Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/1085152.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Graphic_Depictions_Of_Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Supernatural
  Relationship:
      Dean_Winchester/John_Winchester, Dean_Winchester/Sam_Winchester, Dean
      Winchester/Original_Male_Character(s)
  Character:
      Dean_Winchester, Sam_Winchester, John_Winchester, Original_Male_Character
      (s), Missouri_Moseley
  Additional Tags:
      Rape, Rape_Aftermath, Daddy_Issues, Parent/Child_Incest, Prostitution,
      Promiscuity, Alcohol_Abuse/Alcoholism, Barebacking, Demonic_Possession,
      Demon_Sex, Physical_Abuse, Eating_Disorders, Mpreg, Season/Series_01,
      Abandoned_Work_-_Unfinished_and_Discontinued, Not_Beta_Read
  Stats:
      Published: 2013-12-16 Chapters: 2/2 Words: 17737
****** Demonic ******
by shadesofhades
Summary
     Dean and John get more than they bargained for during a demon hunt.
     Dean deals with the aftermath. John disappears.
     Season 1 AU.
Notes
     Abandoned in 2008.
     This had a lot of plot points and got quickly overwhelming. Also, it
     was very, very dark.
     Sorry if I missed any warnings.
***** Chapter 1 *****
"It's time for you to take what's yours, Johnny-boy."
The possessed man's breath is hot against his neck, his hands clutching Dean's
stomach as his ass throbs, burning white-hot, sending pain lacing through his
veins like heroin.
He grits his teeth against the feeling of being stretched and filled to the
max, definitely further and fuller than he's ever felt before -- more than he's
ever thought was possible to feel -- and he's hard-pressed to pretend that he
doesn't notice his father eyes glazed over with lust.
"He's ready for you to take him," The demon tells his father as the borrowed
hands stroke across Dean's chest, caressing, and teasing in ways that feel far
to gentle coupled with the tightness of his body. "You can't tell me that
didn't get you hot as hell, watching me split him wide open with my cock,
pretending it was you in my place, bending him over.... Pretending it was you
forcing him to his knees as you push your way past his tight resistance. Oh
Johnny-boy, this body -- it feels as fucking divine as you always thought it
would."
He can feel the demon grin against the back of his neck as his father's gaze
snaps immediately away at that particular sentence, his eyes suddenly filled
with what Dean hopes is guilt, shame coloring his cheeks red, but Dean's not
sure if it's a good or bad thing that his father can't meet his eyes, because
that clearly means there's obvious reason to be guilty.
"You're sick..." his father's trying to protest the words with a weak whisper,
but it's been too long. his eyes still fixed firmly on the floor and Dean can't
really hear the venom that should be behind those words. He can barely believe
it's true, barely able to wrap his mind around the fact that his father wants
him, and it would probably make him sick to his stomach if he didn't have his
own skeletons hiding in his closet. "He's my son.... I could never..." but he's
obviously struggling to form words of weak protest and Dean wonders if that
line is really a lie because it's to hard to tell with his dad. And even if his
father never lays a single hand on him, he hasn't lifted a finger to stop the
possessed man that has him on his hands and knees of a filthy cellar, blood and
come mixing, and sliding down his thighs as the demon finally pulls out.
"But it doesn't stop you from wanting what you can't have, does it, John?" This
time, his father's the one gritting his teeth, but not from pain like Dean
still is, as the relief he feels at finally being empty is taken away, and the
demon buries himself, roughly into Dean's already abused channel, with a huff
of laughter at the way Dean gasps as his blood eases the way back in.
"He wants you too, " the borrowed voice continues, lips split into a wide grin
that Dean can feel against the back of his neck, raising the hairs on end at
the feeling of his hot breath, his hand wandering down, down over Dean's chest,
wandering over his taut stomach, over his hip to grip his soft cock. "But he
doesn't let you take what's yours, do you Dean?" He twists his wrist and pretty
soon Dean's thrusting forward, unable to stop the movements of his hips at the
hand stroking him to hardness, tricking his body into releasing a deep moan at
the feeling. "Instead, he lets guys who remind him of Daddy, take him home and
fuck him. But of course there's always a price involved. And he doesn't come
cheap." There's tender kisses against his neck now, lips sucking gently at the
sensitive flesh of his bared throat as his hand works Dean's cock and he rocks
his hips forward, pressing as far inside Dean has he can, and Dean can't stop
the porn star moan that tears from his throat at the feeling of completeness.
But Dad's eyes are on him at the sound, wide and startled, staring at Dean like
he's never seen him before in his life as the demon forces him down to his
elbows, closer to the ground with a particularly powerful thrust that sends his
whole body reeling forward with the sudden motion. Hitting his elbows, it's all
Dean can do not to be face-down in the dirt floor of the cellar.
"Oh, that's not all, Johnny," the man says, his words punctuated by a strong
thrust and quickly followed by a low moan that Dean just can't keep in despite
of the situation and the pain coursing through him, or maybe it's because of
it. "Oh no, Dean here loves it when they abuse him. He thinks they need to
punish him for how much he wants his Daddy's cock."
Now it's Dean's turn to look away, to feel the shame heating his cheeks,
because the words are not entirely a lie. The only difference from the tale he
tells to the real one is that it's not his father's cock that he begs on his
knees for, not his father's cock he wants sliding in and out of his mouth or
his ass.
His father is close to giving in to temptation, he can tell when he looks up
and his hands are already toying less than innocently with the zipper of his
jeans, as he watches Dean's body arch below the strange man taking him for the
second time tonight.
But then suddenly, it's Dean's ear the demon's whispering into.
"It will be so easy to pretend, won't it Dean? After all, you've had so much
practice already. It will be so easy for you to pretend that it's Sammy's hand
on you, his cock buried deep inside you (they're the same size you know),
stretching you so tight. You'd ride your Daddy for all he's worth just like the
whore you are, if only you could pretend it was your little brother filling you
out."
Dean moans, chest rumbling as he imagines it, Sammy's hands on him, giving Dean
what he's wanted for years, and it's very nearly enough to make him lose it
completely.
"He's doing it right now, Johnny-boy, pretending it's Daddy behind him," Dean
moans again, his hips slamming backwards despite himself, trying to find more
friction, and even when he can feel something rip inside of him, he doesn't
care, just keeps going, needing the pain to get him off anymore, craving it
like a drug addict for his next fix.
He finally finds his relief as the demon twists his wrist a little too sharply,
violently thrusting forward at the same time, and Dean spills himself into the
possessed man's hands.
