[FIC] Father's Gun (61/?)
Title: Father's Gun
Authors: diana_lucifera & tersichore
Pairing: Dean/Sam
Rating: Mature
Warnings: minor character death, mentions of torture, the slowest of burns, and excessive bed-sharing
Summary: After the events of "Brother's Blood," Sam and Dean are faced with teaming up with John to hunt the Yellow-Eyed Demon, all while keeping Sam's powers a secret and dodging their dad's questions about just why things between them are so... different.
Notes: /drops this week's chapter and runs/ Haha, have fun!
Previous Chapter | Master Post
Of course, now that Dean’s horizontal and in a bed for the first time since that hospital outside of Blue Earth, the last licks of chemical hangover reminding him exactly how awesome sleep is as an institution, Bobby’s comfy-soft pillows in their neat, embroidered cases under his head, now is when he can’t turn his damn brain off. Now, when he’s finally got the chance to catch his first real, non-drugged Z’s in who knows how long, he just… can’t.
Not with the itch of ash and medical tape on his skin. Not with cinders from the fire still on his clothes, in his hair, smeared across his skin and mingling with rain and sweat to cover him with an inky-fine coat of grime, and okay, maybe he’s gonna catch hell from Sam or Bobby or both for tracking this crap into bed without even taking his boots off, but he’s tired, dammit.
In the last twenty-four hours, Dean’s been drugged, kidnapped, scared to death, and forced to beat the shit out of his out-of-his-damn-mind father to save his definitely-not-the-Bad-Seed brother from a burning building while Minister McRoofie cooled his heels and the civvies they all did their damndest to save burned. And then he’d followed it all up with doctors and sepsis and Sam thinking he’s poison, a curse, too dangerous to be around but needing Dean too much to care.
And you know what? Ninety percent of that might have the makings of a pretty bad goddamn day, but that last part? Sam putting it out there that no matter what, they’re in this together?
That part had felt good.
Maybe it means they’re both screwed up, but if it means not lying awake tonight, scared that he’s gonna close his eyes and open ‘em to find Sam not there, he’ll take screwed up and be glad for it.
Better to be screwed up than afraid. Better to fighting demons with Sam than falling apart without him.
In the face of Dad going off the deep end, with demons closing in and their research going up in smoke and every lead they’ve got pointing at Mom, Dean’s mom, having done something awful, something unthinkable, years before he or Sammy was even born, at least he’s got that.
At least he’s got Sam.
Sam and a powerful need to get in that shower sometime this century.
“Sammy,” Dean calls through the door, toeing off his boots and shucking his button-down. “Get the lead out, already. You’re gonna use up all the hot water.”
“Go away, Dean,” Sam calls back, voice a little higher, a little tighter than can be blamed on smoke inhalation. A little less burned and a little more embarrassed than just washing up demands.
Dean leans closer, hint of a smile his face breaking into a full-blown grin as he listens, finds the sound of Sam moving through the steady, constant spray of the shower, picks out the familiar, rhythmic slip of hand against skin in a way that has absolutely nothing to do with getting clean.
“Somethin’ wrong, Sammy?” Dean asks through the door, hint of a tease slipping into his voice as he leans against the warm, worn wood. “Need big brother’s help?”
“You suck,” Sam groans, voice thick with frustration as the sounds pick up pace, move faster with, apparently, nothing to show for it.
“You should be so lucky.” Dean snorts.
He leans casually against the door and gets nice and comfy for this part.
“Come on, Sammy,” Dean cajoles lazily, laughter just sneaking into the edge of his voice as he tilts his head against the door, listens for Sam. “Relax. Quit thinking so much. Turn that big brain off for a minute and just let it come.”
“I hate you,” Sam grumbles under the spray, but Dean can hear his pace slowing, less frantic, less frustrated, slower, lazier, and that has him leaning in, pressing on through the door.
“I know you do,” he hums, voice lazy and low, and laughing, just a little, as he imagines Sam red-faced and frustrated, beneath the spray. “Let’s go, Sammy. Show big brother what you’re made of.”
“Ugh, you’re awful,” Sam moans heavily.
“I know I am.” Dean chuckles as he hears Sam’s breaths pick up, deepen.
