What do I deserve?
Written for the spnwriterlounge Bunny Post here.
"Pre-series, Stanford era. Sam's just left (literally just packed his bags and gone) and I want to know what happens between John and Dean after that. Awkward silence? Big Fight? What?"
So, evidently because I am twisted and going to special hell (i'll save you all seats) I wrote Daddy!Cest! My first ever.
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John had always known Dean was attractive. He had Mary's eyes after all. Eyes which made him seem older than he was and went from soft to harsh in a manner of seconds. But he'd always known. Had a niggling suspicion that maybe he noticed it slightly too much and possibly in the most inappropriate ways.
Sometimes he found himself wondering if Mary had lived then maybe he wouldn't have noticed it. Wouldn't have noticed how his son's muscles sometimes didn't seem to fit in his threadbare t-shirts. Or how his breathing sounded when he was hurt, or god help him when he wrapped his own hand around his cock in the dead of night.
But right now Dean looks glorious. Like a wounded caged animal. His eyes, Mary's eyes, were wide and full of anger and hurt and he turned them towards John.
“This is you're fault.” He all but screams. John takes a step back because Dean has never spoken to him like that. Never with full malice and hatred. But Dean looks like he hates him right now. His eyes flash dangerously and John takes a step forward. Wanting to comfort his son or beat him for stepping over the line he wasn't sure.
“If you had just let him go. He wouldn't have walked out. We might have been able to keep an eye on him. Jesus Dad.”
“You can't protect him forever Dean.” John has known for a long time that Dean is more of a father to Sam than he has ever been. Has watched Dean teach Sam how to strip and clean a weapon. How to tie his shoelaces. How to kill things that Sam should never know exist. How to pronounce Latin properly. Sam was part of Dean's reason for living and he has just gone.
Dean and John had been on a hunt, not too far from the motel they were currently holed up in. Sam had been left behind, his arms crossed and anger in his eyes directed at John because John had put his foot down and said no. Always saying no to Sam. Because Sam is his son. And Sam needs protecting. But Dean had always been better at it than John. But Sam had been left behind, he hadn't slept the previous night due to a concussion caused by a particularly angry spirit. And Dean had asked John to let Sam stay behind to sleep. Even though Dean himself had stayed up all night with Sam. Keeping him awake. And John had agreed. Because when it comes to Dean, he's practically powerless to deny him almost anything.
Dean had been the first through the door, wanting to regale Sam, Sammy, with stories, however much embellished to make a better tale, to amuse his younger brother, to find an empty motel room. Sam's duffle that had been slouched in the corner next to Dean's, gone. Sam's laptop gone. Sam gone. Dean had found a note in his jacket pocket, his jacket that had been hanging over one of the chairs in the room. Dean had crumpled the letter in his hands and rounded on John. Just rounded on him. Blaming him for Sam's disappearance and John can't blame him really. He drove Sam away. Telling him that if he left then he shouldn't come back. Because this family needs Sam and his reasoning. Needs Sam to reign him and Dean in. Because him and Dean can be dangerous together. But Sam had gone and Dean was hurt and furious.
“I don't want to protect him forever Dad but he's 18. Only just 18 and you let him walk away. Hell, you drove him away. You know what this says?” He demands brandishing the crumpled paper in his hands in front of John's face. “It says don't come after me. I'll call.”
John's furious himself now. Angry at Sam for putting this on his brother. Angry at Dean for blaming him. Angry at the world for taking Mary away and forcing him to bring his boys up like soldiers, making him so lonely and desperate for human touch that he keeps looking at his son. Looking at his son and wondering. Just wondering what it would be like to feel that skin under his rough palms.
“You know he wont call Dad. And you did this. You drove him away. And I hate you for it.” Dean says and fists his hands on the lapels of John's jacket. John can't help the hitch in his breath or the pit in his stomach that forms when Dean leans forward.
“I hate you.” He breathes. Right at the moment John can see that he's telling the truth. That his own son hates him. And he doesn't know what to do to make this better.
Sam is the best of them. Sam needs to get away but if that's what Dean wanted he doesn't know if he would be strong enough to let him go.
“Don't speak to me like that.” John manages to berate him. Dean snorts with derision.
“Or what? You'll drive me away?”
“Sam left because he needed to Dean. I needed to tell him to stay away or he would come back. He deserves a normal life.” John reasons. And he has no idea how he's staying so calm right now. Because he's practically vibrating with anger and he's never been good at having a reasonable argument. Seems for once, John is being the responsible one.