The the body behind him tenses up as well and Dean's used channel is filled
with liquid heat. The demon laughs and raises the soiled hand to his mouth and
takes a slow lick across the palm of his hand, lapping up Dean's come as he
taunts his father more. "He's so beautiful when he comes, isn't he John?" He
gives another flick of his tongue and grins, "Tastes just as sweet too."
Despite his father's lust glazed eyes, he doesn't react to the words, his hand
still steady on his zipper, still completely unable to look Dean in the eyes.
Dean can't say it really surprises him though, when he feels his father reach
for him, his calloused fingers like sandpaper against his moist lips, rubbing
them softly before he pushes his thumb past them and into Dean's waiting mouth.
On automatic, Dean closes his eyes and sucks gently on the digit, trying to
pretend the deep moan from the man is front of him is Sammy's.
"I've already laid the seed, Johnny-boy. Now the only thing you have to do is
partake," the demon says, his hands caressing Dean's chest, and out of the
corner of his eye, he can see the wicked grin spreading across his borrowed
face at the words, sending a chill course through Dean's body.
His father doesn't waste time contemplating the demon's works like Dean's
doing, studying each syllable, looking for answers, but instead, Dad's pulling
his thumb from Dean's mouth, his hand immediately flying to the zipper of his
jeans, unable to get it down fast enough before he forces them down his hips.
The demon pulls out of him, leaving Dean feeling empty, and his ass aching, but
his father's already pulling him forward, turning him over and pushing him on
his back before he can truly lament the loss of the cock buried deep inside of
him.
And, of course, it figures his father would want to look at his face while he
fucks him, and while this is not the first time Dean's done it in this
position, he doesn't really like it, it makes it so much harder to keep up the
game of illusion he's been playing with himself, and he's afraid of what might
happen if he can't block out the fact that it's Dad fucking him. But, he's been
in similar situations for years now, ever since Sammy turned twelve and started
to sprout up like a bean pole, and he can handle them just fine with some well
placed repressing.
Even though he's already been fucked open twice tonight, in the course of an
hour none the less, he still feels the delicious pain spread through him like
wildfire as his dad's cock presses inside of him without so much as a single
drop of lube to the help ease his way, Dean's muscles protesting the force
behind it.
When he moves it's like a red-hot poker being shoved inside him, burning away
his ability to pretend anymore with every thrust of his father's hips, because
this isn't pleasurable pain. It hurts so bad that he can feel the beginning of
pin-pricks behind his eyes, but it's sheer force of will that keeps them at
bay. Even if he's a little resentful of the man above him right now -- because
even if Dean doesn't want it, it's perfectly clear that Dad does -- Dean knows
that if he were in his place and Sammy were in Dean's, he'd make the same
decision every time. So maybe this was just pay back -- or even karma, not that
Dean believes in that sort of shit -- for those forbidden thoughts always at
the forefront of his mind. But his father shifts his hips, and suddenly pain
and Sam are the furthest thing from his brain, instead his whole body is
pulsating with pleasure and it's shoot through him straight to his dick,
suddenly rock hard with just one thrust.
His dad gives a few experimental tugs at Dean's cock, and Dean's never been so
relieved in his life, because he can tell that his father's definitely never
done this before. But then again, Dad has always been more sexually reserved
(and repressed) rather than embracing his desires like Dean. He's never been
afraid to experiment, but this, well, is going beyond experimentation and into
horror.
Then suddenly, his father is speaking, softly at first, as if he's whispering
sweet nothings into Dean's ear, except, behind him he can hear the demon's
laughter choke off, and Dean realizes as his dad's voice grows in volume, that
it's not words for his ears only, but rather the demon's. Trust John Winchester
to keep his cool enough that he can repeat a complex exorcism ritual from heart
while fucking.
And if Dean wasn't on the very verge of his second orgasm of the night with the
way his father's cock is sliding over his sweet spot, then he might have a new-
found respect for the man.
The demon's screaming and pounding at the cellar door, but Dean just smiles as
he remembers the padlock the demon himself put there to hinder their escape,
and Dean's just about there, his hips forcing themselves back against his
father's while the demon bangs on the door and then --
And then it's all over in a flash.
The demon's gone quite behind Dean's head, and his father has come to a
screeching halt above him, his come warming Dean's body, and with just a few
more yanks of Dean's aching cock he's following him under, fingernails biting
into his father's arms and leaving a trail of red in their wake.
The demon and his host are both dead, his dad's thoroughly sated, leaning back
on his heels to pull out, and Dean's stomach is flip-flopping all over the
place. Dad's looking at him with affection easy in his eyes, and an honest
smile on his face and Dean has to push down the sick feeling that washes over
him when he says, "No more other men, okay Dean?" Then he leans down and kisses
his lips with a tenderness completely foreign to Dean, as if the last few
minutes of painful sex didn't just happen, and Dean can't even pretend anymore
that the wetness on his face is anything but tears, he just hopes that his
father thinks they're out of happiness.
-------
It happens again three times in the week that follows. The first two times are
just after close calls on two separate hunts, and Dean doesn't even resist when
Dad clutches him close and kisses him gently as if reaffirming himself that
Dean's body is alive beneath his lips before he rips into him far too harshly.
Both times Dean just stares up at his father's face as he forces his way into
Dean's body and tries to remind himself of how much he deserves this
punishment.
But the third time is different.
Dean's just come out of the shower, standing over his duffle with a towel
wrapped tight around his waist when he feels his father's arms slip around him,
fingers splayed out over his stomach and sliding upwards, slow and tender, to
caress his chest. This time the fucking isn't fast paced and life affirming.
This time Dad takes his time with Dean's body, planting burning little kisses
across his body, his stubble sharp against Dean's sensitive skin, before he
spreads Dean wide open and slips inside of him, taking him from behind for the
first time. And this time, Dean can't stop the feelings of pleasure going
through him, can't stop the whimpers and the moans. He can't stop loving the
way it feels to have a cock pushing, pulling inside him, in and out, stretching
him just enough that he can't stop himself from feeling Sam inside of him.
And he can't stop himself from crying out Sam's name as he comes all over his
father's hand and the sheets below him.
He'd like to say his father's response comes as a surprise to him, but given
John Winchester's history of violence, the way his dad flips him over and
delivers a punch full-force to his eye is pretty much expected the instant his
brother's name is out of his mouth, but even if he anticipates the blow, he
does nothing to stop the impact. He doesn't even shy away from the next five
that follow either, not until his face feels like hamburger and there's blood
flowing in his eyes, his lips swollen and slick with blood.