“Come on, little brother. Wrist loose. Grip tight. Pull like you mean it,” he coaches, letting out just a hint of a soft, deep laugh against the faded paint. “We don’t got all day here.”
“Hate. You.” Sammy groans, voice heavy, deep. Deep like Dean almost never hears it outside of a fight, breaths pitched low and urgent beneath the hush of the shower.
“Sure you do.” Dean nods, grinning for days as he leans into it. “Gonna get raw at this rate, little brother. Come on, let go. Just let it feel good. Have some fun. You remember fun, right, Sammy?”
“Dean-” Sam gasps, his voice raw, ragged, deep and dark and if he’s asking Dean to stop or go on, it doesn’t matter because they’re both in this now.
“Now that blonde at the last bar we were at?” Dean continues over Sam’s groan, that mad, persistent pull of hand against head, pulling, pulling, driving higher, higher. “She was fun. Legs for days and a mouth like a fuckin’ Hoover. Swear, I could feel it in my toes.”
Dean remembers the dark look in Sam’s eyes as Dean’d poured shots into the girl, laid one on her smooth and slow against the jukebox as Sammy watched from the bar, all heady, hot hazel and silent, brooding intensity.
“You into givin’ it or takin’ it, Sammy?” he pants, remembering that curl of heat, feeling it for himself as his breath quickens, voice dips. “You got your fingers in your mouth right now? Or you imagining someone’s mouth on your cock, goin’ for all they’re worth?”
“God, Dean!” Sam shouts from the other side of the door, voice dizzy, tearing, torn. His pace hot, frantic, perfect.
“That’s right, Sammy,” Dean purrs. “Pick it up, keep going. It’s gonna feel good, baby brother. Gonna feel so good, you just let yourself get there.”
“Dean-” Sam moans, high, hard.
“Like it rough, don’tcha Sammy?” Dean feels, grasps, pushes harder, always harder. “Need that edge?”
Sam groans on the other side of the door, raw and frantic, and it’s more than enough to keep Dean going.
“You’re gonna get it, Sammy,” he gravels. “Get it all and more, you just keep at it a little longer.”
Dean braces his hand against the battered brass doorknob as he leans, presses harder, closer, faster.
“Come on, baby boy. Think about it,” he pushes. “That mouth on your cock. Those hands shoving you up against the tile. Holding you tight. Making you just hurt for it.”
Sam just moans, so slow and persistent that Dean can feel it in his toes.
“Bet you’re a hair puller, Sammy,” he pants. “Bet you give just as good as you get.”
“Dean,” Sam wails, voice high, frantic.
“A little longer, Sammy. Just a little longer,” he soothes, rocking against the wood.
“Dean, I can’t,” Sam gasps, panting in time with those sharp, staccato pulls.
“S’gonna feel so good, so good. I swear, Sam,” Dean promises on a groan.
“Dean, please,” Sam begs, ragged, desperate.
“Give it a finger, Sammy,” Dean rumbles, low and deep, with a dark, devilish grin against the door. “Come on, you can do it. Know you want to.”
“Dean- Dean, I can’t- It’s too much,” Sam protests, and Dean can practically see the flush on his cheeks, racing down his neck, the tangle of hair across his eyes as he pants hard and fast, close, so close-
“Come for me, baby boy,” Dean rasps hard against the bathroom door.
And Sam does, comes with an echoing, punched out groan and the sharp sound of a skull knocking against tile. Fuck, Dean can hear it, can hear his brother gasping for breath under the spray, can hear the pitiful little moans catching in his throat, and Dean’s shoved up tight against the door, panting open-mouthed against the wood, death grip on the knob as his hips keep pressing, rocking, dragging rough denim over his cock, harsh and hard and good and- and God-
-God, he just shot off in his jeans like a freaking teenager. Holy shit.
He just- He-
Holy. Shit.
And before Dean can process that - any of that - he hears the heavy sound of Bobby’s boots coming down the hallway and then the other hunter is swinging the bedroom door open without even pausing to knock, because of course. Of course, Dean thinks a little hysterically, what could Sam and Dean possibly be getting up to in here that Bobby’d need to worry about interrupting?
“Pulled some towels out of the dryer,” Bobby starts before stopping short to stare at Dean. “What the hell’re you doin’?”
