Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/6277903.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Rape/Non-Con, Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Supernatural
  Relationship:
      Dean_Winchester/John_Winchester
  Character:
      John_Winchester, Dean_Winchester, Sam_Winchester
  Additional Tags:
      Supernatural_-_Freeform, Angst, Sad, why_did_I_write_this, john_is_mean,
      dub-con_ish, Abused_Dean, Parent/Child_Incest, Wincest_-_Freeform,
      Father/Son_Incest, Anal_Fingering, Anal_Sex, Hurt_Dean_Winchester, Hurt
      No_Comfort
  Stats:
      Published: 2016-03-17 Completed: 2016-04-13 Chapters: 2/2 Words: 2825
****** Darling Dean ******
by dunwiththis
Summary
     John loves Dean, he does. Maybe not in a way a father should love his
     son, but he loves Dean, regardless.
Notes
     This is actually kind of dark so please don't read if you're
     sensitive to incest/non-con.
     If not, I hope you enjoy
     1/4/16: I was just wondering if anyone wanted a second part to this?
     I've gotten some positive feedback so just leave a comment if any of
     you guys would want more. Ty!
     8/4/16: So I've decided against the second part, but I'll probably
     end up doing another John/Dean fic. Ty for all the support & kudos! I
     also now have a Tumblr, so you guys could follow me on there if you'd
     like, my user is papijensen. <3
     13/4/16: I lied. I wrote the second part.
See the end of the work for more notes
***** Chapter 1 *****
John watched his eldest son sleep.
Long eyelashes brushing against his sun-kissed, freckled cheeks, face smooth
and wrinkle free, innocent and beautified in sleep, his rosy, full lips parted.
Watched as he shifted, the long teenaged limbs tangled within the thin motel
sheets.
Ever since he turned twelve, John knew his son's face would get him in trouble.
Dean was beautiful, too beautiful: with those sparkling green eyes that
crinkled in the corner every time he smiled, and those perfect pink lips. Oh,
those lips. Way too pretty for a boy's, so soft and luscious looking - made
John's prick throb and twitch, and he knew it shouldn't because Dean was his
son; his own flesh and blood, his creation.  It was unfortunate, because John
was deeply in love with him, not in a matter which a father should love a son,
but a different way, a more emotional way. He was never tender with Dean, the
hell was he, made him grow up too fast maybe, but that was just how he showed
affection.
John knew he had to toughen him up after Mary's death, knew be had to be the
next man to fight the evils of the world, safeguard there family business, and,
more importantly, Sam. To say John was jealous of his youngest was an
understatement. Dean was highly protective of Sam, caring, spoke to him in a
manor that infuriated him, but oddly made him proud at the same time. He
yearned for Dean to hold him the way he held Sam, share those soft, tentative,
loving touches, have a bond as strong as theirs. But that's just how it worked.
John was the father, man of the house, Dean was his obedient, strong soldier,
and Sam - well, he was problematic, but still a Winchester. He loved them both,
but there was just something about Dean - Dean, with his wonderful eyes and
nose and perfect fucking everything - something that blinded John to the fact
they were related.
John didn't care, he didn't, and suddenly his hands were trailing across Dean's
heated skin, working on their own accord, exposing the planes of his flat,
tanned stomach, and God, John could take him now. Just roll him over, tug his
underwear down and fuck him, hard and rough, make him whine as he pounded into
his sweet -
 "Dad?" And John retracted this hand as if touching his son had caused him to
be burnt, as if Dean were a blazing fire.
In that moment, with Dean all sleep hazed and shocked innocence blessing his
features, John knew he was going to take his son. He was going to be his son's
first, take his virginity, pop his cherry. He'd been waiting so long, since his
twelth birthday. John loved power, loved Dean's docile nature, the two went
amazing together, and he knew that Dean would do anything he wanted him to,
took advantage of it.
"Dean," John breathed in response, leaning over to cup Dean's cheek, watching
his son's bright eyes widen with the unexpected contact.
 "Dad, what - what are you doing?" Dean slurred, still sleepy.