There's a metallic ting in his mouth as Dad grips his thighs in powerful hands
and pries them apart. And suddenly what he knows is going to be the last time
his father ever fucks him, starts to feel like the first. But this time, when
the pain flares to life and spreads through him like an inferno, his vision
blacks out.
--------
When he comes to, his dad's sitting at the foot of his bed, fully dressed, and
unable to look Dean in the eyes, probably trying hard not to look at the mess
he's made of Dean's face, or from the feel of it, his body either.
One of his eyes is completely swollen shut and his stomach is aching, probably
from the amount of blood he's swallowed while he was asleep for god only knows
how long, and his entire body inside and out feels like a spectacularly huge
bruise. He doesn't even bother trying to sit up, knowing full-well he won't be
able to move, because his limbs feel heavy and rubbery, so instead he slips
further under the blanket that his father must have thrown over him while he
was unconscious. But whether the gesture was out of kindness and concern or the
fear of being faced with what he did to Dean's battered body, he's not entirely
sure.
They're both quiet for a long while and Dean knows perfectly well that his
father knows he's awake, but they both just sit in silence, Dad staring
guiltily at the motel carpeting while Dean stares through his one good eye at
his father's denim clad back.
When his father finally break the tangible hush between them, he's startled,
his whole body tensing painfully when his dad says, "How could you betray me
like that, Dean?"
The silence stretches between them like the miles on the Impala as Dean just
stares up at the ceiling, trying to think of an answer that isn't just a repeat
of the same question, and reminds himself that this was about punishment.
When the silence finally becomes too heavy, his father fidgets on the edge of
the bed, and Dean finally forces himself to answer with, "How could you just
trust that demon and not even bother asking me before you just took what you
wanted?"
He sees his father flinch out of the corner of his eye and he'd probably smile
at that if his lips weren't split open and painful.
Silence reigns again before his father asks in a defeated tone, "Was anything
he said true?"
"Yes."
Now Dad finally has the balls to meet his eyes, and Dean really does him a
half-smile this time, even though his lips crack and start to bleed all over
again.
And then he goes in for the kill.
"I was whoring myself," he says, unable to keep the smugness out of his voice,
"but it wasn't you that I was pretending to fuck."
His father's gaze shifts away to the floor once again. "It was Sam?" But it's
not really a question for Dean to answer and he knows it.
Brow wrinkling as if in deep thought, his father just keeps staring at the puke
colored carpet before he looks up and meets Dean's eyes again. "How could you
want that with Sam? He's your baby brother..."
Dean doesn't know what kind of fucked up rationalization his father uses, but
it doesn't stop him from firing back with, "Oh, that's rich coming from a man
who just raped his own son."
The thing is? He doesn't mean to throw out the 'r' word between them, because
even if it's true, that just makes it all so real.
His father looks as if he's been struck across the face, his mouth hanging
open, closing and opening again for a few seconds before it snaps shut with an
audible 'click' of his teeth, and Dean doesn't wait for an answer, because he's
honestly not expecting one. Instead he just closes his eyes and wills himself
back to sleep.
-------
When Dean awakens, he's not at all shocked to find his father's presence vacant
from the room along with all his personal belongs and any trace. Dean is,
however, surprised when he notices the note on his bedside table.
'Got a call about a hunt. Will call if I need you. Room's paid up for a week. -
John'
Dean honestly doesn't know if he should be furious or relieved that he's gone,
but regardless, he's pretty positive that this is the closest to a goodbye note
or even an apology as Dean will ever get from his father.
Managing to pull himself from the bed, he drags himself into the bathroom for a
much needed piss and to clean himself up, but he catches sight of himself in
the mirror before he can do either. He stares at his reflection for a long
time, hands braced on either side of the sink as he leans forward. Dean's
always thought that bruises looked a lot worst than they felt, but today, the
bruises coloring his face feel worst than any other wound he's ever suffered.
It nearly makes him sick to his stomach when he fingers a spot of tender skin
just above his eyebrow that's been split open by his father's wedding ring as
he delivered the blows, but he holds his sickness at bay until he notices the
dark bruise coloring his neck, not made by a fist. This time he barely makes it
to the toilet before he dry heaves into it and realizes just how long it's been
since he's eaten. He doesn't know how long ago it really is, because he has no
idea how long he was asleep, or even unconscious before that, but even then, he
can't remember when the last time he ate something other than a half a bag of
chips from the party store across the way was.
He falls onto his ass when his stomach stops its acrobatics, but the motion
brings tears to his eyes.
For a long while, Dean can't bring himself to do anything beyond sitting naked
on the cold bathroom tiles and stare down at the hand prints painted across his
body in black and blue.
------
Dean's afraid to leave the motel room for days, but eventually he just plain
can't fight the hunger anymore. So he throws on an oversized hoodie that used
to belong to Sammy, but when he left Dean didn't have the heart to throw away,
and tries to hunch in on himself like he's seen his little brother do so many
times.
He knows his face looks like a horror show, but he doesn't know what else to
do, so he gives up on trying to hide it and instead tries to think of a good
excuse that's not the truth.
Dean nearly loses it though, when the girl at the checkout with a black eye of
her own, looks at him with understanding and pity when he tells her he fell
down the stairs. He supposes some lies just hit a little to close to home.
Dean's so startled by the scene at the checkout that he doesn't leave his motel
room again until checkout time, which comes entirely too quickly.
The girl behind the counter looks at him with wide eyes, probably remembering
the way he smiled at her and flirted just a week before, but thankfully she
doesn't say anything about his face when he hands over the room key.
It feels good to slide back behind the wheel of the Impala again, the familiar
and comforting feel of the worn leather wrapped tight around metal beneath his
fingers, even if it causes him physical pain when the hard seats presses
against the sensitive tissue of his swollen backside. He knows he probably
really needed a hospital for his injuries, because even with all his
experiences during hunting, this is one wound he's never learn how to heal, but
the physical pain hurts less the anyone else knowing the truth behind the
injuries.
He drives aimlessly for four days, not really sure where he's going or even
what he should do with himself, and he's never felt so alone in the Impala,
despite the fact that he has been alone in it for years. But without Dad or
Sammy to point him in the right direction he feels more lost than ever.
He ends up on some dead end street in the middle of no where, just staring into
the woods ahead, headlights shining into the trees before the beams are
swallowed up by the darkness like Dean.
The only thing that he really wants to do anymore is to sneak into Sanford and
into Sam's apartment and slide up behind Sammy, wrap himself in his brother and
fall asleep.
