Leading the Blind (one-shot)
Title Leading the Blind
Fandom: Supernatural
Pairing/s: John/Sam, John/Dean/Sam, some vague Dean/Sam.
Rating: NC-17 (m/m sex, swearing, angst and fluff.)
Spoilers: None.
Summary: Sam left for college entirely convinced that he was doing the right thing despite everything. In deciding to visit his father and brother for spring break, his unconscious longing becomes manifest.
Disclaimer: I own nothing and no one, this is a work of complete fiction.
The first time Sam called Dean from college, he happened to be laying on his dorm-room bed on his back, with his fingers crossed in an absurdly and entirely uncharacteristically superstitious gesture, in the hopes that their father would not be the one to pick up the phone.
And so of course he was, and for one wild, fleeting moment when that familiar voice filled his ear from such a long way away, Sam nearly hung up. But then an oddly endearing combination of concern, confusion and a touch of annoyance was seeping into John's voice, and something inside of him that had been slowly melting since he'd left home crumbled away a little more.
"Hello? Who is this?" John said sharply, and if Sam knew his father then he was about to hang up. So he spoke, clearing his throat in preparation.
"Dad. Hi. Uh, it's me. Sam."
In one fragmented, six-word sentence, he'd managed to spill forth an impressive degree of inanity. Because, he reminded himself as he waited for his father to respond, who the hell else would refer to John as "Dad"? Not to mention, since when was John incapable of recognizing his voice over the phone? And lastly, he was fairly sure that "it's me" would have sufficed just fine, and that the clarification of "Sam" had not been necessary to establish the nice little awkward pause in which they were currently indulging. He suddenly found himself profoundly grateful that his father could not see his face at the moment.
Finally, John said, "Did you want to talk to your brother?"
Because he'd expected little else, Sam said "Yeah," with some measure of relief. He heard a faint thud as John put the phone down, and his muffled voice calling out, "Dean! Sam's on the phone, pick up."
It was only a moment before Dean's clearer voice answered. "Got it, Dad," and John hung up the phone in the other room. Sam exhaled, his whole body slumping against his mattress at the sound of Dean's warmer tone. "Sammy, hey," he said. "How's it going?"
"How about we do it like this," Sam said in lieu of responding. "I'll just call at the same time every week, whenever you know for sure that you'll be home and that you can be the first one to pick up."
"Was it really that bad, talking to Dad for ten seconds?"
"We hardly talked. And yes, it was."
"Then maybe you should stop being such a little bitch about everything and come home. Apologize. He'd never hold it against you, you know how much he loves you." Dean's mordant nature was only vaguely diminished by his subtle reassurance of their father's love.
"I can't, Dean. You know I can't."
"Then just talk to him. Apologize, tell him you love him, that you weren't trying to betray him in leaving. Tell him you don't think you're better than him, that you appreciate all he's done for us. All he wants is to be close to you again."
"Don't you get it? I can love Dad all I want, but we'll never be like you guys are. Dad and I just don't get each other the way you and Dad do, and we never will. It's no one's fault, we're just different. I know he wishes that he could just have another Dean, but he doesn't. And that's not my problem."
"Maybe you should stop comparing your relationship with Dad to mine and work on getting your shit with him back on track before he finally gives up on you."
"You really think he would?"
"No. But I wish he would, Sammy. I'm not trying to be an ass about this, but it eats him up. The way he's always had to struggle to bond with you and all that talk show bullshit, I can tell it does. And now you've gone away to college like you're just too damn good to become a part of our legacy, and it's only confirmed all of his worst fears. He's tried so hard, all his life, to make you feel like a Winchester. And it's like you've finally just said, "maybe I don't want to be." It hurts him, you know?"
"I never said that."
"You didn't have to. Are we going to hash this shit over all night, or did you have something to say? We've been over this a hundred times before."
"Do you think he'd be pissed if I came to visit you guys for a while?"
"What about your classes?"
"Spring break is coming up, I have a week off. I was thinking about spending it with you guys, but what he said before I left..."
"Come on, Sam." Dean's voice suddenly brightened, as if the prospect of seeing him in person again made everything better. Sam didn't have the heart to correct his irrational joy. "You know he'd never send you packing, he misses the shit out of you. Hell, so do I. Come on home."
"Don't tell Dad. I don't want him worrying or getting pissed all over again or whatever. I think it'll be better if I just show up and surprise him."
"Yeah, probably." Dean's immediate confirmation soothed him. "What day are you coming?"
"Break starts next Friday, I get out of class at two o' clock. Where are you guys, anyway?"
"Kearney, Nebraska. There have been reports of a suspicious number of missing red-haired women in the area, Dad and I have been looking into it. Hold on, let me get you the address of our motel." There was a moment's pause while Dean leaned out of their third-floor window, checking the street sign outside. When he returned, he relayed it to Sam, who jotted it down.
"I'll see you soon, then."
"I'm glad you're coming, kid."
In unison, they hung up. They usually did.
• • •
Normally, the endless wheat and corn fields of Nebraska would have resulted in a subtle sort of anxiety for Sam - it wasn't so much that he found them creepy as it was the perpetual expanse of land in the exact same color and texture as the miles and miles of land before it tended to make him fidgety. This time however, he was completely at ease as he steered his rental car down the long stretches of empty roads. The windows were down, allowing the soft, breezy-warm spring air to stir his hair and fill his lungs.
"I just passed a farm. Another one," he said to Dean, who was directing him via his cell phone. "How close am I?"
"Was it Perkins' farm?"
"I think so. There was wheat. So, so much wheat, Dean."
Dean laughed, and a little more of that rigid thing in his chest crumbled loose and fell away. "Yeah, you're close then. Like, five minutes."
He nearly drove right past it - it was a tiny, shabby little motel off to the side of the road, the sign out front proclaiming vacancy nearly obscured by a large tree. But then he recognized the Impala parked in the little lot for guests, and the ache was so intense he bit down on his lower lip. It had been a while, but he remembered the seats and their smell and the way his father would always drive when he and Dean needed to crash in the backseat, even if he was just as tired.
"I'm here," he said a moment later as he parked and got out of his car, not sure why he was whispering into his phone. "Dad's watching TV, right?"
"Yeah." Dean was whispering too. "He's sitting on the bed. I'm in the bathroom."
"Okay, go into the bedroom in a minute and make sure the door is unlocked. Room 312, right?"
"Right. See you in a minute."
They hung up, and really, Sam had no idea why they were treating this like they were throwing John a goddamn surprise birthday party or something. It was far more likely that things would just be awkwardly tense for the next ten days. Still, he all but tiptoed through the motel's little lobby, complete with a threadbare carpet and a bored receptionist who didn't even ask him who he was. There was an elevator but it was broken, and so he climbed the stairs and was grateful that he'd left his bags out in the car.
Dean had done his job, and the door to his and their father's room was indeed unlocked. With his heart thudding wildly against the walls of his throat, Sam pushed it open.
"Hi, Dad," he said, and John turned around. For a moment, Sam was startled at the way he looked - dark, puffy circles under his eyes, and he'd lost a bit of weight. The weariness weighing down on his shoulders was visible if intangible, and he looked so tired.
John was not a slow man by any means, but it took a moment for the realization to dawn in his face, and then he rose to his feet. "Sam?" he said.
Sam nodded, taking a careful step forward. Dean was already at his side, reaching out for him with both arms and drawing him into a crushing hug. And Sam remembered this - his brother's warm strength, the way he could sense power under the heat of his skin, the way Dean wrapped him up in his arms and cradled him against his chest and squeezed him tight. He let his head drop to his shoulder, his eyes sinking closed for just a moment as he inhaled the scent of beer and something woodsy, like raw earth and leaves. He let his hands slide up Dean's back, clutched at his shirt. Pressed his face against his neck, sighed almost imperceptibly when Dean kissed his temple.