"Don't worry, son, let me make you feel good," because it wasn't just about
John getting off, he was going to make Dean feel amazing, make Dean feel things
he'd never felt before.  "Let me touch you."
 Dean felt his dad's mouth brush his ear as he whispered his intentions, the
salt-and-pepper stubble scratching his skin, and a repulsed shiver coiled
around his spine. This was Dad. It was Dad's hands gripping so hard on his
thighs they bruised, Dad's hands yanking off his old Led Zepplin shirt. Dad's
face, dimly-lit by the moonlight, a smug look wiped across it. A devilish,
knowing look, a mischievous glint in his dark eyes that Dean only ever saw in
his own when he peered into the mirror. There was a hint of something else,
something unrecognisable, and would he be damned if he said guilt or sadness.
"Dad, please," he tried, "what's happening?"
 He'd never experienced anything like this before. Apart from jerking it
himself sometimes, he had never had anyone else touch him intimately, and, well
- this was intimate. Very intimate. He knew that when two people loved each
other very much they engaged in sexual activities (obviously), and he loved his
dad, but the whole situation just felt...wrong. Dean thought only a girl and a
guy could do it though, not a guy and guy!
"Dean?" his dad's voice pulled him from his confused thoughts. He looked up,
and suddenly Dad's lips were on his, muffling the gasp of surprise. Dean didn't
respond for a few seconds, but then he felt a tongue lap over his closed mouth,
and he pushed at Dad's chest but he didn't budge, and he was going to cry, he
was going to cry because this was wrong and he didn't want to but he had to. He
felt a tug on his nipple, and he whined, and John took the opportunity to slip
his tongue inside, deepening the kiss and making his dick ache, Dean tasted so
good, so so wonderful, better than he had ever imagined. Dean was his good boy.
His, only his, no one else's. 
John was going to make Dean feel great, make him beg and whine for more, put
first, he was going to get those pretty lips around his cock.
Dean was being pulled into a sitting position by big, rough hands, the friction
heating his skin almost painfully. Dad's fingertips were pressing into his jaw,
and he felt it go slack, felt the panic rising from his chest, heartbeat
increasing. He tried to scoff, make a mutter of protest, but Dad had a firm
grip. There was a moment of silence, nothingness, then a large object was being
pushed into his mouth, something veiny and hard and angry, and Dean knew it was
his cock. His throat tightened, Dean struggled to breathe. A bitter taste
filled his mouth, as well as his father's large manhood, and Dean didn't know
what to do.
"Suck," his father commanded, and so he did. He hollowed his cheeks, bobbing
his head up and down the shaft, trying not to gag. He felt sick, and Dad kept
groaning, kept calling him a 'whore', kept pushing himself deeper and deeper
down Dean's hot mouth until he was spent, spurting thick white stuff all over
Dean's face.
Dean was good. That mouth of his so sweet. Almost instantly, John's dick was
rising to attention again, because fuck, Dean looked so wonderful like this,
with come tracing his features, all breathless and confused. He didn't ask
questions, didn't speak, didn't even wipe his face. Just sat, shocked.
"Roll over for me, be a good boy." Dad's voice was soft and gentle, a tone
which had never been used on Dean before. Usually it was all manly and orderly,
not a hint of compassion or love, and it made something deep and dark lurch low
in Dean's belly. Despite being defiled, he decided he was going to fight, going
to resist - try to save the little bit of dignity he had left.
"Dad, I don't - what are you -"
"You want to make your dad happy, don't you?"
"Yeah, but -"
"I won't ask again, Dean," and there was something there, something threatening
and frightening laced within the sweetness.
"Y-yes, Sir." Dean turned on his stomach, body tense, stomach churning.
 He felt John's hands on his ass, and he flinched, but remained still, quiet,
because he had to make Dad happy, had to put him and Sammy first; always them
first.
His shirt was carelessly tossed across the room, his boxers at his ankles. A
bottle cap closing sounded, and Dean shuddered. Never had he thought that a
sound like that could rise fear from him. Dad's palms were kneading his behind
as he felt the mattress dip, and he couldn't suppress the small, frightened
whimper that slipped pass his lips. His cheeks were spread, and a wet sensation
teased at his hole.
