SPN fic: Homecoming (Dean/OFC, John. Adult)
A quick 1800 words. John POV. Rated R because Dean's mouth.
“Hey. You’re home early.” It comes out painstakingly bright-casual even though Dean’s eyes are wide with brimming laughter.
“Seriously, Dean?” John snaps, more tired than mad. “On the goddamn kitchen table?”
Dean had always had a flair of exhibitionism. Wouldn’t keep his clothes or diapers on as a toddler, more dexterous than any two year old ought be, shrieking with joy and defiance whenever he was discovered bare assed. He never went through an awkward, private puberty phase that John could remember either, happily foregoing jeans or shirts whenever the temperature allowed it. Dean’s always had an easy pride in his body and uses it to every advantage.
And since he discovered girls? Well, he has a one track laser focus determination that John secretly thinks is a little alarming. Kid hunts female classmates and waitresses with the same fascination and vigour he gives to weapons and defensive training.
Dean lifts the hem of his t-shirt to wipe off his mouth and chin. Has the decency to look cowed... for about two seconds. He turns his back to John, trying to hide his smirk as he slowly fills up a glass of water from the tap in a well practiced “time buying” tactic.
John had driven clear through the night, an entire coven of harpies wiped out by hand, their rotten carcasses probably still smouldering in the shallow grave he dug before he’d doused them in gasoline, lit a match, and booked it home. Their apartment is on the third floor and the steel grate stairway up is rusted to hell, it creaks and whines murderously underfoot with every step. John had taken his time too, heavy pack laden with the crossbow, several machetes, as well as his dirty laundry. There had been nothing even remotely stealthy about his approach.
“Don’t tell me you didn’t hear me coming, Dean,” John chides, letting his voice go stern. He sees Dean’s back straighten a fraction before he turns back, face schooled in to a perfectly neutral expression.
When John had finally rattled the front door open he had been struck, frozen with the vision of a half naked cheerleader spread out on the small table in their compact dinette; Dean kneeling on the checkered linoleum, his face buried between her legs and going to town.
John had watched for a moment in a horrified detachment as one of her tanned athletic legs curled over Dean’s shoulder, smooth calf muscle tensing, the other leg stretched out straight, the space cramped enough that her white sneaker was pushing against the sink edge. The girl was resting back on her elbows on the table top, sports bra pushed up, eyes squeezed shut, smeared red lipstick mouth agape and gasping while Dean held her squirming hips tightly and ate insistently at the apex of her thighs.
Just as John had shaken to his senses and blinked, reached for the door to remove himself, the girl had let out a high moan, matched with a hungry, needy groan from Dean. She had opened her eyes, looked right at John with a helpless expression of utter shock and shuddering, hurtling pleasure, and come all over his son’s face.
Dean had risen slowly, smugly sucking on his ripe bottom lip, ignoring his girl’s panicked glances between him and John as she caught her breath and straightened her clothes. He'd squeezed her trembling quads, handed her a slip of white material (her panties John surmised).
“Bathroom’s down the hall,” Dean’d told her courteously, slight nod of his head and intense eye contact to dismiss her in her dazed state and send a secret message that John didn't want to even begin to understand.
John had watched her trundle away on shaky legs, her face crimson, and finally dropped his heavier bag.
“I heard you,” Dean admits. “It was just…” He waves his arm in the general direction of the hallway, mouth wriggling to resist another grin.
John’s not laughing. They eat breakfast at that table. It’s where Sammy does his homework. He waits, unimpressed.
“I heard you,” Dean repeats, more confident this time, “but she was right there, Dad. I figured I could probably, y’know… finish. Before you made it.”
As excuses go, it’s poor at best. John knows the truth and it’s frankly unsettling. Dean heard him coming and just didn't care. Dean doesn't care if he gets caught in a compromising position on the kitchen table with a girl. He doesn't care who catches him. He doesn’t care and he’d do it again because in Dean’s mind the payoff is worth way more than the wrath of any punishment. John knows Dean doesn't care because this isn’t the first (or even the second) time he’s caught Dean mid-hook up. The kid has no shame whatsoever.
The kitchen table though? What's wrong with the bedroom?
John feels the ache of pulled muscles across his shoulder blades from far too many repetitive chopping motions. He needs a shower and a soft flat surface, stat. He points a finger at Dean, who’s still looking far too satisfied with himself, doing nothing to try to hide the blatant bulge in the front of his jeans.