"Goddamn, it's good to see you," Dean said cheerfully, apparently determined to not let the tension between John and Sam ruin his happy moment. He let go of Sam and stepped back, turning his head to glance at their father. "Sam decided to visit us for his spring break, Dad. We wanted to surprise you."
"Surprise," Sam said weakly.
"For his spring break," John repeated slowly, giving Sam a once-over.
"Ten days," Sam confirmed.
"And it's going to be a kickass ten days. You can help us look into those missing girls," Dean said, his voice a little firmer now.
"Nah, Sam's not here to help out," John said suddenly, his tone freezing over. "He's just here to go slumming for a while with his demon-hunting, dysfunctional family. Assuming he's still willing to acknowledge us as his family."
"Dad," Dean said a little helplessly, but Sam stepped forward. There was so much he wanted to say - I've missed you, believe it or not. A lot. Of course I still acknowledge you as my family, I'd never do otherwise. Stop acting like my going to college is akin to applying for emancipation, don't most fathers want their kids to get degrees?
What came out of his mouth was, "Jesus Dad, you look awful."
John's laugh was a mirthless bark. "Go back to school, Sam. I'm sure you have tons of college buddies you can meet up with for the week."
"I don't want to." He noted suddenly that both John and Dean's clothes were wrinkled, and Dean was sporting grass stains on the knees of his jeans. "When was the last time either of you did laundry?"
Dean glanced down at himself and shrugged, answering for both of them. "Two weeks, I guess? We threw some stuff in at that place where we stayed in Oklahoma."
Sam, momentarily forgetting his issues with his father, blinked at Dean. "...Okay. It's a good thing I brought detergent with me, both of you strip. We're washing everything, right now. This is disgusting."
John and Dean stared at him. "Hey," John finally said. "We were about to have a fight. You and I have been fighting with each other for a long time now, I know these things."
"Yeah, well, we can fight when your clothes are clean. C'mon, off with 'em. I brought fabric softener too."
Slowly, Dean smiled. And then he yanked his t-shirt over his head. "C'mon, Dad. We've been given an order by Miss Manners over here," he said cheerfully, and his voice was so bright and relieved that even John couldn't help but smile back. He followed suit, tugging his own t-shirt over his head and unzipping his jeans along with Dean, stepping out of them.
"Boxers too, I don't even want to think about how long it's been since you guys have washed those. Shit, I leave you two alone for a few months and you just let yourselves go to hell in a filthy handbasket. Let me guess, you've been living on a steady diet of beer and pizza since I left?"
"And ice cream," Dean said defensively, and Sam loved them both so much he almost couldn't stand it. Their bodies were exactly as he remembered them from the times they'd shared showers at motels that didn't have much hot water, from the times he and Dean had gone skinny dipping in various states. Dean, smooth and strong and a little thick with muscle, wrapped up in all that perfect golden skin. John was rougher, heavier. He'd always claimed a very slight belly, a little soft and round, but since he'd lost weight it was less so now. He had dark, curling hair across his chest and leading in a fine trail from his navel to his cock, where it joined the tangle at the apex of his thighs. Sam considered the notion that perhaps it was a little strange to be analyzing his father's dick so extensively, but he reasoned that he'd always been analytical in nature.
With his arms full of clothes, he staggered back down the stairs to the motel's laundry room and threw everything in. By the time he returned to their room, John and Dean had wrapped themselves in sheets from the two beds they had and were watching TV.
"No, no," Sam insisted, pointing to the bathroom. "You guys have been walking around in those clothes for God knows how long, and I have to spend the night in here with you. Showers, both of you."
"Hey. Just who do you think you are? You left us, and now you think you can sail in here and tell us how to live?" Dean pouted, aware of the facetiousness of the gesture.
"Damn right. How big is the shower in there? I want one too, I feel gross from driving."
"It's a good size," John said, his eyes glued to the game.
"Good." Sam reached for the remote and turned it off. John narrowed his eyes up at him, but Sam grinned and touched his father's shoulder. "Come on, it'll only take a few minutes."
Things had not been resolved between them, and they both knew it. But unconsciously, they seemed to have come to a silent understanding. An unspoken agreement to talk about it later, when the time was right. Sam had no idea when that time would be, but he was content to enjoy the tentative peace now. John and Dean followed him into the bathroom, and he shed his clothes as he went. None of them had ever been self-conscious around each other, growing up on the road together had long since eradicated any illusions of personal space.
They soaped up in silence, washing their hair with the same bottle of shampoo. When Dean turned around in an unspoken request, Sam ran his washcloth over the expanse of his back. His wet skin shifted with the movement of the strong muscles there, and for a moment Sam couldn't stop watching. John cleared his throat, effectively breaking up the moment, and less than five minutes later they were out and toweling off. Sam, figuring that the clothes were ready to be dried, put on the pair of jeans and t-shirt that he'd worn on the drive down and jogged to the motel's first floor to load them in. When he returned to their room again, Dean had gone out to his car to retrieve his things.
"Thanks," he said, sifting through his clean clothes for something new to put on. Considering that it was getting late, he eventually settled on a pair of boxers that had been washed so many times they were baby-blanket soft and an old white Hanes t-shirt. Dean and John had settled in to watch the rest of the game, putting on equally-as-dirty clothes from their emergency stash in a move that nullified the point of their earlier shower, and he ended up sitting cross-legged on John's bed and reading until deciding that their clothes had dried sufficiently. The motel seemed largely uninhabited save for the bored receptionist in the lobby - Sam had yet to run into any other guests during his trips up and down the stairs.
He carried their loads back up with the aid of a frayed but gratis laundry bag with the motel's logo stamped to it, and dumped it out onto Dean's bed when he returned for the final time.
"Thanks," Dean said absently. He and John were both leaning forward, fixated on the game, and Sam considered letting them finish it before he spoke. But then he realized that he would have lost his nerve in doing so, and so he cleared his throat.
"Hey. Guys."
There was no answer. He clapped his hands sharply, once then twice. "Hey!"
They turned to look at him. John lowered the volume on the game. Once he had the attention he'd demanded, Sam had no idea where to begin. But then he said, a little hesitantly, "Shouldn't we...talk?"
Dean reached for the remote, turned off the game.
"About what, Sam?" John was the first to speak, and he sounded weary once more. "Seemed to me that you were happy pretending everything was fine, can't we just stick to that? Or do you really want to hash over your turning back on your family? Your family who needs you? Is that what you want to "talk" about? Because if so, I have plenty to say about it."
"Come on, Dad," Dean said. "Give him a break."
"It's not like I changed my goddamn name or anything!" In his frustration, Sam's voice rose. "I went to college. Isn't that what most fathers want for their sons? Most normal fathers anyway, as opposed to fathers selfish enough to spend their sons' childhoods carting them all over the fucking world fighting demons and trying to force them to become some grand warriors of legend. Dean can do it, Dad, but it's not me. It's never been me. And it's not fair of you to hold that against me."
The hurt on John's face, his stunned silence, shamed Sam immediately. Finally, he said, "You think I ruined your childhood?"
Sam opened his mouth, caught Dean's warning look. Softening, he approached his father's chair. "No, Dad. I honestly believe that you did the best you knew how with us, that you did all you could to protect us and make sure that we'd know enough to grow up safe. But that doesn't change the fact that I can't fit into the roles you designated for us. I want to go to college, I want to have a family and a normal life and a house I can actually live in for more than six months at a time."
John sighed, slumped in his chair. Nodded. "I can understand that, Sammy. I suppose I'm just as human as anyone, when you left it just...it hurt."