"Dad -"
"Sh, son." And then there was a finger inside, a cold, moistened finger, it
hurt, it did, but Dean remained silent. There was another. And another, and
another, and they were moving, inside him.
Dean writhed as his father opened him up, the occasional plaintive cry leaving
his mouth. He didn't like it. It was a strange feeling, his dad's broad fingers
manoeuvring internally, combined with the frigid dampness of the liquid. What
was he searching for?
And then Dad found it, nudged over that sweet spot, and Dean was seeing stars.
He didn't want it, not at all, but God, did it feel amazing. He clutched at the
sheets, clamping his jaw down onto the pillow to stop the moans that streamed
as Dad continued to finger that one spot.
"C'mon, Dean, let me hear you moan."
 John smirked as he watched his son writhe beneath him. How had he waited so
long for this? Dean was so commendable, so easy and willing. So hot and tight,
and John thought he would come in his pants from the gorgeous sight before him.
Dean was sprawled on the bed, eyes closed and lips parted, breaths shallow and
panted, slim hips rutting slightly into the sheets, all smooth, tan skin. John
pulled his fingers out, grinned at the whimper of loss Dean made, and proceed
to apply lube to his hard-on, which was red and aching and eager to be inside
his boy.
A deep, primal growl left John's mouth as he thrust into his son's warm, tight
channel. It was bliss, absolute bliss, and John couldn't get enough. Dean's ass
engulfed his length, his narrow passage squeezing his dick with a force that
made him groan with pleasure. He thrust up to the hilt, so deep inside, moans
flowing out of his mouth. God, he was so tight.
It hurt.
 It really hurt. Badly, and Dean couldn't take it, he couldn't.
"Da-Dad, stop, please," he writhed and groaned, because it was the worst pain
imaginable. It was as though he were being stretched, like he were about to
split in two, and it hurt so bad, but John kept going, kept pushing Dean to the
boundary of what felt like death. In the moment Dad grasped his limp dick, Dean
wished for death, oh God, how he'd loved to be dead.
Dad grunted, and a warmth filled him.
Dean came almost immediately after, letting out a pained but pleasured moan. He
squirmed at the feeling of sticky ejaculation on his stomach. He felt used.
Abused. Dirty.
"Clean yourself up. Sam'll be back soon," his voice was gruff as he pulled out
of Dean and headed to the shower.
"Yes, Sir."
***** II *****
Chapter Notes
     Thank you all so much for the support on this. I really appreciate
     it. I know I said I wouldn't, but I wrote the second part! Honestly I
     enjoyed writing this a lot. As you know, I really like abused Dean. I
     don't know why. Anyways I hope you enjoy! Leave a kudos and a comment
     if you did! <3
     (Leave a comment if you actually read these lmao.)
Dean awoke.
Everything was sore.
Everything hurt.
The events of the night before recollected within his memory, and he suddenly
felt dirty all over again. A repulsive off-white crust formed all over the
sheets, and Dean knew what it was, almost threw up with the reminder of how it
got there. Bile rose in his throat, but he held it down. No time for that. Had
to get those bedsheets changed. Contemplated burning them, but with the amount
of trouble he'd be in, he'd rather die.
He remembered thinking that the previous night.
Dean was strong, in mind and soul, he was going to be fine. He could block it
out. Block out all those awful feelings, physical and emotional, block out the
sickening feeling of Dad's sandpaper fingers against his back -
Block.
He'd put up a wall. Stop all of it from polluting his mind.
He felt violated, angry, but he wasn't going to say anything.
He was fine, absolutely fine.
Hell, he was great.
Dad slept next to him. Soundly, not a single disturbance, like a baby. Dean
didn't wake him.
Once Dean saw himself in the mirror, that wall came crashing down, like it'd
been hit by a mental wrecking ball.
He was black and blue. Literally.
They were everywhere. Those temporary reminders, reminders of exactly where his
father gripped and grabbed, with no care in the world. Maybe he didn't really
care about him. Maybe he was just a slut like his dad called him, a play toy.
Maybe he was worthless.