“She better be legal,” John hisses, because what else can he say? John let Dean drive the car at fourteen, let him start knocking back whiskey and husting pool in bars at sixteen. The kid had his own cache of deadly weapons, fake IDs, an arrest record longer that his arm. Dean killed his first monster at fifteen and he's been looking after Sammy for his whole life.
Dean is nearly nineteen now and yeah, he’s promiscuous, he maybe even has a mild sex addiction, but he has his mother’s eyes and John’s shoulders and a mouth that was clearly a gift from the gods and girls love him. They melt when he flutters his eyelashes at them. If being sexually deviant is Dean’s only vice, John can’t really stand in his way. He never lets it interfere with his job. As long as he’s safe and as long as he’s not hurting anyone… and besides, what’s John gonna do about it? Ground him?
Lost in thought, slightly despondent at his own clear lack of parenting and half delirious from lack of sleep, it takes a moment for John to realise Dean hasn’t responded to him which can only mean one thing and he begins to feel a migraine coming on. He pinches the bridge of his nose as Dean crosses the room towards him. He watches Dean lift the weapons bag with a grunt, feels the relief when Dean reaches over and slips the straps of his duffel from his shoulder too.
“You don’t need to worry about that,” Dean says softly when he notices John is still waiting for a reply. Close up, John can see how swollen his mouth is, notices a hickey peeking out from under the collar of his t-shirt. Dean's hair is sticking out at odd angles where sweaty hands have raked through it. He has red lipstick caked subtly in the stubble on his jaw. He looks exactly like what he's been doing.
At John's sceptical appraisal, Dean continues, going for placating this time. “Her birthday is in a couple of weeks, so… close enough, right?” His quick grin is blinding, disarmingly charming. Dangerous, John thinks, for any woman in a fifty mile radius. Without his bags to weigh him down, John feels suddenly buoyant, like he’s gonna float away at any moment. He cannot deal with angry mobs of righteous pitchfork wielding parents coming for blood and vengeance over the lost virtue of their underage daughter. Not again.
“Go lay down,” Dean tells him with a comforting pat on the bicep like he’s psychic. He hefts the bags over to the tiny coat closet by the front door. “I’ll take care of all this later," he assures. Ever the housewife. Dean's a good kid but that doesn't mean John can let him get away with this scot-free. He pulls his ace card, his baby brother card, that never fails to make Dean snap to and pay attention.
"What if Sam had walked in here and seen that, huh?" he asks seriously and is instantly internally disappointed when just Dean laughs out loud.
"Maybe the little brat would learn a thing or two," Dean chuckles, crossing back to the kitchen as the toilet flushes down the hall. "You know, Dad, if you ever need any pointers..." he offers benevolently, palms out, eyes sparkling with serotonin and mischief.
Now it’s John’s turn to hide his smile. "Son, I could write down everything you know about women on the back of a beer mat and still have room left over.”
Dean throws his head back and cackles, delighted, and John soaks it in, tension draining out of him by the second. Dean’s laugh is infectious; the sound has held John together more times that he can count. Sometimes John wonders if it isn't Dean’s easy mirth alone that’s held their family together all these years.
Dean’s girlfriend (for this week at least) appears sheepishly at the end of the hallway, hands wringing the bottom of her tiny pleated school colours skirt, peering at Dean for direction. John feels for her, remembering the helpless surprise in her eyes, and does his best to keep a lid on his amusement.
“You ready for me to take you home, babe?” Dean asks cheerily. “I gotta pick up my brother from soccer practise anyway.” He spins the car keys on his finger, unfazed by the awkward atmosphere, or oblivious. The girl nods eagerly, picks up her purse from the counter and bless her heart, she looks up at John then, her face on fire.
“I’m really sorry, sir, about…" she stares at the table for a second, looks away pointedly, cheeks burning. “Um. It was nice to meet you though,” she rushes out and starts quickly towards the door. John steps aside to make room, admires her balls.
“It was nice to meet you, too, sweetheart,” he tells her gruffly as she passes and he can’t hold in his laughter any longer when she squeaks and fumbles with the door knob, hands slipping. Dean steps in behind her and opens the door to let her briskly escape without looking back. He rolls his eyes at John over his shoulder, villainous smirk still firmly in place.
John watches the door close behind them, hears the high pitch of the girl’s voice as they travel down the grumbling staircase, whining out her embarrassment, her utter world encompassing mortification. He hears the rumble of Dean’s reply, imagines the satiated smile on his son's face, imagines Dean’s slinging an arm over her shoulders, reassuring her that it’s a beautiful, natural act and nothing to be shy over. Dean’s the king of bullshit and a cocky little bastard. Really, John has no idea where he gets it from.