"I know. I missed you guys so much I almost couldn't stand it. I still do. Why else would I risk World War Three, trying to visit you? I never wanted to hurt either one of you, but I had to do what I felt was best for me. Can't you understand that?" He knelt in front of his father, took one of his big, rough hands into both of his own. "But I'll always be a Winchester, and proud of it."
John had never been an exceptionally vulnerable man, but the hope dawning in his expression in that moment was so childlike and sweet that Sam melted in his spot. "Yeah?"
"Yeah. I know we bitch at each other all the time, but I love you Dad. You have to know that. I really do appreciate all you've done for Dean and I."
John exhaled. Dean had remained uncharacteristically silent throughout this exchange, as if he was holding his breath and hoping it didn't dissolve into another fight. "I love you too, Sam. Just don't forget about us when you're some hotshot lawyer."
Sam grinned, reached out for his father. He felt solid and warm in his arms, the heat of his skin soaking through the thin t-shirt he was wearing. His stubble scraped Sam's soft cheek, and his lips brushed his ear. Sam only barely managed to conceal his shiver - over the course of his time at school, he'd become faintly aware that there was perhaps another reason he'd made an unconscious effort to avoid getting too close to his father over the years.
They parted, but did not let go of each other, and ended up with Sam kneeling in front of a seated John with his arms still looped around his neck as they stared at each other. John was holding Sam up slightly, with both hands on his waist, but suddenly Sam rose to his feet. He meant to walk away, to claim hunger so he could escape to the phone and distract himself by ordering something. But then Dean was behind him, pressing one big hand to the flat of his back. "Sam," he said quietly. "You guys have been doing so well tonight, you should probably just keep going."
John looked over Sam's shoulder at Dean, who added, "Stand up, Dad."
As if confused as to why he was obeying, John rose to his feet. Dean said, "You too, Sam."
Sam stood as well, and was now facing his father. They'd let go of each other, but the gentle pressure of Dean's hand against his back kept them standing close.
"Come on, you guys," Dean said quietly. "We all know I'm not the sharpest knife in the drawer, but even I can tell where this is going. Might as well get on with it."
Sam's head whipped around, and he gaped at Dean. "Are you seriously implying what I think you are? Dean. That's fucked."
"Almost as fucked as fighting demons and ghosts and vampires and all that other shit. Almost as fucked as spending our entire lives bouncing from place to place, trying to keep our trails cold. Don't talk to me about what's fucked, Sammy, I could go on all night. The difference is that this is something that's fucked up and for us. We don't get to do a lot of fucked up shit for our own benefit, you know. If we're going to live deviant lives, shouldn't we take at least a little pleasure in it?"
This was a surprisingly eloquent speech for Dean, and Sam felt his resolve dissolving when John reached out and touched his face. He seemed convinced, if tortured about it. The anguished, needy expression on his face broke Sam's heart in half. When Dean moved closer to him and slipped both arms around his waist from behind, pressing his chest against his back, Sam was lost.
"I've done so much to you boys, I've taken away so much of your childhoods," John all but whispered brokenly. "I can't believe I'm even considering this."
"We're not children anymore," Sam reminded him, surprising himself even as he spoke. "None of us can fix what's done, but we can make things a little better for ourselves now." He couldn't deny the press of Dean's body anymore, the ache in his father's eyes. With Dean still holding him, he reached out for John with both arms.
John sank into his embrace, dropping his head onto Sam's shoulder. "Ah, hell," he said, and it seemed to be his conclusive reaction to the situation. Ah, hell.
Sam smiled faintly, stroking the soft, thick dark hair at the back of his father's head. His rough stubble scraping his cheek was profoundly tender, for some reason, and the warm rush of the sigh he exhaled against the side of Sam's neck turned his knees to water. Abruptly, unexpectedly, his father was intensely beautiful. Suddenly, he was a man instead of Dad. A weary, dark-eyed man who was now capable of evoking all sorts of new feelings in his son. Namely, a terrible tenderness that inspired him to take John's face into both hands and draw him in for a kiss.
John did not resist, and when their lips touched, Sam came apart. Nothing, no kiss, had ever been so good, especially when John groaned and rested both big hands on his waist and tilted his head slightly to kiss him with a purpose. Dean's hold on him loosened a bit, but then he was mouthing the back of Sam's neck. He nipped at his ear, stroked his hands up his back.
The soft, wet sounds of John and Sam kissing, the sight of their pink tongues flashing between them with every movement of their heads as their eyes sank closed nearly undid Dean where he stood, but he managed to compose himself enough to say, "Dad."
John paused, pulled away from Sam enough to look over his shoulder at Dean with a raised eyebrow. Dean smiled sweetly, rather enjoying his new role as commander of operations in the bedroom, and pointed to the bed. With a wink in his brother's direction, he repeated his earlier words: "Both of you, strip."
Sam shed his shirt and boxers fairly quickly, suddenly eager. John was more hesitant, paused to watch him before pulling his own shirt over his head. Now free to openly ogle, Sam took the opportunity to admire his father's body. He was breathtaking, but not in the same golden, muscular sense as Dean. Softer and a bit thicker than his sons, dark, curling hair covered his chest and dissipated into a fine trail down to his navel. His dark, heavy-lidded eyes defined the term "bedroom eyes" in their mere existence, and Dean had inherited his generous mouth. His shoulders sagged, and scars marked his skin in seemingly random places all over his body.
Something occurred to Sam then. Dad's getting old.
Suddenly, his father was a vulnerable creature, not the hero of legend he'd constantly clashed with in the past, but a tired, battle-worn man who was getting old and had no defense against time, in spite of the mighty monsters he'd once defeated. John Winchester was becoming a man in Sam's eyes, a father who'd never done anything less than love and struggle to protect his sons since their births. A deeply sympathetic character in the horror/drama of their lives. It was such a shocking revelation that Sam sat down hard on the edge of the bed, stunned and staring up at John. Finally, he saw him. And he loved him so much, in that one devastating moment.
"Sam?" John said quietly, concerned.
"Jesus Dad, how could I have...I just turned my back on you, and...fuck. I'm so sorry Dad, I'm so sorry."
John and Dean were sitting on either side of him on the bed now, all pretense gone. John gathered him up into his arms and cradled him against his chest even though he wasn't crying, hadn't cried in what felt like forever.
"You deserve a better life than what I could give you. I'm damn proud of you for pursuing it," John assured him, but then he couldn't say any more because Sam had his face in his hands again and they were kissing, kissing urgently. Dean made a satisfied sound in his throat, and Sam gently pushed his father back onto the bed. He felt it dip as Dean settled beside them, apparently content to watch for now. He seemed to understand that something enormous was happening here, and that for the moment he only needed to play a secondary role.
Carefully, Sam tugged John's jeans down his legs, loving the fine dusting of soft hair that began at the midpoint of both thighs. His erection was already stirring, tenting his simple gray boxers, and Sam smiled. "It's been a long time since anyone's touched you like this, huh Dad?" he said tenderly, taking a moment to curve his hand around John's cock through the fabric and feeling his heart twitch sympathetically when it jerked a little against his palm. Sam stroked his way over it, down to the heavy balls that rested beneath it. John groaned.
"Put your mouth on him, Sam," Dean encouraged from the sidelines, leaning forward to see more clearly. His own cock was taking an interest in the proceedings, but he chose not to mention it for now.
Sam dipped his head low, arching his spine over his father, and mouthed his erection through his boxers. The fabric quickly became wet and dark with his saliva, but the feel of it pressing against his lips and tongue was enough to get him drunk. His head was swimming when he finally sat up and motioned for John to lift up a bit so that he could kick the boxers off. With a surprising grace for a big guy, John complied.