Dean lets go of the doorknob and takes a quick step back, trying his very best to look like he didn’t just embarrass himself all over Bobby’s fine wood paneling and praying to every deity known to man that Bobby doesn’t decide to look down. The man as good as raised two teenaged boys. He knows exactly what it looks like when someone’s standing around with a load in their pants. Hell, if he didn’t know Bobby’d been smoking for the past forty years, Dean would say he could smell it.
“He’s takin’ too long,” Dean mumbles, jerking a thumb toward the bathroom. “I gotta pee.”
“And you couldn’t use the one downstairs?”
“Well, yeah,” Dean says lamely, “but it’s... far.”
“It’s far,” Bobby repeats skeptically.
“Mm,” Dean confirms with a shrug, grabbing the stack of towels out of his hands and trying to figure out whether holding them down over his crotch would help or hurt this situation.
Turns out that “instant karma” thing is a real bitch when you’re on this end.
Bobby’s still fixing him with a look like maybe Dean got himself concussed and didn’t mention it when the bathroom door opens a crack and one of Sam’s freaking gorilla arms sneaks out, wet and dripping, to snag a towel off the top of the stack before shutting the door again with a click. A couple of seconds later, Sam comes striding out of the bathroom behind him, the towel slung around his waist.
“Shower’s free,” he says breezily as he crosses the room to dig in his duffle.
Like everything’s totally and completely normal, the little shit. Dean gapes incredulously at Sam’s stupid casual shoulders, glances back to see Bobby still watching him with raised eyebrows, and promptly hightails it into the bathroom, taking his pile of towels and his damp jeans with him.
He peels himself out of his soaked underwear with a grimace, cursing the dangerous tag team of opportunity knocking and his hyperactive goddamn Downstairs Brain, which haven’t betrayed him so thoroughly since that waitress in Tampa. He’d joke about taking a long, cold shower if the length of Sam’s little jerk-off session hadn’t made that the only possibility.
Which… Well, that- that happened.
That was a thing. A thing that happened. That happened and had Dean coming hard and fast against a goddamn door of all things, and somehow, somehow they found the one thing in all of creation that they’ve never done together and just- just fucking went for it.
And Dean can lie to himself about a lot of things. A lot of awful, fucked up, can’t-stare-’em-in-the-eye-or-I’ll-go-out-of-my-goddamn-mind things, but what happened back there?
Well, it’s pretty hard to ignore that it gave a solid kick to his goddamn Downstairs Brain, sent a sharp, heady, breath-hitching, toe-curling flood through his whole body. A soft, dark whisper, the kind that belongs in bars and between bedsheets, breathily quiet and brutally honest as it pushes, urges: ’Let’s do that again.’
Teasing Sam is one thing, but that part?
That came of out fucking nowhere, Dean thinks as he steps into the freezing water with a wince.
Except... that’s not really true, is it? That had to come from somewhere. Where, Dean has no idea, but-
He pauses halfway through lathering a dollop of shampoo into his scalp and frowns.
He’d like to just shrug and say ‘That was weird,’ but... that’s not exactly true either. And he’d say it’s something different, but is it? Because Dean doesn’t feel anywhere near as surprised about how that turned out as he should, and he can’t figure out why. It doesn’t feel like it came out of nowhere or like it’s an entirely new idea, but it’s definitely not an old one. It’s- That was- a thing. That happened.
That was definitely a thing that happened.
That’s about as much as Dean can process right now. That and the fact that he’s got cold, stinging suds running down into his eyes, which doesn’t really help him with this particular predicament.
Sam’s waiting in the next room. Dean can picture him sitting there on the edge of the bed, eyebrows drawn together in thought as he prepares to dissect this whole situation, and for once, Dean thinks he’d actually appreciate that. It’d be nice to know one of them has some answers here. He’s looking forward to hearing whatever his brother comes up with, ‘cause Dean? Yeah, Dean’s got nothin’.
Except when he dries off and goes back into the bedroom, he finds Sam completely zonked out instead, taking up two-thirds of the bed and dripping all over Dean’s pillow. Totally useless.
Dean sits on the edge of the bed and stares down at his damp, snoring mess of a big little brother for a long time, turning things over and over in his head until Bobby hollers up the stairs that the waffles are getting cold.
And apparently Bobby makes waffles now, which is definitely a sign that the whole world’s gone crazy and Dean needs to just stop questioning it.
