Satan Laughing with Delight

[purple_carpets]

Title: Satan Laughing with Delight
Rating: R - for language and off screen non-con
Wordcount: 4000
Disclaimer: Not my boys. Kripke broke them long before I ever got to them.
Summary: Dean has been in the bathroom for a damn long time. John finds him bruised and bloody with his pants around his ankles.

So, you know what happens when I go on spn_kinkmeme and try to write porn? Yeah, you guessed it, a pretty little angst_bingo fill for 'Caught in the Act'.

(Also, behold my new Dean icon! Isn't is pretty? I could stare at it for hours.)


The first time it happens, Dean has barely started talking again. Just small snippets. Whispered half sentences, like anything louder will make his shattered little life burn right before his eyes all over again.

He isn’t really talking yet, but it’s enough to tell the nice, dark-haired stranger in the leather jacket that he can’t find his daddy anymore.

John catches up with them in the dark Circle-K parking lot. His little boy in the trucker’s arms, asking again and again to be put down, using his ‘please’ and ‘excuse me, sir’s like the good southern boy he is. John barely has time to put baby Sammy on a relatively secure spot on top of the cereal boxes in his shopping cart, before he rips Dean away from the guy’s grip. His fists move of their own accord, pounding into the wet-red face until his knuckles are open and raw and the body beneath him isn’t moving anymore.

John doesn’t explain what happened. Not during the entire drive across several state lines that has Sammy crying and fretting and Dean just staring his wide eyed, blank stare into the dark night sky. John doesn’t think Dean understands much of what almost happened back there, what that guy was about to do to him when he put his dirty paws on his little butt and bare legs, but he knows that he went with a stranger and he made his daddy mad.

Dean doesn’t speak again for another month.

The next time it happens is in Tuscaloosa. John is still telling himself that this one will be their last move. They’re in a real house. It’s a crappy rental with rats in the basement and cockroaches in the kitchen drawers, but it is enough for John to convince himself he is giving his boys a small piece of what they used to have in Lawrence.

Dean is nine, maybe ten. The shtriga hasn’t gone after Sammy yet and John still has to tell Dean that following orders is more important than anything he might want.

Jim said something about the boys not being around adults all the time and Dean’s guidance counselor kicked up a shit storm about Dean’s social skills and how he is nervous and shy and doesn’t interact with the other kids in the way his goddamn brochure suggests he should.

You try watching your mother burn on the ceiling and come back a halfway functioning human being, John wants to tell him, but he holds back. Been there, done that. It always ends with a week filled with shiny cards from pitying teachers with crappy crayon drawings on them and appointments with shrinks and Dean shutting down and refusing to talk to anyone aside from John and Sammy.

So John decides to play nice. Enrolls Dean in the local Little League and tells himself he isn’t putting his little soldier through some form of torture, when Dean begs him to be allowed to stay at home.

But man, does Dean flourish once he gets over his initial fear and shyness. His eyes are bright when he talks about Coach Patterson like John hasn’t seen since before and he starts talking about pizza eating contests and how none of the other boys can run as fast as him. Even his grades pick up. One of the boys in his team invites him to his birthday party, which is a big deal, ‘cause he’s twelve, Dad. All his friends are in the 6th grade and he invited me, ‘cause he thinks I’m way cool.

And then Dean gets back from training one day and everything’s been shot to hell. John would come and get him, but it’s Thursday and he has to work a double shift at the garage. John gets home and Dean is sitting on the torn and tattered couch, arms wrapped around his middle, gently rocking back and forth.

“He said I looked like a pretty girl,” he informs John tonelessly. His fly is open and the laces on the one sneaker he’s wearing are undone. “I kicked ‘im in the nuts.” John thinks Dean should sound proud of that. Or scared or confused or anything that isn’t blank and hollow.