But he's pretty sure Sam wouldn't feel as appreciative towards the gesture Dean
would. Especially if Dean showed up in the state he's in, his face fucked to
hell, swollen and discolored, because Sam left this life and he doesn't need
Dean's face to remind him that it's still there, lurking just beyond his field
of vision.
The thing is, he quickly runs out of choices when his cell phone chirps to
inform him of a voicemail waiting for his attention.
------
Thankfully, in the time it takes him to get all the way to Palo Alto, the
bruises on his face have faded away and now it's just his body that aches with
the reminder of his father's love. But at least, this he can hide, because
Dean's terrified that Sam will just have to look at his face to know what
really happened, why he's really there. And he knows that the limp and the
hissing breath he takes with every step, can be hidden from Sam's view in a way
a black eye never could. The truth is less obvious when it's not written all
over his face with the impressions of their father's fists.
But regardless of the pain that courses through him with the simplest of
movements, he feels eons better just having Sam by his side, within touching
distance from him, even if he knows that Sam's less than enthused to see Dean,
and that nearly hurts more then the ache in his ass.
Dean only feels vaguely guilty, though, when the fire engulfs Sam's apartment
and Dean feels relief flood though him.
But before, it was only Dean that was scared, angry, and lost, and now Sam is
right there with him, he can tell just by the way he stands, so rigid as he
watches the firefighters run in and out of the inferno, and he knows that Sam's
numb, because his whole life, everything he worked for, the white picket fence
and his future children are burning into nothing. Not that Dean can tell him
that he knows how it feels, because really he doesn't, Dean's situation has
miles of difference to Sam's and telling Sam now that the reason he came to him
in the first place was because Dad raped him, isn't really going to help
matters any.
-----
"She use to make coffee for me every morning," Sam says, breaking the silence
that had settled over them for days now, and even though Sam's voice is soft
and tentative, it still startles the fuck out of Dean, because the fire is
still fresh in both of their minds, even if the smell of smoke has finally left
their clothes, and Sam just plain hasn't been in the sharing and caring mood.
Sam's staring blankly at the peeling wallpaper of the motel room that they've
settle into for the week, and Dean's not really sure if Sam even knows he's in
the room. That is, until Sam glances at him with surprisingly dry eyes, and
Dean realizes that this is Sam's way of telling Dean how much he misses -- how
much he loved Jessica. And Dean tries not to let that fact hurt so much.
Dean doesn't say that though, doesn't give Sam an inkling about what's on his
mind, instead, he just hands him a styrofoam cup and says, "I didn't think you
liked coffee." Because Dean's always been fantastic at sidestepping the real
issue in any given situation.
Sam doesn't say anything again, just goes back to staring at the wall, and Dean
can tell by the look on his brother's face that he thinks Dean's just being a
dick, and while it's not untrue, it's not that he doesn't care. There's just
something about the way Sam's face contorts when he's talking about Jess, the
pain that lines his grief-roughened voice that has Dean so twisted up inside
that he can barely bring himself to think about his own damage. Instead he
pushes it deeper inside himself as offers Sam a smile of condolence and a half-
eaten donut that Dean's suddenly lost his appetite for.
He figures his own problems can take a backseat for now when Sam offers up a
half-hearted smile in return and Dean just feels relieved that he hasn't lost
his brother completely.
------
It's the next day after they kill the Windego when Dean starts to feel sick.
They spend most of the morning parked on the side of the road with Dean perched
on his knees in the gravel, vomiting up everything he's eating in the last
twenty-four hours, which, admittedly isn't as much as it probably should be.
"Maybe it was something you ate?" Sam says helpfully from behind Dean, rubbing
soothing circles across his back.
Dean doesn't mention the fact that Sam ate the same thing he did, mainly
because every time he even opens his mouth to reply, nausea hits him again, and
he ends up on the palms of his hands emptying his stomach into the dirt as cars
whip by them on the freeway.
But Sam's almost holding him close in a way that Dean can never remember him
doing before, because it's always been Dean holding Sam when he was sick or
hurting, but the sickness is almost worth it just for the feeling of Sam's arms
around his middle and the hands rubbing at his back.
"Maybe we should stop for the night? I think there's a motel at the next exit,"
Sam says, and Dean's almost ready to agree, because he doesn't think he can
ride in his baby without ruining the upholstery, and he'd rather die than do
that.
"Okay," Dean doesn't even protest when his stomach finally settles down enough
that he can lean back on his haunches and let Sam manhandle him to his feet.
They manage to get to the motel and check in before another wave a nausea hits
and Dean finds himself on his knees again, the hard tiles cold against his
skin, even through his jeans, as he hangs his head pathetically over the toilet
bowl.
He almost regrets getting the room when his sickness suddenly clears up and he
feels hungry even, his appetite back with a vengeance, but he knows even if
he's feeling a million times better than this morning, it's probably a good
idea to rest for a day or two before they move on to their next case.
"Dude, I'm starving," Dean says as he wanders out of the bathroom, his hand
rubbing his stomach as he looks up at Sam, buried in his laptop screen,
probably looking for the next hunt already, despite the fact that Dean's just
been puking his guts out for the last hour. Way to show concern for your poor
sick brother, Dean thinks with a snort.
"I take it you're feeling better, then?" Sam asks with a cocked eyebrow.
"I saw a diner down the street," Dean sidesteps the question with a grin.
Sam just sighs in defeat and closes the laptop lid. "Alright."
But when they're finally sitting down in the diner and Dean's flirted up and
down with the waitress like Sam expects him to, he finds he's really not
hungry. Or rather, it feels like he should eat, he just can't bring himself to
actually put the food in his mouth. He wonders if Sam's rubbing off on him when
he just pushes his ketchup covered fries around with his fork, but never
actually stabbing one and bring it to his mouth.
It's like, he's starving, but the food he ordered just doesn't sound good at
all.
Dean wrinkles his nose and skewers the pickle on his plate instead.
"What's wrong, Dean?" Sam's voices startles him right out of his food induced
trance, and he nearly drops the fork and the pickle when he jumps about a foot.
Sam rises both eyebrows and Dean just slides down on his side of the bench,
like he's trying to make himself invisible, which is just stupid since Sam's
staring right at him.
"I'm fine, just not as hungry as I thought," he answers rather forlornly and he
sets his fork down, and of course this would be the time that his stomach takes
the time to rumble loudly.
Sam's forehead wrinkles and his eyebrows draw together as he looks at Dean, and
Dean almost feels guilty for making Sam worry so much, but he doesn't really
know what to tell Sam because he doesn't even know what's wrong with him.