It certainly wasn't the first time Sam had seen his father's exposed cock, quite the contrary. But he'd never seen it like this before - hard and swollen and flushed, now pressed flat against his belly and leaking a little. The scent of it made Sam's mouth water, his body responding to the sight immediately. His own cock was stiff and aching already, but once again he lowered his head. He pressed an absurdly gentle kiss to the head of John's cock, rubbing his lips against it and closing his eyes. He curled his fingers around the shaft and rubbed it against his cheeks, his chin, the hot flesh causing his balls to draw up and his nipples to stiffen and ache.
When he first closed his mouth around his father's cock, he nearly spilled his come all over himself all at once. It took a moment and a few deep breaths through his nose to regain his composure, Dean's hand reassuringly stroking up the length of his back. "Don't push yourself too much, Sam," his brother's voice reminded him. "It'll get easier to take with time, we'll teach you."
He didn't have time to analyze that statement because he was too busy trying to swallow his father whole, to take him into his throat. He couldn't manage it though, and only made his way about halfway down the shaft of John's cock before his eyes started to water and his throat started to burn. John didn't seem to mind though, and he was clearly fighting not to jerk his hips up into Sam's wet little mouth. One gentle hand at the top of his head guided him, and he let his tongue flick over the deeply sensitive spot just below the flare of the head. He knew from his experience with women and the small handful of men he'd experimented with what felt best to him, and luckily it seemed to work on John too.
Precome was leaking steadily now into Sam's mouth, running down the back of his throat, and he sighed contentedly through his nose. He'd always known he had a fondness for sucking cock - he had an oral fixation really, was forever sticking pens and such into his mouth. But his father's dick in his mouth was a new world of blinding experiences. It throbbed against his lips like a hot, living thing when he lifted off of it entirely and rubbed his tongue up the side of the shaft. The musky, salty, bitter taste was no longer an unfortunate side effect of blowjobs, but something he knew would be inspiring his wet dreams for months.
Dean meanwhile, couldn't stand it anymore and had shed his own clothes, leaning back against the pillows to fist his erection. He'd even leaned over the side of the bed for the complimentary tiny bottle of hand lotion next to the shampoo and conditioner that the motel provided on the cheap little nightstand. He made slick little bursts of sound every time his jerked his fist up and down, and Sam wanted very badly to touch him too.
Instead, he nuzzled John's balls once more, pressing a kiss to them before he held out his hand for what was left of the lotion. Dean handed it over without complaint, his eyes fixed on them. "Shit, you guys," he said huskily. "Shit."
"Come on Dean," Sam urged after a moment's thought. "Help me out." He didn't like watching his poor brother sitting off to the side, jerking off alone. Dean smiled rather adoringly at him, heaving up into a kneeling position with his dick stiff and twitching, and took back the lotion. John watched with hooded eyes as Dean smeared it onto his fingers, and Sam pushed his hips toward him. "Go slow," he said quietly, a little worried that admitting that this would technically be his first time actually having sex with a man would bring the proceedings to a shuddering halt.
"Shh, Sammy. S'all right, I've got you," Dean said soothingly, looping an arm around his waist from behind to hold him in place while he pressed his index finger into him. True to his word, he was slow and careful about it, but Sam's head still tipped back and his entire body shuddered as a guttural moan spilled out of him.
"Jesus," Dean said a little breathlessly. "God Dad, look at him."
John had been mostly quiet while all of this had been happening, but now he exhaled and touched Sam's thigh. "Straddle my hips, Sam," he instructed. Sam had been kneeling on John's right side until that moment, but then he stilled so that Dean could remove his finger, and he shifted over so that his knees were bent with his legs spread on either side of John's thighs.
"There's a good boy."
The words nearly ended things before they'd begun for Sam, and he leaned over a bit, bracing his hands on his father's chest and meeting his eyes. "Dad."
"I know, kiddo. Dean, keep going."
Dean's finger returned, slicker and deeper this time, his index sinking into Sam's ass up to the third knuckle. Sam whimpered through gritted teeth, and John stroked his face. He could feel his father's cock pressing greedily against the inside of his thigh, but there was nothing he could do about it in his current position. Luckily, Dean had already worked a second finger into him and was carefully easing him open. Sam rocked his hips back against his brother's hand, his fingers combing through his father's chest hair, and wondered how the hell he was going to go back to school after this.
"Give him three, Dean," John said decisively. Dean's ring finger soon joined his index and middle, where they were third-knuckle deep inside of him. The searing stretch was more than worth it, especially when Dean pulled them out and gave Sam's ass a loving swat.
"He's ready, Dad."
"Oh fuck, thank God," John groaned, gripping the base of his cock with one hand. "Lift up, Sam."
Obediently, Sam raised his lower body so that John could press the tip of his dick against Sam's wet, loosened entrance. "Just drop down whenever you're ready." The raw, aching lust in John's tone was only underscored by the profound love and affection that Sam heard in it, and it was the latter that brought him to a place in which he was slowly lowering himself onto his father's cock.
"Unh, uh, ungh," Sam did not moan long and low the way he had before, but his pleasure was voiced in a series of hitching little grunts as the thick scrape of John's cock filled him up inside. It was nothing like Dean's fingers - it was hotter, thicker, he felt like he was being flooded with a blistering heat from the inside out. His fingers crooked, his nails digging into John's chest, and his head tipped back as his eyes clenched shut.
John gave him time, stilling the movement of his body so that he could adjust, and Dean said softly, "Damn. If only you guys could see yourselves right now."
"Oh, Dad. Come on, please," Sam babbled a bit, rocking back and forth as his father's cock broke him wide open. He stretched around him, the pull of tight flesh stunning, the sweetest anguish he'd ever known. Obligingly, John, raised his hands to grip Sam's hips and thrust shallowly into him.
Sam met him halfway, their bodies crashing together as he pushed down onto his dick and John arched up into him. He dipped his head for a kiss, a long, languid affair in which their tongues wrapped around each other and Sam could finally say that he knew what it felt like to lick his father's teeth. Suddenly, Dean's arms were around him from behind, tugging and twisting his nipples, and the heat of him against his back wrung a startled cry from Sam's throat and he started to rock against his father's dick with a need more urgent than before.
Dean stroked his way down Sam's belly, finally wrapping his strong, callused fingers around his cock and jerking sharply. While doing this, he mouthed wetly at the back of Sam's neck, tongued the soft spot behind his ear, and Sam came so abruptly it surprised even him. He went still and quiet and tense, and then his cock was jerking and spilling into Dean's hands. His come splattered his brother's fingers and his father's chest, and John swore and thrust into him so hard he nearly bucked him off.
Sam went boneless and breathless in Dean's arms, but Dean held him up so that John could finish. It only took a few more thrusts and then he was there, grunting and swearing and spurting into Sam's body. It was searing, mind-blowing, and Dean let him go so that he could fall limply against John's chest. He was panting still, but he wrapped both arms around Sam and held him tightly.
Dean rose from the bed, and came back roughly five minutes later with a damp washcloth. Tenderly, he cleaned both of them off and tossed it to the floor before reaching out for them both. His erection had wilted, but he looked oddly satisfied, and Sam suddenly put two and two together and pushed him.
"Asshole. I would have taken care of you."
Dean smiled, kissed Sam's temple. "Wouldn't want to interrupt the post-coital bliss," was all he said, before settling in beside them and reaching out. Eagerly, they accepted him into their fold, six arms and six legs tangling together in what finally ended up as a three-man spooning with Sam in the middle.
"I guess we have nine more days to convince you to become a college dropout, huh?" Dean mumbled against Sam's neck, and Sam could feel his smile.
"I feel like if I tell you that I've already made my decision, I'll be cheating myself out of an awesome nine days," he responded, and Dean chuckled.
"Go to sleep, you two," John said, and for a moment he sounded so disconcertingly like their dad that it was kind of funny in a really wrong way. Together, their breathing synchronized and the vending machine just outside their door started to hum in the dim hallway light.