John doesn’t go and hunt down the freak of a baseball coach. Probably should, if only to make sure he doesn’t go after another little boy, but all that’s important is that John gets Sammy from the sitter, loads the boys in the car and drives half the night. They leave behind everything in their pest infested rental, because clothes and books and army men aren’t nearly as important as the safety of their family. John stops at a gas station just outside Monroe, takes both boys with him into the bathroom and takes his Bowie knife to Dean’s blond unruly curls.

Sammy cries and keeps one of the locks that land on the floor in his pocket until he finds himself a new ‘Sammy Winchester box’. John’s eyes water while he runs his hands through the uneven buzz cut, stares at his Mary’s curls on the floor. Dean takes it all in stride. He doesn’t care about his hair. Stops caring about a lot that night.

John doesn’t see him pick up a ball again for years. He doesn’t ask to join any kind of team in the next town or the one after that or the one after that and that bright, excited gleam only ever returns to his eyes when he has a gun in his hand.

Those are the big ones, the ones that stand out, but with the places the Winchesters frequent, there are countless men in gas stations and diners and greasy, pay-by-the-hour motels who just won’t stop staring.

It’s always Dean, too. Never Sam. John knows both his boys are sweat looking little kids, but where Sam projects an aura of lost, motherless puppy that gets them free dinners until the boy hits his teens, Dean manages to look fierce and delicate and damaged all at the same time and he might as well have a giant neon sign taped to his head for all the wrong kind of attention he attracts.

Dean has always been too damn pretty for his own good, but John figured he could drop his guard and stop worrying once Dean hit his twenties.

Didn’t see how those lips could still get him in trouble, how some men still stare at his long lashes, brilliant eyes, strong, lean body, even if he isn’t technically a little boy anymore.

So John isn’t particularly worried when he checks his watch and sees Dean hasn’t come back from the bathroom in over an hour. Not like it’s the first time Dean’s rain checked him the moment he gets the chance to get his rocks off with some slutty girl in a short skirt.

Last John saw him he was leaning against the counter in that smug, cocky James Dean way of his that has John snorting into his beer and that makes every girl’s panties drop in a three state radius. There was a redhead there, touching his arm and wiggling her tits until they almost fell out of the little black leather thingie she wore for a top. Also, a sickly looking Courtney Love like character who kept buying Dean drinks and ended up drinking most of the shots herself. John thinks Dean would probably opt for the redhead, but all three of them are gone now and it’s not like Dean has particularly high standards when he’s drunk and looking for a good time. John doesn’t really care all that much as long as the boy doesn’t catch anything and makes sure the sweet honey in his arms isn’t a succubus (again).

John decides to focus on getting drunk for now. He could go up to the bar and try and charm some girl - woman - into spending the night with him, but it seems like too much work. “’m all yours, baby,” he mutters into his beer, takes a deep swallow and leans back in his seat..

A small group of bikers, black leather, long, unruly hair, ugly-ass tattoos and all that shit, settle in the booth next to John’s. They’re loud, their bright, glowing eyes raised to the ceiling, high fiving each other in that way that makes John think he’s the only guy in this bar who will go home tonight without a quick fuck in the restroom.

John Winchester spends his nights brooding over ancient tomes or slowly warming beer, surrounded by Dean or Jim or Caleb and Joshua or Bobby and he is too wrapped in his end game to go out and actively go looking for a good time. Too much work, finding the right woman with the right blonde hair and the right husky voice. It’s so much easier jacking off under the shower where nobody gets on his case about what name splutters from his lips when he comes.

Still, doesn’t mean he doesn’t enjoy listening in on what kind of action other people he isn’t related to are getting. Fuel for his shower fantasies.

“Man, that was some wild shit. Think I’ll have scratches all over my back by tomorrow.”

“Yeah? What’ll Maureen have to say to that?”

“Fell off my bike? Woman’s stupid as shit. She’ll buy it.”

Laughter, clicking of glasses. John smiles idly into his beer.

“I swear, that hole? Never been in one so tight.”

“Oh, Lord, yes. Bet we were the first ones, too.”

John snorts. Kinky shit some people get up to.