Chapter 62
Authors: diana_lucifera & tersichore
Pairing: Dean/Sam
Rating: Mature
Warnings: minor character death, mentions of torture, the slowest of burns, and excessive bed-sharing
Summary: After the events of "Brother's Blood," Sam and Dean are faced with teaming up with John to hunt the Yellow-Eyed Demon, all while keeping Sam's powers a secret and dodging their dad's questions about just why things between them are so... different.
Notes: /drops this week's chapter and runs/ Haha, have fun!
Previous Chapter | Master Post
Of course, now that Dean’s horizontal and in a bed for the first time since that hospital outside of Blue Earth, the last licks of chemical hangover reminding him exactly how awesome sleep is as an institution, Bobby’s comfy-soft pillows in their neat, embroidered cases under his head, now is when he can’t turn his damn brain off. Now, when he’s finally got the chance to catch his first real, non-drugged Z’s in who knows how long, he just… can’t.
Not with the itch of ash and medical tape on his skin. Not with cinders from the fire still on his clothes, in his hair, smeared across his skin and mingling with rain and sweat to cover him with an inky-fine coat of grime, and okay, maybe he’s gonna catch hell from Sam or Bobby or both for tracking this crap into bed without even taking his boots off, but he’s tired, dammit.
In the last twenty-four hours, Dean’s been drugged, kidnapped, scared to death, and forced to beat the shit out of his out-of-his-damn-mind father to save his definitely-not-the-Bad-Seed brother from a burning building while Minister McRoofie cooled his heels and the civvies they all did their damndest to save burned. And then he’d followed it all up with doctors and sepsis and Sam thinking he’s poison, a curse, too dangerous to be around but needing Dean too much to care.
And you know what? Ninety percent of that might have the makings of a pretty bad goddamn day, but that last part? Sam putting it out there that no matter what, they’re in this together?
That part had felt good.
Maybe it means they’re both screwed up, but if it means not lying awake tonight, scared that he’s gonna close his eyes and open ‘em to find Sam not there, he’ll take screwed up and be glad for it.
Better to be screwed up than afraid. Better to fighting demons with Sam than falling apart without him.
In the face of Dad going off the deep end, with demons closing in and their research going up in smoke and every lead they’ve got pointing at Mom, Dean’s mom, having done something awful, something unthinkable, years before he or Sammy was even born, at least he’s got that.
At least he’s got Sam.
Sam and a powerful need to get in that shower sometime this century.
“Sammy,” Dean calls through the door, toeing off his boots and shucking his button-down. “Get the lead out, already. You’re gonna use up all the hot water.”
“Go away, Dean,” Sam calls back, voice a little higher, a little tighter than can be blamed on smoke inhalation. A little less burned and a little more embarrassed than just washing up demands.
Dean leans closer, hint of a smile his face breaking into a full-blown grin as he listens, finds the sound of Sam moving through the steady, constant spray of the shower, picks out the familiar, rhythmic slip of hand against skin in a way that has absolutely nothing to do with getting clean.
“Somethin’ wrong, Sammy?” Dean asks through the door, hint of a tease slipping into his voice as he leans against the warm, worn wood. “Need big brother’s help?”
“You suck,” Sam groans, voice thick with frustration as the sounds pick up pace, move faster with, apparently, nothing to show for it.
“You should be so lucky.” Dean snorts.
He leans casually against the door and gets nice and comfy for this part.
“Come on, Sammy,” Dean cajoles lazily, laughter just sneaking into the edge of his voice as he tilts his head against the door, listens for Sam. “Relax. Quit thinking so much. Turn that big brain off for a minute and just let it come.”
“I hate you,” Sam grumbles under the spray, but Dean can hear his pace slowing, less frantic, less frustrated, slower, lazier, and that has him leaning in, pressing on through the door.
“I know you do,” he hums, voice lazy and low, and laughing, just a little, as he imagines Sam red-faced and frustrated, beneath the spray. “Let’s go, Sammy. Show big brother what you’re made of.”
“Ugh, you’re awful,” Sam moans heavily.
“I know I am.” Dean chuckles as he hears Sam’s breaths pick up, deepen.
“Come on, little brother. Wrist loose. Grip tight. Pull like you mean it,” he coaches, letting out just a hint of a soft, deep laugh against the faded paint. “We don’t got all day here.”