End.
Fandom: Supernatural
Pairing/s: John/Sam, John/Dean/Sam, some vague Dean/Sam.
Rating: NC-17 (m/m sex, swearing, angst and fluff.)
Spoilers: None.
Summary: Sam left for college entirely convinced that he was doing the right thing despite everything. In deciding to visit his father and brother for spring break, his unconscious longing becomes manifest.
Disclaimer: I own nothing and no one, this is a work of complete fiction.
The first time Sam called Dean from college, he happened to be laying on his dorm-room bed on his back, with his fingers crossed in an absurdly and entirely uncharacteristically superstitious gesture, in the hopes that their father would not be the one to pick up the phone.
And so of course he was, and for one wild, fleeting moment when that familiar voice filled his ear from such a long way away, Sam nearly hung up. But then an oddly endearing combination of concern, confusion and a touch of annoyance was seeping into John's voice, and something inside of him that had been slowly melting since he'd left home crumbled away a little more.
"Hello? Who is this?" John said sharply, and if Sam knew his father then he was about to hang up. So he spoke, clearing his throat in preparation.
"Dad. Hi. Uh, it's me. Sam."
In one fragmented, six-word sentence, he'd managed to spill forth an impressive degree of inanity. Because, he reminded himself as he waited for his father to respond, who the hell else would refer to John as "Dad"? Not to mention, since when was John incapable of recognizing his voice over the phone? And lastly, he was fairly sure that "it's me" would have sufficed just fine, and that the clarification of "Sam" had not been necessary to establish the nice little awkward pause in which they were currently indulging. He suddenly found himself profoundly grateful that his father could not see his face at the moment.
Finally, John said, "Did you want to talk to your brother?"
Because he'd expected little else, Sam said "Yeah," with some measure of relief. He heard a faint thud as John put the phone down, and his muffled voice calling out, "Dean! Sam's on the phone, pick up."
It was only a moment before Dean's clearer voice answered. "Got it, Dad," and John hung up the phone in the other room. Sam exhaled, his whole body slumping against his mattress at the sound of Dean's warmer tone. "Sammy, hey," he said. "How's it going?"
"How about we do it like this," Sam said in lieu of responding. "I'll just call at the same time every week, whenever you know for sure that you'll be home and that you can be the first one to pick up."
"Was it really that bad, talking to Dad for ten seconds?"
"We hardly talked. And yes, it was."
"Then maybe you should stop being such a little bitch about everything and come home. Apologize. He'd never hold it against you, you know how much he loves you." Dean's mordant nature was only vaguely diminished by his subtle reassurance of their father's love.
"I can't, Dean. You know I can't."
"Then just talk to him. Apologize, tell him you love him, that you weren't trying to betray him in leaving. Tell him you don't think you're better than him, that you appreciate all he's done for us. All he wants is to be close to you again."
"Don't you get it? I can love Dad all I want, but we'll never be like you guys are. Dad and I just don't get each other the way you and Dad do, and we never will. It's no one's fault, we're just different. I know he wishes that he could just have another Dean, but he doesn't. And that's not my problem."
"Maybe you should stop comparing your relationship with Dad to mine and work on getting your shit with him back on track before he finally gives up on you."
"You really think he would?"
"No. But I wish he would, Sammy. I'm not trying to be an ass about this, but it eats him up. The way he's always had to struggle to bond with you and all that talk show bullshit, I can tell it does. And now you've gone away to college like you're just too damn good to become a part of our legacy, and it's only confirmed all of his worst fears. He's tried so hard, all his life, to make you feel like a Winchester. And it's like you've finally just said, "maybe I don't want to be." It hurts him, you know?"
"I never said that."
"You didn't have to. Are we going to hash this shit over all night, or did you have something to say? We've been over this a hundred times before."
"Do you think he'd be pissed if I came to visit you guys for a while?"
"What about your classes?"
"Spring break is coming up, I have a week off. I was thinking about spending it with you guys, but what he said before I left..."
"Come on, Sam." Dean's voice suddenly brightened, as if the prospect of seeing him in person again made everything better. Sam didn't have the heart to correct his irrational joy. "You know he'd never send you packing, he misses the shit out of you. Hell, so do I. Come on home."
"Don't tell Dad. I don't want him worrying or getting pissed all over again or whatever. I think it'll be better if I just show up and surprise him."
"Yeah, probably." Dean's immediate confirmation soothed him. "What day are you coming?"
"Break starts next Friday, I get out of class at two o' clock. Where are you guys, anyway?"
"Kearney, Nebraska. There have been reports of a suspicious number of missing red-haired women in the area, Dad and I have been looking into it. Hold on, let me get you the address of our motel." There was a moment's pause while Dean leaned out of their third-floor window, checking the street sign outside. When he returned, he relayed it to Sam, who jotted it down.
"I'll see you soon, then."
"I'm glad you're coming, kid."
In unison, they hung up. They usually did.
• • •
Normally, the endless wheat and corn fields of Nebraska would have resulted in a subtle sort of anxiety for Sam - it wasn't so much that he found them creepy as it was the perpetual expanse of land in the exact same color and texture as the miles and miles of land before it tended to make him fidgety. This time however, he was completely at ease as he steered his rental car down the long stretches of empty roads. The windows were down, allowing the soft, breezy-warm spring air to stir his hair and fill his lungs.
"I just passed a farm. Another one," he said to Dean, who was directing him via his cell phone. "How close am I?"
"Was it Perkins' farm?"
"I think so. There was wheat. So, so much wheat, Dean."
Dean laughed, and a little more of that rigid thing in his chest crumbled loose and fell away. "Yeah, you're close then. Like, five minutes."
He nearly drove right past it - it was a tiny, shabby little motel off to the side of the road, the sign out front proclaiming vacancy nearly obscured by a large tree. But then he recognized the Impala parked in the little lot for guests, and the ache was so intense he bit down on his lower lip. It had been a while, but he remembered the seats and their smell and the way his father would always drive when he and Dean needed to crash in the backseat, even if he was just as tired.
"I'm here," he said a moment later as he parked and got out of his car, not sure why he was whispering into his phone. "Dad's watching TV, right?"
"Yeah." Dean was whispering too. "He's sitting on the bed. I'm in the bathroom."
"Okay, go into the bedroom in a minute and make sure the door is unlocked. Room 312, right?"
"Right. See you in a minute."
They hung up, and really, Sam had no idea why they were treating this like they were throwing John a goddamn surprise birthday party or something. It was far more likely that things would just be awkwardly tense for the next ten days. Still, he all but tiptoed through the motel's little lobby, complete with a threadbare carpet and a bored receptionist who didn't even ask him who he was. There was an elevator but it was broken, and so he climbed the stairs and was grateful that he'd left his bags out in the car.
Dean had done his job, and the door to his and their father's room was indeed unlocked. With his heart thudding wildly against the walls of his throat, Sam pushed it open.
"Hi, Dad," he said, and John turned around. For a moment, Sam was startled at the way he looked - dark, puffy circles under his eyes, and he'd lost a bit of weight. The weariness weighing down on his shoulders was visible if intangible, and he looked so tired.
John was not a slow man by any means, but it took a moment for the realization to dawn in his face, and then he rose to his feet. "Sam?" he said.
Sam nodded, taking a careful step forward. Dean was already at his side, reaching out for him with both arms and drawing him into a crushing hug. And Sam remembered this - his brother's warm strength, the way he could sense power under the heat of his skin, the way Dean wrapped him up in his arms and cradled him against his chest and squeezed him tight. He let his head drop to his shoulder, his eyes sinking closed for just a moment as he inhaled the scent of beer and something woodsy, like raw earth and leaves. He let his hands slide up Dean's back, clutched at his shirt. Pressed his face against his neck, sighed almost imperceptibly when Dean kissed his temple.