“And those lips? Fuck, I want ‘em ‘round my dick again!”

“Could probably’ve taken two of us at the same time, too.”

“You two maybe. Ain’t much room left when I’m in there.”

Snorting, hooting, laughter. More glasses clicking.

“I’m still sayin’ those were the greenest eyes I’ve ever seen.”

“Oooh, aren’t you the romantic one? Getting lost in the beautiful eyes of your lover.”

“Fuck off, asshole. ‘m just sayin’ he had some pretty eyes on him.”

John’s stops midway through reaching for his beer. He was already growing hard in his pants just with the idea of green eyes and big pouty lips, when the picture in his head suddenly shifts from kinky shit to gay gangbang.

“Maybe I should get back in there and get his shirt. My boy’s been getting into classic rock.”

“Just wish his hair’d been longer, y’know. Could’a used something to hold on to when I - .”

“We were there Phil, we don’t need to hear that fucked up shit again.”

“Right, you’re just jealous.”

“Forget about the hair, I just wish he’d ‘a been less silent suffering and more begging and screaming for us to stop.”

And that’s when John’s mind does a full 180°. Classic rock band shirt? Short hair? Big lips, green eyes? His heart starts hammering away in his chest like it hasn’t in years, the little hairs at the back of his neck stand up straight, tingling with fear and dread and fuckpleasegodno.

“So, I finally convince you two pansies that blood is all the lube you need?”

And that’s just it. Every single nerve in John’s body is screaming at him to make this is not true, because what this sounds like is too terrifying to be real. John is on his feet before he knows it. His knees lock with the effort it takes to stop them from shaking.

“Y’all talking about that boy in the leather jacket from earlier?” he asks, forces his voice into a steady grumble. Low and sure and quite possibly horny and not scared out of his mind that he is chatting to the people who just ra...hurt his son.

“U-huh,” drawls the guy next to the wall. One of his boots is resting up on the bench in front of him, leaving his crotch very much on display, like an open invitation for the entire bar. “Put up one hell of a fight too.” He hisses good naturedly, makes a claw out of his right hand. “Wild cat, I tell ya.”

“’Course there’s only so much fighting you can do when you have Spider’s Browning between your eyes,” the second guy with a dirty red braided beard chimes in, nods his shaggy head at the man next to him.

John finds himself strangely detached from the entire thing. He’s been to some shady places, but this is the first bar where gay gang rape is discussed with as much open enthusiasm as the football game on the dusty TV in the corner.

“He’s still in there,” Spider tells him with a sickening little grin on his face. “Got him pretty compliant by the end. Swallowed all of Ed’s load when he came down his throat the second time.”

Ed - Crotch-on-Display-Guy - shakes his head like they’re all in on one hilarious joke. “You should go in there ‘n take him for a ride, dude. Dunno how much we left of him, but at the very least you’ll get something nice to look at.”

John feels himself nodding mutely. He has a dagger in his right boot. Revolver in his right jacket pocket, Smith&Wesson in his waistband. He could end all of them in just a couple of seconds, but the world has slowed down to a dull grey haze with only the sound of John’s panicking heart in his ears and the door next to the bar calling to him like a drop of water in the middle of the desert.

John nods again, tries to memorize their faces so he can hunt them down and make them suffer.

For now he has to find Dean and make sure John dropping the ball this time didn’t finally get his boy killed. Revenge has to wait in line for once.

John feels his feet move forward, carrying him into the men’s room without much active thought going into it. The door swings open and the sharp, stinging smell of sweat and sex and urine and blood almost has him stumbling backwards.

The worst part is that since Dean disappeared, John has seen at least five people go and use the head and not one of them has thought to stop and tell anyone about the half naked, shivering man who is lying in the second to last stall in a puddle of his own blood.

Actually no, that’s not the worst part. The worst part is Dean, half naked on the floor in a puddle of his own blood.