“Hate. You.” Sammy groans, voice heavy, deep. Deep like Dean almost never hears it outside of a fight, breaths pitched low and urgent beneath the hush of the shower.
“Sure you do.” Dean nods, grinning for days as he leans into it. “Gonna get raw at this rate, little brother. Come on, let go. Just let it feel good. Have some fun. You remember fun, right, Sammy?”
“Dean-” Sam gasps, his voice raw, ragged, deep and dark and if he’s asking Dean to stop or go on, it doesn’t matter because they’re both in this now.
“Now that blonde at the last bar we were at?” Dean continues over Sam’s groan, that mad, persistent pull of hand against head, pulling, pulling, driving higher, higher. “She was fun. Legs for days and a mouth like a fuckin’ Hoover. Swear, I could feel it in my toes.”
Dean remembers the dark look in Sam’s eyes as Dean’d poured shots into the girl, laid one on her smooth and slow against the jukebox as Sammy watched from the bar, all heady, hot hazel and silent, brooding intensity.
“You into givin’ it or takin’ it, Sammy?” he pants, remembering that curl of heat, feeling it for himself as his breath quickens, voice dips. “You got your fingers in your mouth right now? Or you imagining someone’s mouth on your cock, goin’ for all they’re worth?”
“God, Dean!” Sam shouts from the other side of the door, voice dizzy, tearing, torn. His pace hot, frantic, perfect.
“That’s right, Sammy,” Dean purrs. “Pick it up, keep going. It’s gonna feel good, baby brother. Gonna feel so good, you just let yourself get there.”
“Dean-” Sam moans, high, hard.
“Like it rough, don’tcha Sammy?” Dean feels, grasps, pushes harder, always harder. “Need that edge?”
Sam groans on the other side of the door, raw and frantic, and it’s more than enough to keep Dean going.
“You’re gonna get it, Sammy,” he gravels. “Get it all and more, you just keep at it a little longer.”
Dean braces his hand against the battered brass doorknob as he leans, presses harder, closer, faster.
“Come on, baby boy. Think about it,” he pushes. “That mouth on your cock. Those hands shoving you up against the tile. Holding you tight. Making you just hurt for it.”
Sam just moans, so slow and persistent that Dean can feel it in his toes.
“Bet you’re a hair puller, Sammy,” he pants. “Bet you give just as good as you get.”
“Dean,” Sam wails, voice high, frantic.
“A little longer, Sammy. Just a little longer,” he soothes, rocking against the wood.
“Dean, I can’t,” Sam gasps, panting in time with those sharp, staccato pulls.
“S’gonna feel so good, so good. I swear, Sam,” Dean promises on a groan.
“Dean, please,” Sam begs, ragged, desperate.
“Give it a finger, Sammy,” Dean rumbles, low and deep, with a dark, devilish grin against the door. “Come on, you can do it. Know you want to.”
“Dean- Dean, I can’t- It’s too much,” Sam protests, and Dean can practically see the flush on his cheeks, racing down his neck, the tangle of hair across his eyes as he pants hard and fast, close, so close-
“Come for me, baby boy,” Dean rasps hard against the bathroom door.
And Sam does, comes with an echoing, punched out groan and the sharp sound of a skull knocking against tile. Fuck, Dean can hear it, can hear his brother gasping for breath under the spray, can hear the pitiful little moans catching in his throat, and Dean’s shoved up tight against the door, panting open-mouthed against the wood, death grip on the knob as his hips keep pressing, rocking, dragging rough denim over his cock, harsh and hard and good and- and God-
-God, he just shot off in his jeans like a freaking teenager. Holy shit.
He just- He-
Holy. Shit.
And before Dean can process that - any of that - he hears the heavy sound of Bobby’s boots coming down the hallway and then the other hunter is swinging the bedroom door open without even pausing to knock, because of course. Of course, Dean thinks a little hysterically, what could Sam and Dean possibly be getting up to in here that Bobby’d need to worry about interrupting?
“Pulled some towels out of the dryer,” Bobby starts before stopping short to stare at Dean. “What the hell’re you doin’?”