"Goddamn, it's good to see you," Dean said cheerfully, apparently determined to not let the tension between John and Sam ruin his happy moment. He let go of Sam and stepped back, turning his head to glance at their father. "Sam decided to visit us for his spring break, Dad. We wanted to surprise you."
"Surprise," Sam said weakly.
"For his spring break," John repeated slowly, giving Sam a once-over.
"Ten days," Sam confirmed.
"And it's going to be a kickass ten days. You can help us look into those missing girls," Dean said, his voice a little firmer now.
"Nah, Sam's not here to help out," John said suddenly, his tone freezing over. "He's just here to go slumming for a while with his demon-hunting, dysfunctional family. Assuming he's still willing to acknowledge us as his family."
"Dad," Dean said a little helplessly, but Sam stepped forward. There was so much he wanted to say - I've missed you, believe it or not. A lot. Of course I still acknowledge you as my family, I'd never do otherwise. Stop acting like my going to college is akin to applying for emancipation, don't most fathers want their kids to get degrees?
What came out of his mouth was, "Jesus Dad, you look awful."
John's laugh was a mirthless bark. "Go back to school, Sam. I'm sure you have tons of college buddies you can meet up with for the week."
"I don't want to." He noted suddenly that both John and Dean's clothes were wrinkled, and Dean was sporting grass stains on the knees of his jeans. "When was the last time either of you did laundry?"
Dean glanced down at himself and shrugged, answering for both of them. "Two weeks, I guess? We threw some stuff in at that place where we stayed in Oklahoma."
Sam, momentarily forgetting his issues with his father, blinked at Dean. "...Okay. It's a good thing I brought detergent with me, both of you strip. We're washing everything, right now. This is disgusting."
John and Dean stared at him. "Hey," John finally said. "We were about to have a fight. You and I have been fighting with each other for a long time now, I know these things."
"Yeah, well, we can fight when your clothes are clean. C'mon, off with 'em. I brought fabric softener too."
Slowly, Dean smiled. And then he yanked his t-shirt over his head. "C'mon, Dad. We've been given an order by Miss Manners over here," he said cheerfully, and his voice was so bright and relieved that even John couldn't help but smile back. He followed suit, tugging his own t-shirt over his head and unzipping his jeans along with Dean, stepping out of them.
"Boxers too, I don't even want to think about how long it's been since you guys have washed those. Shit, I leave you two alone for a few months and you just let yourselves go to hell in a filthy handbasket. Let me guess, you've been living on a steady diet of beer and pizza since I left?"
"And ice cream," Dean said defensively, and Sam loved them both so much he almost couldn't stand it. Their bodies were exactly as he remembered them from the times they'd shared showers at motels that didn't have much hot water, from the times he and Dean had gone skinny dipping in various states. Dean, smooth and strong and a little thick with muscle, wrapped up in all that perfect golden skin. John was rougher, heavier. He'd always claimed a very slight belly, a little soft and round, but since he'd lost weight it was less so now. He had dark, curling hair across his chest and leading in a fine trail from his navel to his cock, where it joined the tangle at the apex of his thighs. Sam considered the notion that perhaps it was a little strange to be analyzing his father's dick so extensively, but he reasoned that he'd always been analytical in nature.
With his arms full of clothes, he staggered back down the stairs to the motel's laundry room and threw everything in. By the time he returned to their room, John and Dean had wrapped themselves in sheets from the two beds they had and were watching TV.
"No, no," Sam insisted, pointing to the bathroom. "You guys have been walking around in those clothes for God knows how long, and I have to spend the night in here with you. Showers, both of you."
"Hey. Just who do you think you are? You left us, and now you think you can sail in here and tell us how to live?" Dean pouted, aware of the facetiousness of the gesture.
"Damn right. How big is the shower in there? I want one too, I feel gross from driving."
"It's a good size," John said, his eyes glued to the game.
"Good." Sam reached for the remote and turned it off. John narrowed his eyes up at him, but Sam grinned and touched his father's shoulder. "Come on, it'll only take a few minutes."
Things had not been resolved between them, and they both knew it. But unconsciously, they seemed to have come to a silent understanding. An unspoken agreement to talk about it later, when the time was right. Sam had no idea when that time would be, but he was content to enjoy the tentative peace now. John and Dean followed him into the bathroom, and he shed his clothes as he went. None of them had ever been self-conscious around each other, growing up on the road together had long since eradicated any illusions of personal space.
They soaped up in silence, washing their hair with the same bottle of shampoo. When Dean turned around in an unspoken request, Sam ran his washcloth over the expanse of his back. His wet skin shifted with the movement of the strong muscles there, and for a moment Sam couldn't stop watching. John cleared his throat, effectively breaking up the moment, and less than five minutes later they were out and toweling off. Sam, figuring that the clothes were ready to be dried, put on the pair of jeans and t-shirt that he'd worn on the drive down and jogged to the motel's first floor to load them in. When he returned to their room again, Dean had gone out to his car to retrieve his things.
"Thanks," he said, sifting through his clean clothes for something new to put on. Considering that it was getting late, he eventually settled on a pair of boxers that had been washed so many times they were baby-blanket soft and an old white Hanes t-shirt. Dean and John had settled in to watch the rest of the game, putting on equally-as-dirty clothes from their emergency stash in a move that nullified the point of their earlier shower, and he ended up sitting cross-legged on John's bed and reading until deciding that their clothes had dried sufficiently. The motel seemed largely uninhabited save for the bored receptionist in the lobby - Sam had yet to run into any other guests during his trips up and down the stairs.
He carried their loads back up with the aid of a frayed but gratis laundry bag with the motel's logo stamped to it, and dumped it out onto Dean's bed when he returned for the final time.
"Thanks," Dean said absently. He and John were both leaning forward, fixated on the game, and Sam considered letting them finish it before he spoke. But then he realized that he would have lost his nerve in doing so, and so he cleared his throat.
"Hey. Guys."
There was no answer. He clapped his hands sharply, once then twice. "Hey!"
They turned to look at him. John lowered the volume on the game. Once he had the attention he'd demanded, Sam had no idea where to begin. But then he said, a little hesitantly, "Shouldn't we...talk?"
Dean reached for the remote, turned off the game.
"About what, Sam?" John was the first to speak, and he sounded weary once more. "Seemed to me that you were happy pretending everything was fine, can't we just stick to that? Or do you really want to hash over your turning back on your family? Your family who needs you? Is that what you want to "talk" about? Because if so, I have plenty to say about it."
"Come on, Dad," Dean said. "Give him a break."
"It's not like I changed my goddamn name or anything!" In his frustration, Sam's voice rose. "I went to college. Isn't that what most fathers want for their sons? Most normal fathers anyway, as opposed to fathers selfish enough to spend their sons' childhoods carting them all over the fucking world fighting demons and trying to force them to become some grand warriors of legend. Dean can do it, Dad, but it's not me. It's never been me. And it's not fair of you to hold that against me."
The hurt on John's face, his stunned silence, shamed Sam immediately. Finally, he said, "You think I ruined your childhood?"
Sam opened his mouth, caught Dean's warning look. Softening, he approached his father's chair. "No, Dad. I honestly believe that you did the best you knew how with us, that you did all you could to protect us and make sure that we'd know enough to grow up safe. But that doesn't change the fact that I can't fit into the roles you designated for us. I want to go to college, I want to have a family and a normal life and a house I can actually live in for more than six months at a time."
John sighed, slumped in his chair. Nodded. "I can understand that, Sammy. I suppose I'm just as human as anyone, when you left it just...it hurt."
