Still Tangled in Yesterday
Title: Still Tangled in Yesterday
Rating: R
Wordcount: 2900
Disclaimer: Not my boys. Kripke broke them long before I ever got to them.
Summary: Dean gets turned into a girl. He looks a lot like Mary and sometimes John gets really drunk.
Warnings: for all kinds of dub-con and unpleasant scenarios. Also, language, I suppose.
So, I kinda forgot about that promise to post more China!fic yesterday. Sorry about that. I don't even know where this one came from. I got my dark_bingo card and read 'Surprise Sexswap' and my mind exploded. I suppose I'm also going to use it as the 'First Transformation' fill for my hc_bingo card, because I won't ever figure out what else to do with it.
Oh, also I have decided to do away with the bold purple-ish parts of my headers, because the combination with the red of my journal makes my eyes hurt.
Dean isn't too fond of witches. Never has been. They're greasy, slimy, unsanitary, sadistic bitches on the best of days.
But this curse? This curse comes with certain perks. Two, to be exact.
She probably thinks she's teaching him some grave new-agy moral lesson on respecting women. Probably thinks he's holed up in some motel room, rocking back and forth, nearly crippled by the terrible burden of being a pretty girl.
Woe is me, why won't the big bad men stop objectifying me? Yeah, right.
Dean chuckles as he checks his reflection in the mirror behind the bar. Didn't even have to put on make-up to be the hottest chick around (which is a good thing, because man, he's not going to put those brushes and pens anywhere near his eyes).
Like being in a girl's body will do anything to mess with his fun. Dean plans on doing plenty of objectifying until Dad finds an antidote. He lets his gaze drift over the smoke-filled room until he picks out the outline of a round, perky ass, hugged tight by a pair of short shorts. Dean grins, flicks his head to send his thick, blonde curls cascading down his back in that way he knows from personal experience is sure to put thoughts in the minds of every last guy in the bar.
Dean ignores the hungry glances and winks at the girl across the room.
Impossibly Nice Ass Girl blushes, her dark lashes flutter over tanned cheeks as she sucks on the colorful straw in her drink. Dean's heart does a happy little dance in his chest. Skank and Hussy 2: Return of the Sex Sisters starring Dean Winchester. Which reminds him, he should probably come up with a more convincing fake name.
Dean slides off his bar stool, stumbles slightly when it takes a fraction of a second longer than usual for his legs to hit the floor.
"Whoa there," somebody quickly grabs his elbow, hard, calloused fingers on too tender skin. "Easy on the whiskey there, pumpkin."
Dean shoots the trucker a quick smile, he wonders why his cheeks are starting to burn all of a sudden. "Thanks," he manages to work his tongue around the word. "I'll try and remember that."
The hand slides off his arm and he starts walking over to the pool tables, where Impossibly Nice Ass Girl is still sucking on her straw. Dean wonders if it would be at all emasculating if he switched to bright, fruity cocktails for the time being.
He still hasn't quite worked out how to do the whole sexy-sway-of-the-hips thing when he's walking, but he thinks he manages quite nicely. Until he stumbles over the hem of his jeans that are now several inches too long, already frayed where he keeps stepping on the seams.
A hand grips his upper arm again, before he can faceplant into the sticky wooden floor.
"What the fuck you think you're doin'?"
The grip tightens and pulls and instinct and adrenaline push the alcohol way down to the back of Dean's mind. He throws back his elbow, only holding back, halfway through the blow, when the deep voice rumbles in his ear again.
"You stop this bullshit right now, kid."
"Dad?"
Dad's fingers easily fit around Dean's entire arm and it takes more effort than he's comfortable with to twist around in the grip. Dean's eyes are about level with the dog tags on Dad's chest and Dean tries to take a step back. The fingers are staring to press little, round bruises into his arm and he has no other choice but to crane his neck all the way back to look Dad in the eye. "Thought you were supposed to be in the library."
Dad face darkens around the eyes, his mouth twitches ever so slightly and Dean feels like he's twelve years old again. Maybe fifteen. Probably only six.
"Yeah, and you're supposed to be at the motel."
Dad's voice is a low grumble, barely audible over the noise of the bar, the threat to step out of line further only there if you know to look for it.