He turns back and glances around their neat, poky apartment and finds everything in its place. It feels good to be home.
“Hey. You’re home early.” It comes out painstakingly bright-casual even though Dean’s eyes are wide with brimming laughter.
“Seriously, Dean?” John snaps, more tired than mad. “On the goddamn kitchen table?”
Dean had always had a flair of exhibitionism. Wouldn’t keep his clothes or diapers on as a toddler, more dexterous than any two year old ought be, shrieking with joy and defiance whenever he was discovered bare assed. He never went through an awkward, private puberty phase that John could remember either, happily foregoing jeans or shirts whenever the temperature allowed it. Dean’s always had an easy pride in his body and uses it to every advantage.
And since he discovered girls? Well, he has a one track laser focus determination that John secretly thinks is a little alarming. Kid hunts female classmates and waitresses with the same fascination and vigour he gives to weapons and defensive training.
Dean lifts the hem of his t-shirt to wipe off his mouth and chin. Has the decency to look cowed... for about two seconds. He turns his back to John, trying to hide his smirk as he slowly fills up a glass of water from the tap in a well practiced “time buying” tactic.
John had driven clear through the night, an entire coven of harpies wiped out by hand, their rotten carcasses probably still smouldering in the shallow grave he dug before he’d doused them in gasoline, lit a match, and booked it home. Their apartment is on the third floor and the steel grate stairway up is rusted to hell, it creaks and whines murderously underfoot with every step. John had taken his time too, heavy pack laden with the crossbow, several machetes, as well as his dirty laundry. There had been nothing even remotely stealthy about his approach.
“Don’t tell me you didn’t hear me coming, Dean,” John chides, letting his voice go stern. He sees Dean’s back straighten a fraction before he turns back, face schooled in to a perfectly neutral expression.
When John had finally rattled the front door open he had been struck, frozen with the vision of a half naked cheerleader spread out on the small table in their compact dinette; Dean kneeling on the checkered linoleum, his face buried between her legs and going to town.
John had watched for a moment in a horrified detachment as one of her tanned athletic legs curled over Dean’s shoulder, smooth calf muscle tensing, the other leg stretched out straight, the space cramped enough that her white sneaker was pushing against the sink edge. The girl was resting back on her elbows on the table top, sports bra pushed up, eyes squeezed shut, smeared red lipstick mouth agape and gasping while Dean held her squirming hips tightly and ate insistently at the apex of her thighs.
Just as John had shaken to his senses and blinked, reached for the door to remove himself, the girl had let out a high moan, matched with a hungry, needy groan from Dean. She had opened her eyes, looked right at John with a helpless expression of utter shock and shuddering, hurtling pleasure, and come all over his son’s face.
Dean had risen slowly, smugly sucking on his ripe bottom lip, ignoring his girl’s panicked glances between him and John as she caught her breath and straightened her clothes. He'd squeezed her trembling quads, handed her a slip of white material (her panties John surmised).
“Bathroom’s down the hall,” Dean’d told her courteously, slight nod of his head and intense eye contact to dismiss her in her dazed state and send a secret message that John didn't want to even begin to understand.
John had watched her trundle away on shaky legs, her face crimson, and finally dropped his heavier bag.
“I heard you,” Dean admits. “It was just…” He waves his arm in the general direction of the hallway, mouth wriggling to resist another grin.
John’s not laughing. They eat breakfast at that table. It’s where Sammy does his homework. He waits, unimpressed.
“I heard you,” Dean repeats, more confident this time, “but she was right there, Dad. I figured I could probably, y’know… finish. Before you made it.”
As excuses go, it’s poor at best. John knows the truth and it’s frankly unsettling. Dean heard him coming and just didn't care. Dean doesn't care if he gets caught in a compromising position on the kitchen table with a girl. He doesn't care who catches him. He doesn’t care and he’d do it again because in Dean’s mind the payoff is worth way more than the wrath of any punishment. John knows Dean doesn't care because this isn’t the first (or even the second) time he’s caught Dean mid-hook up. The kid has no shame whatsoever.
The kitchen table though? What's wrong with the bedroom?
John feels the ache of pulled muscles across his shoulder blades from far too many repetitive chopping motions. He needs a shower and a soft flat surface, stat. He points a finger at Dean, who’s still looking far too satisfied with himself, doing nothing to try to hide the blatant bulge in the front of his jeans.
“She better be legal,” John hisses, because what else can he say? John let Dean drive the car at fourteen, let him start knocking back whiskey and husting pool in bars at sixteen. The kid had his own cache of deadly weapons, fake IDs, an arrest record longer that his arm. Dean killed his first monster at fifteen and he's been looking after Sammy for his whole life.
