The day they retired, John brought Dean coffee in bed. Gently shook him awake, kissed through the morning breath. Greeting not just a new day but a new chapter in their life.
Dean didn't know that's what it was at the time.
He'd stayed up late night before researching a potential out in Boise, the newspaper clippings still on the dining room table.
"Let's give it to someone else. These bones aren't what they used to be."
I like your bones just fine.
The house they've settled in is small. Bought it for a song, using winnings from a Vegas trip Sam throw up all sorts of fights about. Skill (practiced) and luck (earned, bartered for). Rundown when they got it, but her base was solid and the local hardware store well stocked.
The neighbors, oh. Quiet, observant. More than one old widower brought a son or daughter back home to help out, to care of the other in turn sometimes. More trust in family than the government or doctors.
John and Dean toed the line between being a pair like that and a 'Nice couple, we don't mind about the.. you know. Just don't know who does the cooking haha'.
Dean called it "homesteading"; John called him his "steady home".
The air was warm. An early spring. After a late start, Dean put on his shortest cutoffs, the freshness making him bold. Flirty and young and easy: nevermind the skin wrinkles and John's silver hair.
He watched Dean as the hours past. Gaze getting heavier as the sun got low, hands lingering on Dean's shoulders and back. Held him against the kitchen counter so long dinner nearly boiled over.
Dean, in turn, nipped at John- words and teeth. When John ran his thumb over his son's mouth at dessert, Dean sucked it in, grinded lightly between his molars.
Despite his morning complaints, John could still throw Dean around. Koala carried Dean to the bedroom, nearly bare legs wrapped around John's hips.
Collapsed backwards onto the bed, Dean left in John's lap. He tried to roll them over, wanted to look John in the eyes while he opened him up, but John stopped him.
"Not yet baby. You think you earned that, with the way you acted up?"
Blushed pink. Wide wide eyes.
Laying over John's knees isn't as comfortable as it used to be, muscles leaned out, Dean heavier than he was at 10, 15, 22. 35. But then that's not the point, is it?
John gave him a few to warm-up. Sport-like, over the fabric of the shorts. It was Dean that asked for more. Eased up and over and off.
A pinch on the highest curve. The crease to thigh. Over his hip bones.
Thought I was getting a spanking.
Laughter. "Do you want one?"
It shouldn't be possible to still be embarrassed around dad after so many years, but the moment when John just held him, not speaking, got his pits wet and heart racing.
Startling more than painful.
Second and third and scratch, slow, and forth.
Dean softly cried into the blanket as John stretched back, snick of the bottle opening loud in the room.
Tears were fine, as long as you could get the job done.
Dean arched into John's hands when they returned to him. Presented. Four more smacks, leaving slick streaks.
It was a bad angle for fingering. More of a transition then prep, until John pushed Dean's front onto the bed proper, twisted them around and came around to stand between his legs, hung off the edge.
It was quiet, like it usually was. Fast, like it usually wasn't. When they were done, cleaned up and tucked under the covers, Dean asked: if they could have more days like this, if he should looking for a new case tomorrow. Still taking direction from John.
Neither had, but it'd been necessary, once upon a time.