"I know. I missed you guys so much I almost couldn't stand it. I still do. Why else would I risk World War Three, trying to visit you? I never wanted to hurt either one of you, but I had to do what I felt was best for me. Can't you understand that?" He knelt in front of his father, took one of his big, rough hands into both of his own. "But I'll always be a Winchester, and proud of it."
John had never been an exceptionally vulnerable man, but the hope dawning in his expression in that moment was so childlike and sweet that Sam melted in his spot. "Yeah?"
"Yeah. I know we bitch at each other all the time, but I love you Dad. You have to know that. I really do appreciate all you've done for Dean and I."
John exhaled. Dean had remained uncharacteristically silent throughout this exchange, as if he was holding his breath and hoping it didn't dissolve into another fight. "I love you too, Sam. Just don't forget about us when you're some hotshot lawyer."
Sam grinned, reached out for his father. He felt solid and warm in his arms, the heat of his skin soaking through the thin t-shirt he was wearing. His stubble scraped Sam's soft cheek, and his lips brushed his ear. Sam only barely managed to conceal his shiver - over the course of his time at school, he'd become faintly aware that there was perhaps another reason he'd made an unconscious effort to avoid getting too close to his father over the years.
They parted, but did not let go of each other, and ended up with Sam kneeling in front of a seated John with his arms still looped around his neck as they stared at each other. John was holding Sam up slightly, with both hands on his waist, but suddenly Sam rose to his feet. He meant to walk away, to claim hunger so he could escape to the phone and distract himself by ordering something. But then Dean was behind him, pressing one big hand to the flat of his back. "Sam," he said quietly. "You guys have been doing so well tonight, you should probably just keep going."
John looked over Sam's shoulder at Dean, who added, "Stand up, Dad."
As if confused as to why he was obeying, John rose to his feet. Dean said, "You too, Sam."
Sam stood as well, and was now facing his father. They'd let go of each other, but the gentle pressure of Dean's hand against his back kept them standing close.
"Come on, you guys," Dean said quietly. "We all know I'm not the sharpest knife in the drawer, but even I can tell where this is going. Might as well get on with it."
Sam's head whipped around, and he gaped at Dean. "Are you seriously implying what I think you are? Dean. That's fucked."
"Almost as fucked as fighting demons and ghosts and vampires and all that other shit. Almost as fucked as spending our entire lives bouncing from place to place, trying to keep our trails cold. Don't talk to me about what's fucked, Sammy, I could go on all night. The difference is that this is something that's fucked up and for us. We don't get to do a lot of fucked up shit for our own benefit, you know. If we're going to live deviant lives, shouldn't we take at least a little pleasure in it?"
This was a surprisingly eloquent speech for Dean, and Sam felt his resolve dissolving when John reached out and touched his face. He seemed convinced, if tortured about it. The anguished, needy expression on his face broke Sam's heart in half. When Dean moved closer to him and slipped both arms around his waist from behind, pressing his chest against his back, Sam was lost.
"I've done so much to you boys, I've taken away so much of your childhoods," John all but whispered brokenly. "I can't believe I'm even considering this."
"We're not children anymore," Sam reminded him, surprising himself even as he spoke. "None of us can fix what's done, but we can make things a little better for ourselves now." He couldn't deny the press of Dean's body anymore, the ache in his father's eyes. With Dean still holding him, he reached out for John with both arms.
John sank into his embrace, dropping his head onto Sam's shoulder. "Ah, hell," he said, and it seemed to be his conclusive reaction to the situation. Ah, hell.
Sam smiled faintly, stroking the soft, thick dark hair at the back of his father's head. His rough stubble scraping his cheek was profoundly tender, for some reason, and the warm rush of the sigh he exhaled against the side of Sam's neck turned his knees to water. Abruptly, unexpectedly, his father was intensely beautiful. Suddenly, he was a man instead of Dad. A weary, dark-eyed man who was now capable of evoking all sorts of new feelings in his son. Namely, a terrible tenderness that inspired him to take John's face into both hands and draw him in for a kiss.
John did not resist, and when their lips touched, Sam came apart. Nothing, no kiss, had ever been so good, especially when John groaned and rested both big hands on his waist and tilted his head slightly to kiss him with a purpose. Dean's hold on him loosened a bit, but then he was mouthing the back of Sam's neck. He nipped at his ear, stroked his hands up his back.
The soft, wet sounds of John and Sam kissing, the sight of their pink tongues flashing between them with every movement of their heads as their eyes sank closed nearly undid Dean where he stood, but he managed to compose himself enough to say, "Dad."
John paused, pulled away from Sam enough to look over his shoulder at Dean with a raised eyebrow. Dean smiled sweetly, rather enjoying his new role as commander of operations in the bedroom, and pointed to the bed. With a wink in his brother's direction, he repeated his earlier words: "Both of you, strip."
Sam shed his shirt and boxers fairly quickly, suddenly eager. John was more hesitant, paused to watch him before pulling his own shirt over his head. Now free to openly ogle, Sam took the opportunity to admire his father's body. He was breathtaking, but not in the same golden, muscular sense as Dean. Softer and a bit thicker than his sons, dark, curling hair covered his chest and dissipated into a fine trail down to his navel. His dark, heavy-lidded eyes defined the term "bedroom eyes" in their mere existence, and Dean had inherited his generous mouth. His shoulders sagged, and scars marked his skin in seemingly random places all over his body.
Something occurred to Sam then. Dad's getting old.
Suddenly, his father was a vulnerable creature, not the hero of legend he'd constantly clashed with in the past, but a tired, battle-worn man who was getting old and had no defense against time, in spite of the mighty monsters he'd once defeated. John Winchester was becoming a man in Sam's eyes, a father who'd never done anything less than love and struggle to protect his sons since their births. A deeply sympathetic character in the horror/drama of their lives. It was such a shocking revelation that Sam sat down hard on the edge of the bed, stunned and staring up at John. Finally, he saw him. And he loved him so much, in that one devastating moment.
"Sam?" John said quietly, concerned.
"Jesus Dad, how could I have...I just turned my back on you, and...fuck. I'm so sorry Dad, I'm so sorry."
John and Dean were sitting on either side of him on the bed now, all pretense gone. John gathered him up into his arms and cradled him against his chest even though he wasn't crying, hadn't cried in what felt like forever.
"You deserve a better life than what I could give you. I'm damn proud of you for pursuing it," John assured him, but then he couldn't say any more because Sam had his face in his hands again and they were kissing, kissing urgently. Dean made a satisfied sound in his throat, and Sam gently pushed his father back onto the bed. He felt it dip as Dean settled beside them, apparently content to watch for now. He seemed to understand that something enormous was happening here, and that for the moment he only needed to play a secondary role.
Carefully, Sam tugged John's jeans down his legs, loving the fine dusting of soft hair that began at the midpoint of both thighs. His erection was already stirring, tenting his simple gray boxers, and Sam smiled. "It's been a long time since anyone's touched you like this, huh Dad?" he said tenderly, taking a moment to curve his hand around John's cock through the fabric and feeling his heart twitch sympathetically when it jerked a little against his palm. Sam stroked his way over it, down to the heavy balls that rested beneath it. John groaned.
"Put your mouth on him, Sam," Dean encouraged from the sidelines, leaning forward to see more clearly. His own cock was taking an interest in the proceedings, but he chose not to mention it for now.
Sam dipped his head low, arching his spine over his father, and mouthed his erection through his boxers. The fabric quickly became wet and dark with his saliva, but the feel of it pressing against his lips and tongue was enough to get him drunk. His head was swimming when he finally sat up and motioned for John to lift up a bit so that he could kick the boxers off. With a surprising grace for a big guy, John complied.