“What about me Dad? What do I deserve?”
Dean's staring at him though, eye bright and narrowed with anger and he's breathing hard. John expects a punch in the jaw, he expects a hard shove backwards, or a disgusted look before Dean's walking out the door. Because Dean's always been fierce when it came to Sam. But what he doesn't expect is Dean to pull him forward and slam his mouth over John's, teeth clacking together and then John can taste blood when Dean pushes his tongue into his mouth.
He comes back to himself after a few seconds that seem like hours and milliseconds at the same time and pushes Dean away. Dean wipes the back of his arm across his mouth, smearing blood and saliva across his chin and holy shit that should be hot. Dean's expression is carefully blank. Devoid of any emotion but its his eyes that give him away. He looks terrified.
John himself doesn't mind admitting that he's a little more than scared right now. Because the next move is crucial. But how the hell do you deal with the fact that your son just kissed you? Even though you've wanted to know what it felt like for years now, how the hell do you deal with that? What the hell do you say?
“Dean...” He begins taking a step backwards, wanting to put distance between them. Because he honestly wants nothing more than to throw him onto the floor and fuck him into oblivion. But Dean's his son, his goddam son, and he shouldn't want that. He can't want that, can't take that last remaining shred of innocence from Dean, can't use him like that.
“I fucking hate you.” Dean replies, launching himself yet again at John. John stumbles backwards under the force of the attack and his head hits the plaster with a dull thud. Dean's slips his thigh between his and grinds it upwards. John groans and grips his hands around Dean's arms and pushes.
“N...” Dean cuts off his protests with his mouth again. John grips his arms tighter and a sick bolt of pleasure runs through him at the thought that Dean'll be sporting bruises tomorrow, bruises in the shape of John's fingers. John spins them, slamming Dean back into the wall with a sickening crunch of skull against plaster and Dean's eyes go wide.
“Dean...” John tries again. Dean rolls his hips and John's eyes flutter closed.
“What about me Dad?” Dean repeats. “What do I deserve?” Dean's staring up at him, anger still pulsing in his eyes but there's an uncertainty there now, lurking just beneath the anger and hurt. John doesn't know what to say to him. Because he deserves a hell of a lot more than a brother who's willing to walk out without any regard for how its going to affect him. Deserves a hell of a lot more than a father who's sick enough to want to fuck him into the cheap, dirty motel carpet and relish the fact that his son will have carpet burn on his back and feel John's cock inside him for days. He deserves to be normal and happy but John can't give him that. Can't let him have that because John needs Dean.
Dean rolls his hips again.
“This why you drove him away Dad? So you could have this?” He punctuates the last word with a thrust of his hips that makes John groan low in his throat. Dean manages to take the momentary lapse in John's control and spins them again. But before John can open his mouth and protest, or lift his arms and push his son away, Dean's on his knees. The movement is fluid and graceful. And then Dean's hands are on his belt and his fingers are grazing his skin between pants and shirt.
“Dean...” John can't form any other words apart from his sons name but now it doesn't sound angry, now there is a hint of pleading underneath the usual gravelly voice and it makes John feel sick thinking how much he wants to see Dean wrap his lips around his cock. John lifts his hands to cover Dean's trying to stop this before it goes too far. Not that it hasn't gone too far already. But Dean's fingers are quick and nimble, John's taught him that. Taught him how to use sleight of hand to cheat at cards. Taught him how to strip down a weapon and clean the tiny parts. But John never thought Dean would turn those lessons against him and use them to undo John's belt and pull his zipper down so quickly John almost swears that Dean breaks it.
His jeans are dragged down his thighs and Dean licks his lips once before leaning forward and swallowing John down. Dean mouth is hot, and wet and perfect. But there is still that lingering god this is wrong that practically screams in his mind as Dean flicks his tongue along the underside of his cock. John can't help the way his hips twitch forward and thrust into the wet heat of Dean's mouth. Dean chokes.
“Stop.” John hears himself saying. Although his cock is putting up a pretty good fight with his brain right now. And Dean is doing a pretty good job of frying every brain cell John possesses.
“Dean...stop.” He says again and Dean ignores him. Hollowing out his cheeks and sucking John down further. John grips the back of Dean's neck and squeezes.