Dean tries for a sheepish smile, shucks his curls into his face and brings out the puppy dog eyes he watched Sa- the puppy dog eyes. "Sure, but see, if I do that then the terrorists have won."
Dad's entire body tenses with barely held-back anger. Dean is pretty sure that line would have earned him a smack in the mouth any other day of the week. Except hitting pretty girls all out in public where everyone can see is frowned upon, even in as skeevy a bar as this one, so Dad's gotta content himself with painting Dean's arm purple.
"Put this on," Dad hisses. He shucks out of his leather coat, somehow without ever really breaking his hold on Dean's arm. "Look at yourself."
His eyes travel over the button-down shirt, tied into a neat knot right underneath Dean's breasts, down to the baggy jeans, riding low on his hips, almost slipping off, even with his belt pulled as tight as it would go.
He wraps the heavy coat around Dean's shoulders and Dean rolls his eyes (under the cover of his hair hanging into his face. He's not suicidal.)
Dad looks like he used to when Sam was growing up, when they'd stop at the skeeviest dive in a three-state radius and Dean could feel every trucker's eyes in the place glued to his ass.
He throws one last look over his shoulder and lets Dad lead him out of the bar.
:: :: ::
Dean lazily flicks the remote control, starting his sixth circuit around the five channels the crappy motel TV manages to pick up. Piece of shit won't even let him watch Oprah.
He checks his cellphone for the millionth time (no message from Dad, no news from Bobby or Caleb. He's stopped hoping for news from California).
He flicks over onto his stomach, curses and rolls back, when it puts pressure onto his boobs and it frickin' hurts. They seemed like an awesome idea at first. For about half a day. Before he figured out that they make sleeping damn near impossible and get in the way every single time he tries to use his arms.
So yeah, okay, maybe the witch wasn't that far off with her idea of what would teach him a lesson. Without the prospect of some hot, lesbian action, this curse doesn't seem so great after all.
Especially since Dad's entered one of his over-protective, paranoid phases and Dean is stuck in the motel room 24/7 while Dad is off, figuring out what to do. Dean offered to help, but apparently libraries are packed with sexual predators these days and taking Dean in his current form is just way too risky.
He's jacked off a couple of times - well, not jacked off, but for lack of a better term, yeah. It was fine. Different, but nowhere near as awesome as he was expecting. Plus, the unfamiliar motion made his arm hurt and he's fairly sure that what he produced does not qualify as an orgasm. He kinda feels sorry for chicks in general if that's all they can ever get out of sex.
:: :: ::
"So, we getting closer to breaking this curse?" Dean asks around a mouth full of pizza. "'Cause I'm kinda getting tired of this Ed Wood thing."
Dad looks up and Dean tries to pretend that he's looking him in the eye, not focusing on the wall behind his head.
"Caleb had some ideas," he mumbles in a voice that sounds strained and far away.
Dean nods. He should probably ask about those ideas, but Dad's nose is already buried in his journal again. Busy. Back the fuck off. He might as well have a sign plastered to his forehead.
Dean sighs and grabs another slice out of the take-out box.
"Paranoid much?" he mumbles.
It's like he's locked up in some super secret government prison facility. Zero tolerance. No bars, no diners, no trips to the fuckin' vending machine.
"What's that?"
Dad doesn't even look up this time, just keeps dabbing his pen on top of his notes, one eyebrow raised in silent threat.
Dean hmpfs and eats his pizza and pretends he isn't worried.
Dad hasn't looked at him in days.
Dean can't blame him. Every time he looks in the bathroom mirror, it's like someone took one of the photos out of Dad's wallet, HD'ed the shit out of it and put it up behind the sink.
:: :: ::
"You're beautiful," Dad tells him a couple nights later, when doing research somehow turned into a couple of whiskey chasers at the bar.
He locks himself in the bathroom for half an hour after that and Dean slips on one of the hoddies Sam left behind and ties his hair back with one of his leather bracelets.
:: :: ::
The door crashes against the wall when Dad gets back. Loud and angry and quickly followed by another crash, when 200lb worth of muscle stumble and fall into the table.
The sounds have every single one of Dean's muscles on nervous edge within seconds. His heart is suddenly doing its best to climb out his throat, but Sammy isn't in the bed next over, so he pulls the covers higher up over his shoulders and hopes Dad found his fight at the bar.