Dean lets go of the doorknob and takes a quick step back, trying his very best to look like he didn’t just embarrass himself all over Bobby’s fine wood paneling and praying to every deity known to man that Bobby doesn’t decide to look down. The man as good as raised two teenaged boys. He knows exactly what it looks like when someone’s standing around with a load in their pants. Hell, if he didn’t know Bobby’d been smoking for the past forty years, Dean would say he could smell it.
“He’s takin’ too long,” Dean mumbles, jerking a thumb toward the bathroom. “I gotta pee.”
“And you couldn’t use the one downstairs?”
“Well, yeah,” Dean says lamely, “but it’s... far.”
“It’s far,” Bobby repeats skeptically.
“Mm,” Dean confirms with a shrug, grabbing the stack of towels out of his hands and trying to figure out whether holding them down over his crotch would help or hurt this situation.
Turns out that “instant karma” thing is a real bitch when you’re on this end.
Bobby’s still fixing him with a look like maybe Dean got himself concussed and didn’t mention it when the bathroom door opens a crack and one of Sam’s freaking gorilla arms sneaks out, wet and dripping, to snag a towel off the top of the stack before shutting the door again with a click. A couple of seconds later, Sam comes striding out of the bathroom behind him, the towel slung around his waist.
“Shower’s free,” he says breezily as he crosses the room to dig in his duffle.
Like everything’s totally and completely normal, the little shit. Dean gapes incredulously at Sam’s stupid casual shoulders, glances back to see Bobby still watching him with raised eyebrows, and promptly hightails it into the bathroom, taking his pile of towels and his damp jeans with him.
He peels himself out of his soaked underwear with a grimace, cursing the dangerous tag team of opportunity knocking and his hyperactive goddamn Downstairs Brain, which haven’t betrayed him so thoroughly since that waitress in Tampa. He’d joke about taking a long, cold shower if the length of Sam’s little jerk-off session hadn’t made that the only possibility.
Which… Well, that- that happened.
That was a thing. A thing that happened. That happened and had Dean coming hard and fast against a goddamn door of all things, and somehow, somehow they found the one thing in all of creation that they’ve never done together and just- just fucking went for it.
And Dean can lie to himself about a lot of things. A lot of awful, fucked up, can’t-stare-’em-in-the-eye-or-I’ll-go-out-of-my-goddamn-mind things, but what happened back there?
Well, it’s pretty hard to ignore that it gave a solid kick to his goddamn Downstairs Brain, sent a sharp, heady, breath-hitching, toe-curling flood through his whole body. A soft, dark whisper, the kind that belongs in bars and between bedsheets, breathily quiet and brutally honest as it pushes, urges: ’Let’s do that again.’
Teasing Sam is one thing, but that part?
That came of out fucking nowhere, Dean thinks as he steps into the freezing water with a wince.
Except... that’s not really true, is it? That had to come from somewhere. Where, Dean has no idea, but-
He pauses halfway through lathering a dollop of shampoo into his scalp and frowns.
He’d like to just shrug and say ‘That was weird,’ but... that’s not exactly true either. And he’d say it’s something different, but is it? Because Dean doesn’t feel anywhere near as surprised about how that turned out as he should, and he can’t figure out why. It doesn’t feel like it came out of nowhere or like it’s an entirely new idea, but it’s definitely not an old one. It’s- That was- a thing. That happened.
That was definitely a thing that happened.
That’s about as much as Dean can process right now. That and the fact that he’s got cold, stinging suds running down into his eyes, which doesn’t really help him with this particular predicament.
Sam’s waiting in the next room. Dean can picture him sitting there on the edge of the bed, eyebrows drawn together in thought as he prepares to dissect this whole situation, and for once, Dean thinks he’d actually appreciate that. It’d be nice to know one of them has some answers here. He’s looking forward to hearing whatever his brother comes up with, ‘cause Dean? Yeah, Dean’s got nothin’.
Except when he dries off and goes back into the bedroom, he finds Sam completely zonked out instead, taking up two-thirds of the bed and dripping all over Dean’s pillow. Totally useless.
Dean sits on the edge of the bed and stares down at his damp, snoring mess of a big little brother for a long time, turning things over and over in his head until Bobby hollers up the stairs that the waffles are getting cold.
And apparently Bobby makes waffles now, which is definitely a sign that the whole world’s gone crazy and Dean needs to just stop questioning it.
Chapter 62