Bruises the shape of fingers scattered his torso, the most prominent on his
waist. Dean remembered, remembered how he just wouldn't let go of his hips.
Dark, dark marks covered his neck. They looked ugly, uglyuglyugly, and Dean
wondered if he could scrub them away. He tried. It didn't work.
Dean felt ugly.
It was like permanent filth, this feeling, this constant crawling of his skin.
When he showered, it didn't go away, didn't wash down the drain along with the
physical dirt. It stuck, it stayed, and it was killing him.
Dean showered until his skin was raw, and the water went cold.
He brushed his teeth, (avoiding looking into the mirror) he dressed, turned on
the radio, said good morning to everyone. It was a normal day. Except he felt
Dad's eyes on him every time he moved, flinched at the sound of his voice.
Couldn't look him in the eye. Wanted to scream when he touched him.
"Dean," his voice is cold.
"Yes, Dad?" Dean kept his voice from wavering.
"Do you remember what happened last night?"
Dean froze.
"N-no, sir."
He didn't want to talk about it. Ever. It was embarrassing, it was degrading.
No one would ever take him seriously. He wasn't a little boy anymore, he could
handle his problems by himself, he didn't need to talk through rape with his
dad. By his dad.
"Alright, son."
Dean never met eyes with him.
 
Sam was worried.
Dean wasn't the same. Not the older brother looked up to.
His shell.
He knew Dad did something. Maybe he hit him?
Dad hit him plenty of times.
Shouted?
Dad shouted lots of times.
He was losing his brother and he was scared. Sam didn't understand, but he
wanted regular Dean back.
 
"Dad, don't, please."
This time, Dad was drunk. Very drunk.
Dean felt the sharp sting of a backhanded slap across his cheek and hot breath
that smelled of whiskey fanning his face.
That was the second time John Winchester abused his beautiful son.
Dean cried that night. He cried his eyes out, cried until he couldn't breathe.
His chest was tight, and as it tightened further, he knew he was weak. He no
longer deserved the Winchester status. No longer deserved to call Sam his
family, because he was weak, a stupid, disgusting weakling, and he couldn't
change that. He should've died in that fire, not Mom. Never should've been Mom.
He remembered her. Dad had said he was the spitting image.
 
The third time, Dad had been gentle. Dean hadn't wanted it, of course, but
instead of losing control, he worshipped him. Kissed his cock with such
tenderness it scared him, but Dean kept his mouth shut. He had to, no one could
ever know what John did, because not only would it ruin his reputation, but his
Dad's, and he respected him far too much to do such a thing. No one would
believe him anyway, so Dean stayed quiet. Put up with it, kept his mouth shut,
for him. After all, he loved his dad.
 
John didn't know how Sam found out.
But boy, was he pissed.
He just didn't understand. He never did.
They shouted, they argued, Dean cried, but in the end it was pointless. Dean
was John's and only John's, as he'd been reminded plenty, and he refused to let
the youngest Winchester pull him away. All it took was a command, and Dean
would be at his feet, telling Sam he was fine as he kissed the very ground John
stood upon. John had that power. That authority. That control. And he knew it.
He was had eyes just like Mary's.
Mary's were blue, Dean's were green, but that was the only difference. They had
the same captivating stare that hypnotised him. He had her everything. Her
stubbornness, her beauty, her attitude.
John loved Mary.
He loved Dean more.
He knew he was hurting Dean - made him feel like shit - but he couldn't stop.
He needed him. He was a necessity, and Dean was to be used to his full extent.
John was happy, and although Sam was annoying sometimes, he was happy his son
was getting somewhere in life. Studying hard, applying for law school - he was
proud. Dean was happy too, John knew. Happy just being by John's side, hunting,
the family business. John couldn't ever let him go. Dean was John's drug.
John's poison, as he knew that one day, Dean would be the one to kill him.
He wouldn't have it any other way.
Dad abused Dean until the day he died.
There were tears.
But, he was free.
End Notes
     Please leave a comment and drop kudos if you enjoyed c:
     15/4/16: Thank you so much for 100 kudos and over 3,000 hits! Like
     what ?? That's crazy! Thank you for all the lovely comments and
     support.
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