It's easy to paint a picture in his head, even with the room dark and his face buried deep in his pillow. The clapclapclap of heavy boots stumbling across the linoleum floor, the creak of the old, plastic chair, screaming under too much weight, the soft swush of stocking feet, crash, sonofabitch.
Dean barely bites back a surprised yelp when the mattress shifts and he rolls into Dad's hip.
"Oops. Wrong bed, huh?"
Dad's voice stumbles over the words when he tries to chuckle halfway through. His hand lands on Dean's shoulder in an attempt to steady himself when the laughing fit threatens to have him topple over.
Dean curls further in on himself, waits for the thick wave of tequila to roll away.
"Hey there," Dad murmurs, his hand moving up from Dean's shoulder, tangling his fingers his the thick curls. "Told ya I'd be late tonight. Didn't have to wait up for me."
"Da-?"
"Sshh."
Dad's voice is close to his ear now and the alcohol hits Dean like a brick wall. A second hand starts stroking down his body, follows the slender lines, the new curves, finds a way under the faded grey Black Sabbath T-shirt.
"Dad."
Dean tries to get his limbs in order, tries to shove an arm between his body and the probing hands, but his own muscles feel thin and weak, not nearly enough to get away without an actual fight.
"So fuckin' beautiful."
Dean's breath hitches in his throat when Dad's hand slides up under his shirt, brushes over his breasts. He can feel the small callouses on each of Dad's fingers, catching ever so slightly on his skin, on the scars that are suddenly thin and soft where a weeks ago they were an angry, welted mess. Everything feels so soft now. Soft and thin and Dean's heart skips a beat when every stroke around his hardening nipples sends a little shiver through his body, makes warmth spread between his legs.
"Da-...no, you...D..."
Dean can't seem to remember how to put words into meaningful sentences anymore. His breaths are coming in little gasps and when he looks up, Dad's eyes are right above his. Dark and clouded and not quite there and Dean sucks in another mouthful of tequila vapor.
"Missed you so much. You know I love you, right?"
Dean almost chokes on his own breath. He pushes back against the heavy weight half-draped across his chest. There is a jumble of limbs, Dean's wrists get pinned above his head and suddenly Dad's on top of him, straddling him. Dean gasps at the weight pushing down on his hips, struggling to get away, only to have the weight shift until he can feel the hard, throbbing outline of Dad's cock against his belly.
He doesn't have a chance to beg again, before Dad covers his entire body, pushing all the air out of his lunges. Hands keep stroking upandupandup underneath his shirt, pushing the soft fabric away, over his head and arms and Dean feels goosebumps rise all over his body. He's shivering. From the cold night air or the near-blinding panic that's threatening to take over his mind, he doesn't know.
Dad keeps mumbling. Hushed, soft sounds that don't quite translate into words and that Dean is sure aren't really meant for him anyway.
Dad's hand wanders down again. Over Dean's breasts, down his flat stomach. A thumb locks in the waistband of his boxers and before he can get out more than a desperate strangled sound, Dad's lips are covering his, a tongue is pushing past his teeth, exploring, claiming. Desperate, Dean thinks.
The soft cotton boxers slide down his thighs and Dad's free hand clamps tightly around Dean's chin, when he tries to move away from the bruising kiss.
Dad pulls away long enough to meet Dean's eyes again. "So good for me," he breaths and Dean screws his eyes shut before Dad can see the shame and want and longing there. Because Hearing that from Dad is all Dean's ever asked for and for a terrible second he is sure that maybe giving him this might be worth it.
Dean's eyes fly open again when his brain suddenly short circuits and his entire world zeros in on the probing, notquitepain between his legs. Warm and soft and bruising and Dean wants to fight it when a gush of warmth spreads down his spine and a large pool of white opens up, swallowing away the pain and fear and Dean can't stop his hips from rolling upwards, following the gentle probing of Dad's fingers.
"Dad...please."
The words tumble from his lips, fall over each other, land on the floor with a silent thud.
"Dad, I..."
And suddenly the weight is gone and the bright burn between his legs instantly dulls to a faint throb and Dad slaps him hard across the face.
:: :: ::
It's John, Dean realizes. He'll have to start calling him John if he ever wants it to happen again. Not that he's sure he does.
But he's not completely sure he doesn't, either.