It certainly wasn't the first time Sam had seen his father's exposed cock, quite the contrary. But he'd never seen it like this before - hard and swollen and flushed, now pressed flat against his belly and leaking a little. The scent of it made Sam's mouth water, his body responding to the sight immediately. His own cock was stiff and aching already, but once again he lowered his head. He pressed an absurdly gentle kiss to the head of John's cock, rubbing his lips against it and closing his eyes. He curled his fingers around the shaft and rubbed it against his cheeks, his chin, the hot flesh causing his balls to draw up and his nipples to stiffen and ache.
When he first closed his mouth around his father's cock, he nearly spilled his come all over himself all at once. It took a moment and a few deep breaths through his nose to regain his composure, Dean's hand reassuringly stroking up the length of his back. "Don't push yourself too much, Sam," his brother's voice reminded him. "It'll get easier to take with time, we'll teach you."
He didn't have time to analyze that statement because he was too busy trying to swallow his father whole, to take him into his throat. He couldn't manage it though, and only made his way about halfway down the shaft of John's cock before his eyes started to water and his throat started to burn. John didn't seem to mind though, and he was clearly fighting not to jerk his hips up into Sam's wet little mouth. One gentle hand at the top of his head guided him, and he let his tongue flick over the deeply sensitive spot just below the flare of the head. He knew from his experience with women and the small handful of men he'd experimented with what felt best to him, and luckily it seemed to work on John too.
Precome was leaking steadily now into Sam's mouth, running down the back of his throat, and he sighed contentedly through his nose. He'd always known he had a fondness for sucking cock - he had an oral fixation really, was forever sticking pens and such into his mouth. But his father's dick in his mouth was a new world of blinding experiences. It throbbed against his lips like a hot, living thing when he lifted off of it entirely and rubbed his tongue up the side of the shaft. The musky, salty, bitter taste was no longer an unfortunate side effect of blowjobs, but something he knew would be inspiring his wet dreams for months.
Dean meanwhile, couldn't stand it anymore and had shed his own clothes, leaning back against the pillows to fist his erection. He'd even leaned over the side of the bed for the complimentary tiny bottle of hand lotion next to the shampoo and conditioner that the motel provided on the cheap little nightstand. He made slick little bursts of sound every time his jerked his fist up and down, and Sam wanted very badly to touch him too.
Instead, he nuzzled John's balls once more, pressing a kiss to them before he held out his hand for what was left of the lotion. Dean handed it over without complaint, his eyes fixed on them. "Shit, you guys," he said huskily. "Shit."
"Come on Dean," Sam urged after a moment's thought. "Help me out." He didn't like watching his poor brother sitting off to the side, jerking off alone. Dean smiled rather adoringly at him, heaving up into a kneeling position with his dick stiff and twitching, and took back the lotion. John watched with hooded eyes as Dean smeared it onto his fingers, and Sam pushed his hips toward him. "Go slow," he said quietly, a little worried that admitting that this would technically be his first time actually having sex with a man would bring the proceedings to a shuddering halt.
"Shh, Sammy. S'all right, I've got you," Dean said soothingly, looping an arm around his waist from behind to hold him in place while he pressed his index finger into him. True to his word, he was slow and careful about it, but Sam's head still tipped back and his entire body shuddered as a guttural moan spilled out of him.
"Jesus," Dean said a little breathlessly. "God Dad, look at him."
John had been mostly quiet while all of this had been happening, but now he exhaled and touched Sam's thigh. "Straddle my hips, Sam," he instructed. Sam had been kneeling on John's right side until that moment, but then he stilled so that Dean could remove his finger, and he shifted over so that his knees were bent with his legs spread on either side of John's thighs.
"There's a good boy."
The words nearly ended things before they'd begun for Sam, and he leaned over a bit, bracing his hands on his father's chest and meeting his eyes. "Dad."
"I know, kiddo. Dean, keep going."
Dean's finger returned, slicker and deeper this time, his index sinking into Sam's ass up to the third knuckle. Sam whimpered through gritted teeth, and John stroked his face. He could feel his father's cock pressing greedily against the inside of his thigh, but there was nothing he could do about it in his current position. Luckily, Dean had already worked a second finger into him and was carefully easing him open. Sam rocked his hips back against his brother's hand, his fingers combing through his father's chest hair, and wondered how the hell he was going to go back to school after this.
"Give him three, Dean," John said decisively. Dean's ring finger soon joined his index and middle, where they were third-knuckle deep inside of him. The searing stretch was more than worth it, especially when Dean pulled them out and gave Sam's ass a loving swat.
"He's ready, Dad."
"Oh fuck, thank God," John groaned, gripping the base of his cock with one hand. "Lift up, Sam."
Obediently, Sam raised his lower body so that John could press the tip of his dick against Sam's wet, loosened entrance. "Just drop down whenever you're ready." The raw, aching lust in John's tone was only underscored by the profound love and affection that Sam heard in it, and it was the latter that brought him to a place in which he was slowly lowering himself onto his father's cock.
"Unh, uh, ungh," Sam did not moan long and low the way he had before, but his pleasure was voiced in a series of hitching little grunts as the thick scrape of John's cock filled him up inside. It was nothing like Dean's fingers - it was hotter, thicker, he felt like he was being flooded with a blistering heat from the inside out. His fingers crooked, his nails digging into John's chest, and his head tipped back as his eyes clenched shut.
John gave him time, stilling the movement of his body so that he could adjust, and Dean said softly, "Damn. If only you guys could see yourselves right now."
"Oh, Dad. Come on, please," Sam babbled a bit, rocking back and forth as his father's cock broke him wide open. He stretched around him, the pull of tight flesh stunning, the sweetest anguish he'd ever known. Obligingly, John, raised his hands to grip Sam's hips and thrust shallowly into him.
Sam met him halfway, their bodies crashing together as he pushed down onto his dick and John arched up into him. He dipped his head for a kiss, a long, languid affair in which their tongues wrapped around each other and Sam could finally say that he knew what it felt like to lick his father's teeth. Suddenly, Dean's arms were around him from behind, tugging and twisting his nipples, and the heat of him against his back wrung a startled cry from Sam's throat and he started to rock against his father's dick with a need more urgent than before.
Dean stroked his way down Sam's belly, finally wrapping his strong, callused fingers around his cock and jerking sharply. While doing this, he mouthed wetly at the back of Sam's neck, tongued the soft spot behind his ear, and Sam came so abruptly it surprised even him. He went still and quiet and tense, and then his cock was jerking and spilling into Dean's hands. His come splattered his brother's fingers and his father's chest, and John swore and thrust into him so hard he nearly bucked him off.
Sam went boneless and breathless in Dean's arms, but Dean held him up so that John could finish. It only took a few more thrusts and then he was there, grunting and swearing and spurting into Sam's body. It was searing, mind-blowing, and Dean let him go so that he could fall limply against John's chest. He was panting still, but he wrapped both arms around Sam and held him tightly.
Dean rose from the bed, and came back roughly five minutes later with a damp washcloth. Tenderly, he cleaned both of them off and tossed it to the floor before reaching out for them both. His erection had wilted, but he looked oddly satisfied, and Sam suddenly put two and two together and pushed him.
"Asshole. I would have taken care of you."
Dean smiled, kissed Sam's temple. "Wouldn't want to interrupt the post-coital bliss," was all he said, before settling in beside them and reaching out. Eagerly, they accepted him into their fold, six arms and six legs tangling together in what finally ended up as a three-man spooning with Sam in the middle.
"I guess we have nine more days to convince you to become a college dropout, huh?" Dean mumbled against Sam's neck, and Sam could feel his smile.
"I feel like if I tell you that I've already made my decision, I'll be cheating myself out of an awesome nine days," he responded, and Dean chuckled.
"Go to sleep, you two," John said, and for a moment he sounded so disconcertingly like their dad that it was kind of funny in a really wrong way. Together, their breathing synchronized and the vending machine just outside their door started to hum in the dim hallway light.
End.