John stares for an eternity. Dean’s arms are wrapped around his head, a low key tremble is wrecking his shoulders, his knees are drawn up to his chest, a dried up river of blood, cum and urine clings to the back of his thighs and John’s feet are rooted to the spot.

It’s like all those years ago on that first hunt he ever went on. His eyes can see what’s happening but his brain just doesn’t do anything with the information. His heart is still beating away in his ears, his breathing is quickly moving from erratic to hyperventilating and he’s painfully aware of the room swaying left and right with the beer and whiskey running through his veins.

“You sick bastard touch me again, I’m gonna hunt you down and end you.”

The rough whisper snaps John out of his state of motionless shock. Dean sounds like that little boy again. Terrified and alone and losing every bit of control over his life all over again.

He falls to his knees next to his son in the middle of the puddle of bodily fluids. “Dean-o?”

Dean flinches violently at the slight pressure to his shoulder. The slight trebling immediately turns to violent shivering.

“Dean, son, it’s me,” John can’t remember using that voice since Sammy broke his arm when he was four. “It’s over now. Nobody’s gonna hurt’cha again.”

For a minute the only sound is Dean’s ragged breathing. It sounds like he is sucking in air through busted teeth and a closed up throat and John tries to focus on the unsteady rhythm instead of stare at the slowly darkening bruises under blood crusted skin on his boy’s ass and legs.

“D-dad?”

“Yeah, buddy. Right here.” John finds himself responding to Dean’s broken whisper in an equally low voice. His hand is back there on Dean’s shoulder immediately and this time Dean only starts for a second before leaning into the touch.

John helps him turn over so they can look at each other. He thinks he manages to keep his face impassive when Dean tries to hold back a scream when his bruised thighs roll over the cold, sticky tiles of the bathroom floor, but can’t help wincing when he finally takes in his boy’s face. Dean’s left eye is already swollen shut, the left one more than halfway there as well. Blood is crusted in his teeth, around his nose, under one ear, is still oozing lazily out of the corner of his mouth. His lips are red and weirdly swollen and God, John doesn’t even want to think where all the drying, milky white build up in his hair and on the front of his torn Led Zeppelin shirt come from.

“Dad?” Dean rasps again, sounds exactly like the scared five year old who used to crawl into John’s bed, just to make sure his daddy wasn’t gonna leave him too. John feels the room swim out of focus, wonders where the sudden hot wetness on his cheeks comes from. “Dad, I was…they…I tried to fight ‘em off, Dad, I swear.”

The fresh cuts on the boy’s lips break open again at the slight strain. John tries to wipe the blood off with his thumb, but it’s like a drop in a vast ocean of red.

“I know you did,” John forces out, his throat closing up around the words. “I’m gonna kill them, you hear me? I’m gonna hunt down every last one of them and shoot them in the head for what they did to you.”

Dean blinks at him. Slowly. Like he’s not really taking in the entire meaning behind the words. “You mad?” he asks. His eye hasn’t left the dirty tiles behind John’s shoulder since he turned around.

“What? No. Why would I be mad at you?”

Dean shrugs, then hisses when the small motions sets off the fresh bruises on his back. “’cause I…I shoulda been able to stop them, I…I…they’re just humans, I shoulda…”

“Shh,” John tries for soothing and thinks he does a pretty good job of it. “I don’t expect you to fight off three guys who’re twice your size and have a gun pointed at your head.”

Dean drops his gaze to the filthy floor, mumbles a quick series of dejected, sad ‘sorry’s.

“What the hell you got to be sorry for?” John growls. Dean recoils at the noise. “Shh. Sorry. Didn’t mean to yell. This isn’t your fault, kid, okay? They did this to you.”

Dean forces out a painful sounding, desperate little chuckle and John tries to smile reassuringly even while his insides are being pulled and torn in all sorts of bad directions.

“They…they said I…said- “ and suddenly Dean stops and just about manages to hoist himself up in time to get his head over the toilet bowl before he loses the entire contents of his stomach in thick, sticky strings of alcohol, peanuts and what John can only assumes is Ed, the Crotch-on-Display-Guy’s cum.