:: :: ::
Dad gets hit in the head. He doesn't tell Dean how or why, but the way he is incoherent beyond any concussion Dean's ever seen screams bar fight. Dean wonders if Dad is ever going to stop pretending that he's still looking for a cure.
He lies there, propped against the headboard and his eyes are open and wide and honest in a way that almost hurts to look at.
Dean's mouth twitches in what he thinks might be a smile and then he throws himself forward, crashing his lips against Dad's. Dad tries to pull back, but his coordination is all shot to hell and Dean easily pushes him back into his pillows.
"John..." he breaths, even though the word feels sour and wrong long before he gets it past his lips. He works his shirt over his head and immediately feels the warm pressure of Dad's cock, filling against his thighs.
Dad looks like he wants to say something and Dean is scared it might be Mary, so he throws the shirt off the bed and swallows the word from his father's lips.
He makes sure John is completely gone, lost in the sea of memory and sensation and tequila, before he moves down his chest. John's jeans and boxers easily slide down his thighs and Dean takes a deep breath, nuzzling his face in the dark, brown curls. The smell hits him with a force he didn't see coming. It brings back memories of dark alleys and strange men and his stomach cramping with hunger. Dean doesn't know what he's trying to do here. He wants to back away, but then Dad's hands get tangled in the thick, golden locks and he hears love you, babe and all other thoughts get pushed out of his mind.
He knows John's eyes are open, even though he doesn't look up to check. Enjoying those red lips, even puffier now that he's a girl, drinking in the image of that wild, golden head, bobbing up and down.
They fall asleep, tangled in each others arms that night, John's hand warm and sure at the base of Dean's back and he thinks this might be the happiest he's been in years, even though his throat hurts and keeps closing up in ways that have nothing to do with the residual soreness.
"So good for me," Dad mumbles under his breath, almost drowned out by the pillows. "Love you so much."
And just like that the tightness in Dean's chest loosens and he snuggles deeper in the strong embrace.
"Love you, too," he mumbles, just as quietly. He waits until he's sure John's drifted over from drowsy to asleep before he adds, "Dad."
:: :: ::
There is a note on the coffee table. It says to meet Caleb in New Orleans. He knows how to help.
Dean tries calling Dad's cell, but it goes to voice mail.
Rating: R
Wordcount: 2900
Disclaimer: Not my boys. Kripke broke them long before I ever got to them.
Summary: Dean gets turned into a girl. He looks a lot like Mary and sometimes John gets really drunk.
Warnings: for all kinds of dub-con and unpleasant scenarios. Also, language, I suppose.
So, I kinda forgot about that promise to post more China!fic yesterday. Sorry about that. I don't even know where this one came from. I got my dark_bingo card and read 'Surprise Sexswap' and my mind exploded. I suppose I'm also going to use it as the 'First Transformation' fill for my hc_bingo card, because I won't ever figure out what else to do with it.
Oh, also I have decided to do away with the bold purple-ish parts of my headers, because the combination with the red of my journal makes my eyes hurt.
Dean isn't too fond of witches. Never has been. They're greasy, slimy, unsanitary, sadistic bitches on the best of days.
But this curse? This curse comes with certain perks. Two, to be exact.
She probably thinks she's teaching him some grave new-agy moral lesson on respecting women. Probably thinks he's holed up in some motel room, rocking back and forth, nearly crippled by the terrible burden of being a pretty girl.
Woe is me, why won't the big bad men stop objectifying me? Yeah, right.
Dean chuckles as he checks his reflection in the mirror behind the bar. Didn't even have to put on make-up to be the hottest chick around (which is a good thing, because man, he's not going to put those brushes and pens anywhere near his eyes).
Like being in a girl's body will do anything to mess with his fun. Dean plans on doing plenty of objectifying until Dad finds an antidote. He lets his gaze drift over the smoke-filled room until he picks out the outline of a round, perky ass, hugged tight by a pair of short shorts. Dean grins, flicks his head to send his thick, blonde curls cascading down his back in that way he knows from personal experience is sure to put thoughts in the minds of every last guy in the bar.
Dean ignores the hungry glances and winks at the girl across the room.
Impossibly Nice Ass Girl blushes, her dark lashes flutter over tanned cheeks as she sucks on the colorful straw in her drink. Dean's heart does a happy little dance in his chest. Skank and Hussy 2: Return of the Sex Sisters starring Dean Winchester. Which reminds him, he should probably come up with a more convincing fake name.