"Is the food bad?" he can hear the worry in Sam's voice and it makes his chest
clench, because it hurts to see Sam so worried over him. Not to mention that
it's just a stupid question. Of course the food is bad, that's always been part
of the appeal of bad diner food for Dean. The fact that it's coated in grease
had always been something that Dean liked, but right now, the thought of it is
about as appetizing as motor oil drained from the Impala.
When Dean doesn't answer Sam huffs and sinks down in his seat just like Dean
did. Only when Sam does it, his legs, which reach a hell of a lot further than
Dean's, are aimed perfectly between Dean's spread ones, and his knee presses
into Dean's crotch before he can adjust himself and sit up. And Dean's hard in
an instant, just knowing that a piece of Sam's body touched him there, his body
getting far more excited than it should with just a the slightest touch. But
then again, he's not exactly found himself in bed with anyone else since...
Since his dad, and Dean doesn't know if he wants to relive that, especially
with Sammy's right there, closer than he's been in years. Dean doesn't know if
it will even be possible to slip away like he used to.
Dean feels sick to his stomach again, and can't meet Sam's eyes now, the guilt
gnawing at his stomach, especially when he can see Sam's worried expression
from the corner of his eye. He knows though, that whatever caused his sickness
this morning, it wasn't the same as the needles he feels in the pit of his
stomach now.
"Do you want something else to eat?" Sam asks, clearly completely oblivious to
Dean's Sam-induced massive hard-on under the table, as he tries to flag down
the waitress before Dean can protest.
"No, Sam, it's alright," Dean shifts awkwardly in his seat, "I'll eat this,
it's fine."
Sam's clearly not satisfied though until Dean raises a french fry to his mouth
and bites down on it, making a big show of the action before Sam looks away
from Dean and back at his own plate.
"You're acting weird Dean. You're not still sick, are you?" Sam asks as he
raises his fork to his mouth, syrup dribbling off the piece of pancake to the
plate below, and Dean can't help but think about how good pancakes sound. He's
practically salivating by the time Sam actually puts the food in his mouth, and
he's pretty sure it's not his dick talking when he can't pry his eyes away from
Sam's mouth while he chews.
Sam stops in mid-chew and stares at Dean for a moment before he chews one more
time and swallows. "Dean?" Sam asks with worry thick in his voice, and the only
thing Dean can get out is,
"You know, I think I do want something else after all."
When the waitress comes back, Dean asks for pancakes and the bill, and tries to
will down his overeager cock and force his eyes away from Sam's mouth long
enough to actually eat said pancakes, which makes him wonder if it was his dick
talking after all, especially when he watches Sam lick his lips, a thoroughly
satisfied smile across his face.
When he finally takes the first bite and the pancakes just taste sticky and
sickenly sweet in his mouth, Dean knows that it wasn't his stomach talking this
time.
------
They end up at a bar not too far from their motel later that night, and it's
not much of a surprise when they find themselves there, because it's one thing
to relax after a job, but something completely different to lay in their motel
room all day watching bad tv. Besides, there's always the chance at finding
some gig here, or even somewhere near here that they missed before.
Even though Dean's stomach has settled down, he doesn't forget the feeling that
morning of puking his guts out on the side of the road, so he orders Sam a beer
and sticks to coke himself, something he always told himself he'd never be
caught dead doing in a bar, but he's afraid he'll have a repeat of this
morning, only worst if he messes with even a touch of alcohol.
When he sits back down, he's waiting for the smart ass remark that Dean knows
Sam's going to have on the tip of his tongue, but he's surprised when his
brother's attention stays riveted on the computer screen in front of him,
clearing not caring to make conversation with Dean or even notice that he's in
the room and brought him beer.
Of course, Dean can only stand to be ignored by Sam for so long before he just
can't take it anymore. After years of practically living in Sam's lap, all the
while growing up, it's sort of become a complex.
"Dude, if you're not watching porn on there, I might actually be offended,"
Dean's waiting to smirk at Sam when he looks up, but there's just the faintest
flicker of eye contact before his eyes are glued to the screen again.
"I'm looking for our next case, Dean," he can tell by Sam's tone of voice that
he's annoyed and Dean's a little put out at being brush off so easily.
"I'm just saying Sammy, spending all your time behind the laptop? You're never
going to get laid." Sam just rolls his eyes and keeps staring.
Of course, there's one thing that's good about the fact that Sam won't look at
him, the only thing in Dean's eyes that makes Sam's lack of attention bearable,
the fact that when his lust for his brother gets too great, or the guilt too
unbearable, it's easy to sneak off and let someone fuck him until his knees
give out under him and he screams Sam's name, the closest thing he'll ever get
to actually having Sam fuck him. Dean would much rather have Sam's attention,
but if he wants to play this game, then Dean can play his own.
Dean sighs dramatically and he kicks at Sam's long legs, brushing against his
under the table, and Dean presses his legs against Sam's thighs, stroking the
inside of Sam's spread legs with his knee.
Much to his surprise, Sam doesn't say anything, just continues to ignore Dean,
probably thinking that there's just a lack of room under the table. Which only
makes the need for Dean to touch Sam's legs, to physically put his hands on
them, so much greater. He's almost excited, the pit of his stomach filled with
butterflies, to see how far he can take this before Sam catches on to the game.
So he slides his hand under the table, fingers softly laying across the top of
his brother's right thigh, and when Sam doesn't say anything, he presses his
hand flat, hardens the pressure. Then he squeezes.
That gets Sammy's attention. He knocks Dean's hand off his leg with a hand and
flares his nostrils, annoyance pretty clear on his face. "Seriously Dean,
you're like a five year old that isn't getting enough attention. Are you going
to fall on the floor and throw a tantrum over a toy I won't give you next?"
And well, yeah, it was childish, but it's nice to see he can still rill Sam up,
and he's almost beaming now that his brother's attention is finally focused on
him. He can feel his whole face light up, and he can see Sam's flash something,
Dean's not really sure what, but then it's gone before he can even contemplate
what it means, and the pissed off look is back.
"Dude, you were the only one that threw tantrums. Used to embarrass the fuck
out of Dad, actually," and Dean can't help but laugh at the sour look on Sam's
face at that.
"Well, not everyone can be the favorite, Dean."