It’s the most gruesome, sickening sight John has ever laid eyes upon. Decapitated monsters and half decayed corpses don’t got shit on his little boy covered in filth, kneeling in a pool of bodily fluids, shaking and twitching with the effort to stay upright, crying and throwing up into a rusty toilet with his shirt torn and his jeans and boxers still around his ankles.

Carefully, John puts a trembling hand on his son’s back. It comes back red and wet from the blood soaked shirt. The painful heaving and gagging finally stops and for a minute John is torn between getting up and shooting all three of the bastards who did this in the middle of a crowded bar and wrapping the kid up in blankets and getting him as far away from this shit as possible.

“Let’s get your pants up, huh kiddo?” he suggests instead and Dean nods mutely, tries to bite down the desperate yelp when the rough fabric slides over his abused skin. It comes out a pathetic little whimper instead and John has to close his eyes to force back a new flood of hot, angry tears.

“Okay,” Dean whispers quietly to himself, sucks his lips in between his teeth, his eyes skittering left and right and all over the place except for John. “Okay, I’m…I’m o- I’m gonna be fine. Sorry for uh…’m gonna be okay. I was…’as weak is all…sorry, it uh…won’t happen again…”

John drops his gaze at his son’s quiet, restless mumblings. They’ve been on rocky ground ever since Sammy turned his back on their family, each silently blaming the other for the kid leaving and yes, John’s been riding Dean’s ass about picking up his game if he wants to make up for the gap his brother left, but he didn’t mean this.

He never meant to tear into his boy’s soul like that. He made his love conditional. Opened up a small wound for thoughts the Bikers’ put in Dean’s head to take hold of and fester in.

He never meant for any of this to happen.

John thinks he should tell Dean that, but the boy is still mumbling his stuttered apologies and John’s throat closes up around the words.

He feels like a failure on so many levels. Like he is spitting in the face of Mary’s memory.

John worked so hard to protect Dean from this. Spent hours keeping the kid away from nameless creeps with prying, eager eyes. He caught every last one of them. Was always there to step in and put a stop to it before much of anything could happen, and when he wasn’t he’d made sure Dean had the means to protect himself. Except this time he was too late, too drunk, too far up his own ass to do anything about it and all the other times he saved Dean are worth jack shit.

And he can’t even say anything to attempt to make it all better. Or even less fucking horrible.

“I uh…can you maybe..?” Dean looks up uncertainly, looks like he might be sick again. “Can you help me get back to the motel, maybe? I…I’ll pack up my shit ‘n be out of your hair tomorrow, but - “

“What?” John growls, because this just cements it. He is a terrible father. Not for the first time he wishes he’d been the one to storm into the nursery that night. To burn alive and leave the boys with their mom. She wouldn’t have let this life happen to them.

John can hear Dean’s breath catch in his throat at the unexpected outburst. “Oh…yeah, sure…sorry, I just thought…okay, just…just help me get to the next bus station?”

John runs an unsteady hand over his beard (and when did the stubble turn into a full on beard?), tries to ignore the way Dean shrinks back like he expects to be hit.

“Alright kid, you listen to me,” he growls. The harsh tone is forced and deliberate this time. This is easier on both of them. A soldier and his commanding officer. It’s comforting. Less painful than the broken family they really are. “I’m gonna get you out of here. You’re gonna take a bath, let me take a look at your wounds and then you’re gonna sleep while I go out and hunt down the sons of bitches who did this to you. There’ll be no packing, there’ll be no leaving you at a bus station, for fucks sake.”

Dean stares at him. Doesn’t say anything and John feels like the worst dick on the planet when he keeps pushing, “we clear on that, boy?”

“Yessir.” There are fresh tears in Dean’s eyes and he looks like John just gave him all the birthday presents he ever forgot about.

“Alright then,” John allows. They have a plan of action.

The physical wounds will heal and John vows to make damn sure the psychological ones don’t get any deeper.