Dean slides off his bar stool, stumbles slightly when it takes a fraction of a second longer than usual for his legs to hit the floor.
"Whoa there," somebody quickly grabs his elbow, hard, calloused fingers on too tender skin. "Easy on the whiskey there, pumpkin."
Dean shoots the trucker a quick smile, he wonders why his cheeks are starting to burn all of a sudden. "Thanks," he manages to work his tongue around the word. "I'll try and remember that."
The hand slides off his arm and he starts walking over to the pool tables, where Impossibly Nice Ass Girl is still sucking on her straw. Dean wonders if it would be at all emasculating if he switched to bright, fruity cocktails for the time being.
He still hasn't quite worked out how to do the whole sexy-sway-of-the-hips thing when he's walking, but he thinks he manages quite nicely. Until he stumbles over the hem of his jeans that are now several inches too long, already frayed where he keeps stepping on the seams.
A hand grips his upper arm again, before he can faceplant into the sticky wooden floor.
"What the fuck you think you're doin'?"
The grip tightens and pulls and instinct and adrenaline push the alcohol way down to the back of Dean's mind. He throws back his elbow, only holding back, halfway through the blow, when the deep voice rumbles in his ear again.
"You stop this bullshit right now, kid."
"Dad?"
Dad's fingers easily fit around Dean's entire arm and it takes more effort than he's comfortable with to twist around in the grip. Dean's eyes are about level with the dog tags on Dad's chest and Dean tries to take a step back. The fingers are staring to press little, round bruises into his arm and he has no other choice but to crane his neck all the way back to look Dad in the eye. "Thought you were supposed to be in the library."
Dad face darkens around the eyes, his mouth twitches ever so slightly and Dean feels like he's twelve years old again. Maybe fifteen. Probably only six.
"Yeah, and you're supposed to be at the motel."
Dad's voice is a low grumble, barely audible over the noise of the bar, the threat to step out of line further only there if you know to look for it.
Dean tries for a sheepish smile, shucks his curls into his face and brings out the puppy dog eyes he watched Sa- the puppy dog eyes. "Sure, but see, if I do that then the terrorists have won."
Dad's entire body tenses with barely held-back anger. Dean is pretty sure that line would have earned him a smack in the mouth any other day of the week. Except hitting pretty girls all out in public where everyone can see is frowned upon, even in as skeevy a bar as this one, so Dad's gotta content himself with painting Dean's arm purple.
"Put this on," Dad hisses. He shucks out of his leather coat, somehow without ever really breaking his hold on Dean's arm. "Look at yourself."
His eyes travel over the button-down shirt, tied into a neat knot right underneath Dean's breasts, down to the baggy jeans, riding low on his hips, almost slipping off, even with his belt pulled as tight as it would go.
He wraps the heavy coat around Dean's shoulders and Dean rolls his eyes (under the cover of his hair hanging into his face. He's not suicidal.)
Dad looks like he used to when Sam was growing up, when they'd stop at the skeeviest dive in a three-state radius and Dean could feel every trucker's eyes in the place glued to his ass.
He throws one last look over his shoulder and lets Dad lead him out of the bar.
:: :: ::
Dean lazily flicks the remote control, starting his sixth circuit around the five channels the crappy motel TV manages to pick up. Piece of shit won't even let him watch Oprah.
He checks his cellphone for the millionth time (no message from Dad, no news from Bobby or Caleb. He's stopped hoping for news from California).
He flicks over onto his stomach, curses and rolls back, when it puts pressure onto his boobs and it frickin' hurts. They seemed like an awesome idea at first. For about half a day. Before he figured out that they make sleeping damn near impossible and get in the way every single time he tries to use his arms.
So yeah, okay, maybe the witch wasn't that far off with her idea of what would teach him a lesson. Without the prospect of some hot, lesbian action, this curse doesn't seem so great after all.
Especially since Dad's entered one of his over-protective, paranoid phases and Dean is stuck in the motel room 24/7 while Dad is off, figuring out what to do. Dean offered to help, but apparently libraries are packed with sexual predators these days and taking Dean in his current form is just way too risky.