Dean's face falls at that, because that comment actually hurts in a way that he
knows Sam didn't mean for it to. Because it hits a nerve. So maybe Dad wanted
Dean physically and sexually, but it wasn't Dean that was John Winchester's
favorite child, Dean wasn't stupid, and it was only Sam's spoiled nature (most
of which is really Dean's fault anyways) shining through, because Sam had a bit
of an attention complex of his own. But Sam should really be glad that John's
limited attention fell on him, or he may have ended up the same way Dean has.
He suddenly feels sick at the guilty look on Sam's face, and he knows he must
have an awful look on his, but he can't wipe it off either.
"I'm sorry, Dean," Sam says quietly, and his eyes drift back to his computer
screen, as if too ashamed to look at him in the eyes.
Which is strange, because it's an argument that's been going on between them
for years, but this is the first time this awkward silence has fallen over them
afterwards. Of course, Sam doesn't know about the way their dad forced his way
into his body more than once, and then left him hurt and alone, doesn't know
about the way the demon spilled his father's inner most secrets for the world
to hear, or what they entailed and he most certainly doesn't know that all Dean
ever wanted the entire time it was happening was for Sam to be the one doing it
all to him. And Dean's pretty sure if Sam ever did know, ever somehow found
out, he'd die of shame. But it's obvious Dean's reaction to the jest is great,
because Sam's avoid his eyes, and Dean can't take it anymore.
"I'm going to use the bathroom," Dean tells him as he pulls himself to his feet
and stumbles away from Sam and the tension and guilt between them.
When he gets to the door of the men's room, it isn't pissing he has on his
mind, and he doesn't have a long wait until he finds a willing participate to
his game of masochism. The guy is perfect, a few inches on Dean and shaggy
hair, and Dean pulls him into an empty stall, his lips and tongue working
overtime to keep the guy interested.
It's been a little while since he's done this, his hands braced on either side
of his body as his jeans are forced down around his ankles and his legs spread,
not since Dad has he found himself in this situation with another man, and he's
not exactly prepared, but he's lucky enough that the other guy has a pre-lubed
condom and enough sense to spit thickly into his hand before he fingers Dean
open with quick precision.
Dean knows it's a risky move, telling Sam where to find him, then letting this
guy fuck him, and hell, maybe he wants Sam to know, now that he's older, an
adult, but any way he wants it, it's too late now to take it back, because he's
being filled by the person behind him and Dean's grinding his hips back, taking
it all before he even falls into pretending and trying to block out the painful
memories that soon follow.
He hates himself all the more though, when the memories fade and it's Sam
behind him, his hands strong on Dean's hips, propelling him forward, towards
the stall wall, that's shaking with the power of the thrusts, Sam's cock that's
sliding in and out with just enough lube that it eases through him, but not
enough that it's actually comfortable for him. But this is tradition. The harsh
pain that he can't block out, the way the man behind him keeps drilling into
him, even when his knees buckle towards the flimsy wall, and his fingers curl
dangerously into a fist, the way his eyes clench shut and his teeth grit so
hard he's afraid they're going to break. He doesn't know what it would be like
with Sam for real, probably nothing like this, he'd probably be cautious,
caring, slow, and this is rough and hard, and fast, but Dean's never really
known anything like that. He's pretty sure it's always been this way, or at
least for as long as Dean can remember doing guys, ever since he was a teenager
and he walked in on twelve year old Sammy naked and sprawled across Dean's bed,
asleep, ever since the lust was finally too much for Dean to ignore, ever since
he finally cross the line from casual wanting to burning need. He can't
remember if he always liked it this way, but he's never really seen a choice
and now he needs it, craves it like alcoholic for a shot of whiskey.
He can feel his eyes watering but he blinks them away, moaning instead as the
man's short fingernails bite into his skin under his shirts and he feels blood
welling to the surface of the marks. Dean's almost forgot how orgasmic it all
feels, the pain as the person inside him moves almost brutally, like they don't
give a fuck about his needs, and Dean knows it's pretty fucked up, especially
since he tries to so hard to envision Sammy behind him, but maybe if he can
remember that his brother has his own agenda, his own drive in life that has
nothing to do with Dean, maybe he can get over this sickness that's consuming
him.
Of course, his father couldn't control his own desires when faced with a little
temptation after the gaps in days and weeks where he saw nothing of Dean, how
can Dean be expected to keep his head on straight when he's with Sam twenty-
four seven, like living and breathing temple to his temptation?
He wonders if faced with the same situation, if Dean were in John's place,
would Sam have the strength would say "No," like Dean didn't?
But then again, everyone and their mother knows that Dean will spread his legs
for anyone.
Which brings him back to the matter at hand, the guy behind him thrusting
wildly into him and Dean can hear his own whimpers and pants, knowing the man
behind him is so close to coming and so is he, tittering right on the edge of
orgasm, so close the only thing he has to do is wrap one hand around his dick
before he's coming in streams all over his fingers and down his legs, clinging
to the hairs on its way down to his jeans bunched up around his ankles. Then
finally the man behind him tenses, his fingers digging into Dean's hips so hard
he knows they'll be bruises there tomorrow morning, and he releases into the
condom shielding the hot liquid from Dean's already overheated body.
It's always so business-like afterward, the man behind him dragging his clothes
back together, and Dean waiting a moment before he bends over and retrieves his
own pants from the floor, the small room not making it easy for Dean, then the
guy hands over a few bills for Dean's trouble.
It wasn't even his idea the first time money changed hands, but he still does
it, expects it, even if he never asks anyone for it. It makes him feel cheap,
but it's already established that he'd bend over for anyone, even his own
father, so if whore is written so clearly on his face, then he might as well
work with it. After all, the less he has to hustle pool, the less risk, and
besides, on some days, if the guy's grateful enough, the tip can be rather
generous, so much more than he's ever made in pool.
Dean takes the money with his clean hand and jams it deep inside his jeans
pocket before he buttons his pants and lets the stall door swing open with
cation. There's no one in the main room of the bathroom, and Dean sighs in
relief, watching the guy that just fucked him drop the used condom into the
trash can before he leaves the room.
He's in the middle of washing his hands, lathering up them up with soap, when
the men's room door swings open on squeaking hinges. It isn't until the person
speaks that Dean finally looks up, into the mirror, thinking it to just be some
guy wanting to use the John.
But it isn't just anyone. "Are you feeling alright, Dean? You've been in here a
long time," Sam's voice actually startles him, but he tries not to show it,
forcing himself to relax at the sound of the voice.
Sam's look at Dean with concern plain in his eyes, wrinkled brow and the whole
nine yard, and if it had been any other time, Dean might be annoyed by this
little brother's worry, but instead he breathes deeply and nods his head.
