine.

Its 3:15 and he picks Sam up who's crying, telling him no one wanted to give him cards or share cupcakes with him cause he didn't have anything to give back and the teacher gave him a letter.

The letter explained what Sam had just told him but she let John know that the school has a support group for single parents if he feels up for going, she also left some sweets in Sam's backpack and a card she made for him so he wouldn't feel left out.

Guilt eats at him further when Dean is next to be picked up and he tells John

"I made you the grocery list, it was on the fridge next to the ammo list"

He shouldn't have to rely on his 9 year old to do these kinds of things but here they were.

"It's ok Sammy, look you can have most of my candy and stuff. You can be my valentine, ok?"

John's stomach knots and his heart sinks further, he should have been able to do this for Sam.

The years go by and each and every year he hears Dean ask Sam each and every time.

"Be my valentine?"

That is until Dean hits 13 and then it's all about the girls he's seeing, Sammy's left alone.

He tries even more to include him in things but Sam's different than Dean, he rather be lost in a book than do whatever they're doing.

It's not until Sam's 13 that John notices a change.

They're close again and yet it's like they're hiding something.

It's in the middle of the night that John hears Dean whisper a question to Sam that he hadn't heard him ask in what feels like ages.

"Sammy, be my valentine?"

It feels different, but John can't bring himself to decipher it.

They're close again, that's all that counts.

Every year, up until Sam left for Stanford he would overhear Dean ask Sam to be his valentine and without fail, Sam said yes.

That first month, that first year without Sam is rough, it's not until Sam starts his sophomore year that John notices Dean takes off for a week, he ignores John's calls but sends him a text that he's fine.

He comes back a week later, looking a little worse for wear, hickies covered his neck, bags under his eyes, a sadness he hadn't seen since Sammy left.

“Careful your face,” Dean said, and Sam shot back, “Careful your ass,” and there was the unmistakable sound of someone getting smacked on wet skin with an open palm. There was another thump and Dean growled. Sam responded with a high, breathy noise almost lost in the water, and John felt a feverish hot-cold flush rush through his own body.

Then there was nothing audible for a long time. Bare feet cold against the chill ceramic of the tub, John sank down to a sitting position, ears straining. And then Dean said in a choked voice, “Oh fuck. Fuck yes.”

“Yes,” Sam repeated, “Oh yes, just like that, don’t move.”

The bathroom lights were too bright, haloed with hazy purple rings. John could feel his own pulse pounding in his neck and in his femoral artery, hot between his legs. His cock was growing, plumping up against the front of his jeans. Jesus, he wished he were more drunk than buzzed. Three beers at the bar before coming back to the room now seemed three too few. Three beers was not enough of an excuse for what he did next, but the thumping against the wall had taken on a rhythmic quality and he could hear one of the boys moaning.

Sliding a hand inside his jeans, John cupped his thickening cock and bit back a groan. On the other side of the wall, Sam was panting, “Oh, oh, oh, christ, Dean, oh god.”

John bit his lip as his dick twitched against his palm, hardening further. He imagined Dean up behind Sam’s skinny frame - the two of them were the same height now but Dean still had the muscle to shove his brother around, push him against the tile wall. Sam was a talker, which was not something any father should know about his son. “That’s good, you feel so fucking good Dean.”

Toes flexing against the tub, John rubbed a thumb over the head of his cock, beginning to leak. There was a sick, vertigo-swirl in his stomach but it just made his dick harder.

Sam said, “I’m gonna, Dean I can’t take it, I’m gonna come,” and then Dean growled, so low John almost didn’t hear over the rushing water, “Come in my ass, Sammy.”

John’s eyes flew wide, balls clenching, and he was shooting into his fist before he had fully reversed his mental picture. Dean, up against the tiles, soft mouth open, bow legs spread, hard teenage dick bobbing between his thighs as his brother ploughed him. John’s cock throbbed against his palm, coating the inside of his boxers with come, dampening his jeans, coming until his balls ached with each pulse. He arched so hard against the cool porcelain that he knew his spine would hurt later, but momentarily endorphins washed away all discomfort, all shame.

In the bathroom on the other side of the wall, the shower turned off with a thunk of pipes, and a sudden ringing silence descended. In it, he heard one of his boys laugh.