He's jacked off a couple of times - well, not jacked off, but for lack of a better term, yeah. It was fine. Different, but nowhere near as awesome as he was expecting. Plus, the unfamiliar motion made his arm hurt and he's fairly sure that what he produced does not qualify as an orgasm. He kinda feels sorry for chicks in general if that's all they can ever get out of sex.
:: :: ::
"So, we getting closer to breaking this curse?" Dean asks around a mouth full of pizza. "'Cause I'm kinda getting tired of this Ed Wood thing."
Dad looks up and Dean tries to pretend that he's looking him in the eye, not focusing on the wall behind his head.
"Caleb had some ideas," he mumbles in a voice that sounds strained and far away.
Dean nods. He should probably ask about those ideas, but Dad's nose is already buried in his journal again. Busy. Back the fuck off. He might as well have a sign plastered to his forehead.
Dean sighs and grabs another slice out of the take-out box.
"Paranoid much?" he mumbles.
It's like he's locked up in some super secret government prison facility. Zero tolerance. No bars, no diners, no trips to the fuckin' vending machine.
"What's that?"
Dad doesn't even look up this time, just keeps dabbing his pen on top of his notes, one eyebrow raised in silent threat.
Dean hmpfs and eats his pizza and pretends he isn't worried.
Dad hasn't looked at him in days.
Dean can't blame him. Every time he looks in the bathroom mirror, it's like someone took one of the photos out of Dad's wallet, HD'ed the shit out of it and put it up behind the sink.
:: :: ::
"You're beautiful," Dad tells him a couple nights later, when doing research somehow turned into a couple of whiskey chasers at the bar.
He locks himself in the bathroom for half an hour after that and Dean slips on one of the hoddies Sam left behind and ties his hair back with one of his leather bracelets.
:: :: ::
The door crashes against the wall when Dad gets back. Loud and angry and quickly followed by another crash, when 200lb worth of muscle stumble and fall into the table.
The sounds have every single one of Dean's muscles on nervous edge within seconds. His heart is suddenly doing its best to climb out his throat, but Sammy isn't in the bed next over, so he pulls the covers higher up over his shoulders and hopes Dad found his fight at the bar.
It's easy to paint a picture in his head, even with the room dark and his face buried deep in his pillow. The clapclapclap of heavy boots stumbling across the linoleum floor, the creak of the old, plastic chair, screaming under too much weight, the soft swush of stocking feet, crash, sonofabitch.
Dean barely bites back a surprised yelp when the mattress shifts and he rolls into Dad's hip.
"Oops. Wrong bed, huh?"
Dad's voice stumbles over the words when he tries to chuckle halfway through. His hand lands on Dean's shoulder in an attempt to steady himself when the laughing fit threatens to have him topple over.
Dean curls further in on himself, waits for the thick wave of tequila to roll away.
"Hey there," Dad murmurs, his hand moving up from Dean's shoulder, tangling his fingers his the thick curls. "Told ya I'd be late tonight. Didn't have to wait up for me."
"Da-?"
"Sshh."
Dad's voice is close to his ear now and the alcohol hits Dean like a brick wall. A second hand starts stroking down his body, follows the slender lines, the new curves, finds a way under the faded grey Black Sabbath T-shirt.
"Dad."
Dean tries to get his limbs in order, tries to shove an arm between his body and the probing hands, but his own muscles feel thin and weak, not nearly enough to get away without an actual fight.
"So fuckin' beautiful."
Dean's breath hitches in his throat when Dad's hand slides up under his shirt, brushes over his breasts. He can feel the small callouses on each of Dad's fingers, catching ever so slightly on his skin, on the scars that are suddenly thin and soft where a weeks ago they were an angry, welted mess. Everything feels so soft now. Soft and thin and Dean's heart skips a beat when every stroke around his hardening nipples sends a little shiver through his body, makes warmth spread between his legs.
"Da-...no, you...D..."
Dean can't seem to remember how to put words into meaningful sentences anymore. His breaths are coming in little gasps and when he looks up, Dad's eyes are right above his. Dark and clouded and not quite there and Dean sucks in another mouthful of tequila vapor.
"Missed you so much. You know I love you, right?"
Dean almost chokes on his own breath. He pushes back against the heavy weight half-draped across his chest. There is a jumble of limbs, Dean's wrists get pinned above his head and suddenly Dad's on top of him, straddling him. Dean gasps at the weight pushing down on his hips, struggling to get away, only to have the weight shift until he can feel the hard, throbbing outline of Dad's cock against his belly.