"Yeah I'm fine," Dean tells him as he lets the luke-warm water stream over his
hands before he turns the faucet off. "Sam, are you done playing mother hen? Or
did you have another reason you come in here?"
Sam flushes in embarrassment, probably because of how easily Dean saw through
him, before he nods as well. "I uh.... needed to pee."
"It's all yours, buddy," Dean says with a grin as he motions towards the urinal
in the corner.
Dean won't lie that he's filled with anticipation and excitement when Sam walks
over to the urinal, and Dean realizes he has a profile view of Sam when he
looks in the mirror at his brother. And a great look at Sam's cock as he drags
it through the fly of his jeans and stands with his legs spread slightly in
front of the urinal.
But the problem with mirrors is the temptation to look at the real thing that's
right there, like a big fucking tease. Dean just has to turn around and he'll
be able to see Sam gripping himself with both hands.
Dean knows that he's a weak person, the way he so easily bent over for his own
father is a good indication of that, but how quickly he gives into the
temptation and turns towards the real thing, what he's craved for years, is
just down right pathetic.
And fairly obvious as it turns out. But then again, when Dean turns around, his
eyes are drawn immediately to the pale, naked flesh peaking through his little
brother's boxers and Sam's always been pretty perceptive when it comes to Dean,
which makes him wonder, not for the first time, if Sam knows how bad Dean has
it for him.
Sam shifts back and forth on his feet, and Dean can see Sam glance at him from
the corner of his eyes.
"Do you mind?" Sam asks with a pointed looked a meaningful tilt of his head
towards the door, but Dean's eyes stay pretty well glued like a twelve year old
boy discovering naked boobs for the first time.
Dean forces a grin across his face though, probably looking even worst in all
honestly, like a creepy pervert, because his eyes don't leaves Sam's exposed
cock as he shoots back with, "Aw, what's the matter Sammy? Bladder shy?" in his
best patronizing big brother voice.
Sam doesn't return the smile. "Look, I get that you're jealous, but staring at
my dick like you want to buy it a beer stopped being funny when I was thirteen
and caught you trying to compare sizes with me, Dean."
And that memory nearly knocks Dean right on his ass with the force of a semi-
truck, because he goes from zero to rock hard in point three seconds flat,
despite the fact that he got off less than fifteen minutes ago. Of course Sam
thinks he was comparing sizes, and Dean can't believe that he actually forgot
about that, but he's just thankful that Sam was innocent enough at that age
that he thought Dean was doing something as stupid as measuring rather than
Dean being a naive and horny seventeen year old who couldn't keep his hands to
himself or off his baby brother.
Finally, Dean manages to tear his eyes away, and presses the palm of his hand
against his erection nearly unconsciously, so unbelievably turned on and
completely ashamed at the thought of his brother at thirteen, naked from the
waist down and hard as a mother-fucking rock from Dean's efforts, even if Sam
had no idea, probably thinking he was having a wet dream or something (because
he had had a lot of them at that age). But with those thoughts infiltrating his
mind, the most intelligent thing he can muster is, "Your face has penis envy,"
before he turns and leaves.
It's almost a shame that he runs off with his tail (or in this case a rather
painful erection) between his legs before he can molest his brother again right
then and there, because Dean's pretty sure that Sam's bitch-face must have been
truly epic and beautiful to behold. Not to mention he wouldn't mind staring at
Sam a little more, though a change of scenery would be agreeable.
Luckily his erection is dying down after a few minutes of deep thought and
terrible, vomit inducing mental images, because he's very nearly on the verge
of finding someone else to take the edge off and punish him all over again,
despite that fact that right now, the pain of being fucked is just dull enough
that he'll still be able to sit down comfortably. That doesn't necessarily mean
he doesn't feel like he shouldn't take the pain though, because it's all kinds
of fucked up, new kinds of fucked up, to get that hard from sexual thoughts of
Sammy when he wasn't even old enough to shave yet. It's one thing to lust and
pretend when Sam's an adult, hell, even a moody teenager, but another
completely when Sam's just a child and probably didn't even know what sex was
yet.
It's just a good thing that Sam woke up when he did, because it wasn't until
much later that Dean ever even thought about his true intentions that day, and
he knows now, that if he didn't wake up, what Dean would have done to him
couldn't have been played off as a joke or even mild curiosity.
That had been when his personal punishments became his cross to bear. His
father always told him that when you fuck up, there was a price to pay, from
even the smallest mistake to the downfall of the fucking earth, and Dean knew
that even if Sam didn't realize what had happened, what Dean had done, he'd
have a price to pay too, even if it was his own personal pain and guilt that he
paid in, rather than someone else's resentment. To even think about preying on
Sam, innocent little Sammy who was spoiled rotten and a little snot, but a kid
none the less, use to make bile rise to his throat, and Dean couldn't do
anything else, didn't want to, because he knew what Sam would do if he found
out what a sick pervert Dean was, and Dean didn't want him to run. At the time,
letting other guys use him kept the feelings and desires at bay, but now
they've mutated into something else entirely, something evil that just makes
him want Sam even more, especially now that he's an adult and there's not the
issues of consent to claw violently at Dean's stomach with it's guilt. But even
if Dean had avoid, punished himself to keep his hands and anything else from
ever touching Sam that way again, he still up and ran as soon as he was
eighteen.
The truth of the matter is there isn't much keeping Sam here now, and that
thought, just thinking about Sam leaving at just the smallest of mistakes that
Dean could make, probably will make, has his stomach completely twisted into
knots, and his heart feel heavy in his chest.
Clearly it's a good thing that Dean's erection is gone, because by the time Sam
walks up next to him, he can't fight the urge to vomit any longer, and the way
the contents of his stomach burn his throat and pour from his mouth onto Sam's
stupid white sneakers that have seen better days, he's just glad Sam won't have
to see the way his cock tented his jeans, because Dean knows that he could
offer no excuse other than the truth.
----
"Are you sure you're okay, Dean? We can get the hotel room another night if you
think you're going to need it," the concern thick and obvious in Sam's voice is
nearly more annoying than the fact that he's asked the same question twenty
times since Dean woke up this morning. But it's decidedly less annoying than
the fact that every time Dean tries to stand up to prove that he is, indeed,
just as fan-fucking-tastic as he claims to be, a stupid wave of nausea hits
him, and he has to sit right back down on the bed.