Dean is nearly nineteen now and yeah, he’s promiscuous, he maybe even has a mild sex addiction, but he has his mother’s eyes and John’s shoulders and a mouth that was clearly a gift from the gods and girls love him. They melt when he flutters his eyelashes at them. If being sexually deviant is Dean’s only vice, John can’t really stand in his way. He never lets it interfere with his job. As long as he’s safe and as long as he’s not hurting anyone… and besides, what’s John gonna do about it? Ground him?
Lost in thought, slightly despondent at his own clear lack of parenting and half delirious from lack of sleep, it takes a moment for John to realise Dean hasn’t responded to him which can only mean one thing and he begins to feel a migraine coming on. He pinches the bridge of his nose as Dean crosses the room towards him. He watches Dean lift the weapons bag with a grunt, feels the relief when Dean reaches over and slips the straps of his duffel from his shoulder too.
“You don’t need to worry about that,” Dean says softly when he notices John is still waiting for a reply. Close up, John can see how swollen his mouth is, notices a hickey peeking out from under the collar of his t-shirt. Dean's hair is sticking out at odd angles where sweaty hands have raked through it. He has red lipstick caked subtly in the stubble on his jaw. He looks exactly like what he's been doing.
At John's sceptical appraisal, Dean continues, going for placating this time. “Her birthday is in a couple of weeks, so… close enough, right?” His quick grin is blinding, disarmingly charming. Dangerous, John thinks, for any woman in a fifty mile radius. Without his bags to weigh him down, John feels suddenly buoyant, like he’s gonna float away at any moment. He cannot deal with angry mobs of righteous pitchfork wielding parents coming for blood and vengeance over the lost virtue of their underage daughter. Not again.
“Go lay down,” Dean tells him with a comforting pat on the bicep like he’s psychic. He hefts the bags over to the tiny coat closet by the front door. “I’ll take care of all this later," he assures. Ever the housewife. Dean's a good kid but that doesn't mean John can let him get away with this scot-free. He pulls his ace card, his baby brother card, that never fails to make Dean snap to and pay attention.
"What if Sam had walked in here and seen that, huh?" he asks seriously and is instantly internally disappointed when just Dean laughs out loud.
"Maybe the little brat would learn a thing or two," Dean chuckles, crossing back to the kitchen as the toilet flushes down the hall. "You know, Dad, if you ever need any pointers..." he offers benevolently, palms out, eyes sparkling with serotonin and mischief.
Now it’s John’s turn to hide his smile. "Son, I could write down everything you know about women on the back of a beer mat and still have room left over.”
Dean throws his head back and cackles, delighted, and John soaks it in, tension draining out of him by the second. Dean’s laugh is infectious; the sound has held John together more times that he can count. Sometimes John wonders if it isn't Dean’s easy mirth alone that’s held their family together all these years.
Dean’s girlfriend (for this week at least) appears sheepishly at the end of the hallway, hands wringing the bottom of her tiny pleated school colours skirt, peering at Dean for direction. John feels for her, remembering the helpless surprise in her eyes, and does his best to keep a lid on his amusement.
“You ready for me to take you home, babe?” Dean asks cheerily. “I gotta pick up my brother from soccer practise anyway.” He spins the car keys on his finger, unfazed by the awkward atmosphere, or oblivious. The girl nods eagerly, picks up her purse from the counter and bless her heart, she looks up at John then, her face on fire.
“I’m really sorry, sir, about…" she stares at the table for a second, looks away pointedly, cheeks burning. “Um. It was nice to meet you though,” she rushes out and starts quickly towards the door. John steps aside to make room, admires her balls.
“It was nice to meet you, too, sweetheart,” he tells her gruffly as she passes and he can’t hold in his laughter any longer when she squeaks and fumbles with the door knob, hands slipping. Dean steps in behind her and opens the door to let her briskly escape without looking back. He rolls his eyes at John over his shoulder, villainous smirk still firmly in place.
John watches the door close behind them, hears the high pitch of the girl’s voice as they travel down the grumbling staircase, whining out her embarrassment, her utter world encompassing mortification. He hears the rumble of Dean’s reply, imagines the satiated smile on his son's face, imagines Dean’s slinging an arm over her shoulders, reassuring her that it’s a beautiful, natural act and nothing to be shy over. Dean’s the king of bullshit and a cocky little bastard. Really, John has no idea where he gets it from.
He turns back and glances around their neat, poky apartment and finds everything in its place. It feels good to be home.