He doesn't have a chance to beg again, before Dad covers his entire body, pushing all the air out of his lunges. Hands keep stroking upandupandup underneath his shirt, pushing the soft fabric away, over his head and arms and Dean feels goosebumps rise all over his body. He's shivering. From the cold night air or the near-blinding panic that's threatening to take over his mind, he doesn't know.
Dad keeps mumbling. Hushed, soft sounds that don't quite translate into words and that Dean is sure aren't really meant for him anyway.
Dad's hand wanders down again. Over Dean's breasts, down his flat stomach. A thumb locks in the waistband of his boxers and before he can get out more than a desperate strangled sound, Dad's lips are covering his, a tongue is pushing past his teeth, exploring, claiming. Desperate, Dean thinks.
The soft cotton boxers slide down his thighs and Dad's free hand clamps tightly around Dean's chin, when he tries to move away from the bruising kiss.
Dad pulls away long enough to meet Dean's eyes again. "So good for me," he breaths and Dean screws his eyes shut before Dad can see the shame and want and longing there. Because Hearing that from Dad is all Dean's ever asked for and for a terrible second he is sure that maybe giving him this might be worth it.
Dean's eyes fly open again when his brain suddenly short circuits and his entire world zeros in on the probing, notquitepain between his legs. Warm and soft and bruising and Dean wants to fight it when a gush of warmth spreads down his spine and a large pool of white opens up, swallowing away the pain and fear and Dean can't stop his hips from rolling upwards, following the gentle probing of Dad's fingers.
"Dad...please."
The words tumble from his lips, fall over each other, land on the floor with a silent thud.
"Dad, I..."
And suddenly the weight is gone and the bright burn between his legs instantly dulls to a faint throb and Dad slaps him hard across the face.
:: :: ::
It's John, Dean realizes. He'll have to start calling him John if he ever wants it to happen again. Not that he's sure he does.
But he's not completely sure he doesn't, either.
:: :: ::
Dad gets hit in the head. He doesn't tell Dean how or why, but the way he is incoherent beyond any concussion Dean's ever seen screams bar fight. Dean wonders if Dad is ever going to stop pretending that he's still looking for a cure.
He lies there, propped against the headboard and his eyes are open and wide and honest in a way that almost hurts to look at.
Dean's mouth twitches in what he thinks might be a smile and then he throws himself forward, crashing his lips against Dad's. Dad tries to pull back, but his coordination is all shot to hell and Dean easily pushes him back into his pillows.
"John..." he breaths, even though the word feels sour and wrong long before he gets it past his lips. He works his shirt over his head and immediately feels the warm pressure of Dad's cock, filling against his thighs.
Dad looks like he wants to say something and Dean is scared it might be Mary, so he throws the shirt off the bed and swallows the word from his father's lips.
He makes sure John is completely gone, lost in the sea of memory and sensation and tequila, before he moves down his chest. John's jeans and boxers easily slide down his thighs and Dean takes a deep breath, nuzzling his face in the dark, brown curls. The smell hits him with a force he didn't see coming. It brings back memories of dark alleys and strange men and his stomach cramping with hunger. Dean doesn't know what he's trying to do here. He wants to back away, but then Dad's hands get tangled in the thick, golden locks and he hears love you, babe and all other thoughts get pushed out of his mind.
He knows John's eyes are open, even though he doesn't look up to check. Enjoying those red lips, even puffier now that he's a girl, drinking in the image of that wild, golden head, bobbing up and down.
They fall asleep, tangled in each others arms that night, John's hand warm and sure at the base of Dean's back and he thinks this might be the happiest he's been in years, even though his throat hurts and keeps closing up in ways that have nothing to do with the residual soreness.
"So good for me," Dad mumbles under his breath, almost drowned out by the pillows. "Love you so much."
And just like that the tightness in Dean's chest loosens and he snuggles deeper in the strong embrace.
"Love you, too," he mumbles, just as quietly. He waits until he's sure John's drifted over from drowsy to asleep before he adds, "Dad."
:: :: ::
There is a note on the coffee table. It says to meet Caleb in New Orleans. He knows how to help.
Dean tries calling Dad's cell, but it goes to voice mail.