“Goddamit Dean. Stop.” Dean pulls off his cock with a slick sound that should be as hot as it is and looks up at John. His eyes are wide with lust and uncertainty and the flicker that John is gonna leave him is clear on his face. God. He's damaged his son far too much. He can't do it anymore. He wants to take that pain away not add to it. But Dean lets a breath out and John's gaze flickers down to his lips. There is a smear of John's pre-come on Dean's lower lip. It's when Dean's tongue darts out and licks it off that John's resolve cracks and he wraps his fingers round Dean's biceps and hauls him to his feet, spins them both and pushes Dean face first into the wall.
John thanks Dean's quick reflexes that makes his hands come up and stops his face from smashing into the cheap, hideous wall paper. John wrenches Dean's pants down his thighs, knowing that Dean is going to have friction burns in the morning. And John doesn't know which is better, the bruises Dean's going to have on his arms or the friction burns on his thighs. But thoughts leave his head as his kicks Dean's legs further apart and spits onto his fingers. Dean arches his hips backwards, the perfect imitation of a slut and John groans and pushes two fingers roughly inside his son. Dean hisses and drops his head forward. There is another dull thud as Dean's forehead hits the wall and his back stiffens when John twists his fingers. He knows he should be gentle, take this slowly, but he can't. Because he doesn't know if he's going to get another chance at this and he's already so fucking close that he needs this. Now.
One of Dean's hands leaves the wall and goes to wrap around his own cock. But John stops him with strong fingers around his wrist and a harsh, whispered, almost growled “No” in his ear. Dean turns his head to the side and bites his bottom lip. His teeth sinking into the plump flesh as John twists his fingers once more before pulling them back out. Dean whimpers once. A pathetic, needy noise, in harsh comparison to the angry Dean that had his finger twisted in John's jacket just a few minutes ago. Or the sure Dean on his knees. John wraps his hand around his dick, slicks himself up the best he can with pre-come and steps forward, pushing into Dean in one quick movement that has Dean's back arching and a groan escaping both of them.
John knows this must be hurting Dean, there was virtually no prep and John's not sure if Dean has ever done this before. The thought of someone else fucking his sons sends an angry growl through clenched teeth and John pulls back, slams in even harder than before and Dean's arms give out, his cheekbone hits the wall. Yet another bruise to add to the list come morning. Dean angles his hips and pushes back against John and that's all the encouragement his hips need. His pounds mercilessly into his son, each thrust driving him harder into the wall, driving helpless moans and whimpers from Dean. It doesn't take long at all before John can feel the pitting in his stomach and he grabs Dean's cock, gives it one quick stroke and Dean comes over his hand. Hot and sticky and wrong. Muscles inside Dean clench and quiver and drag John's orgasm out of him almost by surprise. But its harsh, and bitter and hard and John sees stars for a second as he drags lungfuls of air into his heaving chest.
He pulls out of Dean and he can't ignore the way he hisses in pain. John suddenly feels sick. With himself. He let Dean suck his cock. And he's angry at Dean for letting John fuck him. He's angry at Sam for making Dean needy and vulnerable.
He rushes towards the bathroom and slams the door. Not before catching a glimpse of the broken expression on his sons face.
John hates himself. He's already driven one son away by forcing a life style on him that he didn't want. Forcing his son to be a soldier in a war that Sam didn't need to be a part of. And now he's pretty sure Dean is going to leave him too. And he'll just be what he always feared he would be. A bitter old man with nothing left to fight for.
John splashes water of his face and scrubs it away with a scratchy, threadbare towel from the rail. He's not sure how long he spends staring at his reflection in the crack and pitted mirror but by the time he cracks open the door, Dean is asleep on one of the beds. One arm flung across his eyes, his legs splayed, showing off the fact that he hadn't managed to pull his pants back on before he passed out. He would looks peaceful to anyone who didn't know him. But John can see the linger worry lines on his forehead and knows that tomorrow is going to be full of awkward silences and strange glances. John wants to run. Throw open the door and leave Dean where he is because he can't face him. He doesn't want to face him. Can't deal with the accusatory looks or Dean leaving him.
He's back in the bathroom, dry retching into the toilet before he knows it.
Dean doesn't even have Sam to focus on anymore. John doesn't have Sam to direct his anger at. Sam's gone.
And he's left two broken and twisted men in his wake.
And its going to take a hell of a lot more than a couple of beers to fix this.