With a dramatic sigh he finally concedes defeat and lays back on the bed,
hoping his stomach will calm down if he does, and it's almost worth giving in
when he sees the worry melt off his brother's face out of the corner of his
eye. Dean's hoping laying down will settle his stomach, but he's wrong, because
if anything the sick feeling gets worst when he sprawls out across the bed with
his hands over his face, trying to block out the sunlight bleeding through the
closed blinds.
Dean lets out a groan as he feels the bile rising in his throat, and tries in
vain to sallow it back down. It doesn't last though, instead he finds himself
scrambling off the bedspread, and racing towards the toilet to spill his guts
out into the bowl. And Sam's only two steps behind him, rubbing circles on his
back, and if Dean was a girl, he's pretty sure Sam would be holding his hair
back like a caring boyfriend. But Dean reminds himself that Sam's not his
boyfriend, and even if they were fucking like bunnies every fucking night -
- which is pretty fucking farfetched given that just weeks ago Sam was in love
with a girl -- they will never be that couple that does disgustingly sweet
things for each other, never be that couple that's sappy, even in private, and
not just because they're brothers, because although that in and of itself
should be reason enough for it never to happen, they just aren't those kinds of
people. But Dean can't deny that sometimes he wishes they were, because it
might make this whole situation -- Sam acting so caring for him and Dean trying
so hard to deny how much he loves and craves the attention he's receiving -- a
lot easier on both of them. He knows, though, that when it's all over and
Dean's leaning back on his heels, that Sam will draw his hand away, and pretend
that it was never touching Dean in the first place, like Dean's not suppose to
notice the circles Sam's fingers are drawing on his skin. And he's definitely,
sure as fuck not suppose to enjoy it.
Of course, knowing how it will happen, knowing that Sam will pull away and act
like it never happened, doesn't make it any less painful when it really does.
"Maybe you should lay back down for a while?" Sam finally says, his hands
braced on his knees when Dean glances over at him, as if denying completely
that they were on Dean's back just seconds ago, and Dean almost expects him to
start whistling in false innocence. He doesn't, because well, this isn't some
fucking cartoon, this is real life, but it doesn't stop Dean's expectations of
it.
"Maybe I should," Dean agrees after a moment, not letting the opportunity to
lean against Sam in a rare show of weakness pass him by, because he's pretty
sure if he hadn't thrown up seconds before, Sam would never let him live down
the fact that he's almost but not quite hugging Sam. To the casual observer,
he's pretty sure it would look like a hug with his arm loosely over Sam's
shoulder to be helped to his feet, and his face buried in his brother's neck,
but both of them know the difference and where the clear boundaries lay, and
even though this teeters on the very edge, there's still a strong distinction
between the two.
Sam dips him as they come closer to the bed, and Dean gingerly slides out of
his brother's grasp and onto the bedspread, crawling forward until he can lean
back against the pillows pathetically.
And he's honestly struck stupid in surprise when Sam sits down next to him on
the bed, his back against the headboard, and begins to rubs circles over Dean's
stomach with his huge hands. Dean's shocked, because this is way beyond gentle
but guarded affection, beyond anything he expects out of his brother. But then
again, the Sam he knew so well, the Sammy with the chubby cheeks and the rebel
attitude rivaling Sid fucking Vicious himself, isn't the one sitting on the bed
beside him. This Sam is hard muscle and calm, and although he still protests
strongly, he's only a shadow of the rebellious teenager he was. That doesn't
mean Dean wants him any less though, on the contrary, it only heightens the
already strong desire he feels rising up in his loins, and if he wasn't seconds
away from vomiting again, he's pretty sure the affectionate gesture would have
him sprouting wood like nobody's business.
Unfortunately, a side-effect to puking is the fact that it pretty much zaps any
enjoyability he could have right out of the picture. Even worst is the fact
that Sam's tummy rubs are having the opposite effect on him, and it isn't long
after they start that Dean's violently shoving his hands off to run back to the
bathroom to pray to the porcelain god.
Thankfully, Dean's stomach calms down before checkout time, and Dean persuades
Sam, with a lot of swearing and pushing on Dean's part, to load up the Impala
and find a new case a few states over.
It doesn't mean the sickness stops though, because even if he feels great the
next morning, it catches up to him later that day when they're crossing the
Wisconsin state line and Sam can't hide his concern.
------
***** Chapter 2 *****
They've just exorcised a demon on a fucking airplane of all places -- which is
just Dean's proof that if there is a God, then he hates him -- when Dean's own
nightmares of demons, or at least a certain one that he's pretty sure he won't
forget for the rest of his life, start back up again, dreams he hasn't had
since he got Sam back by his side like a support-beam.
The dreams are fairly disjointed and vague at first, just small glimpses
bleeding into his normal dreams of sex and nonsense, flashes of his father's
hairy chest and dark eyes, short visions of the demon laughing, just at the
edge of the scene, like a polaroid of a familar face, too washed out by age to
recognize. Until they just fade into full out nightmares filled with
excruciating pain and thick darkness that plays at the corners of his vision,
like a fucking tease, because Dean knows that unconsciousness and escape won't
come because it's a fucking nightmare and the only real way out is to wake up,
which is the very last thing his body wants to do after the way he pushes it to
the last bit of his strength on each hunt.
The first one that's real and complete enough to propel him from bed comes just
after Sam and him come back from the bar reeking of beer and cigarettes, and
Dean's just been fucked nearly into a coma by some stranger with a huge dick.
He's pretty sure he's going to be feeling it for days, something he usually
likes when he's not facing down Sam with a bad limp, and no real excuse as to
how he got it. And he's pleased enough with himself despite that fact, and with
his fuck of the evening -- even though he wouldn't mind another round now that
his pulse is back to normal and his legs are steady once again -- at least, he
is until he passes out on top of his blankets, still in his jeans and socks,
and is instantly transported back into the cellar, the demon's hands pressed
tight against his stomach while his cock tears Dean apart, and he has just
enough ache in his ass to make it seem like reality.
He can't look Sam in the eyes the next morning, when he wakes up dripping sweat
and something decidedly not sweat is leaking from his eyes, the whole dream is
still right there at the edge of his memories, like a mental snapshot burned
into this retinas, along with the pain and shame he feels flooding through him
like a tidal wave now that the whole scene is over and in the past. And he
knows the whole thing is his own fault. He had fucked up more than just himself
that week and that only makes things worst, thinking about his father's face
after the first time, when he still lay between Dean's thighs with a smile
spreading across his face like Dean was the only person in the world he wanted
to see at that moment. Dean doesn't remember the last time he saw his father
that happy, and that thought alone is enough to put him in a panic, knowing
he's burnt his bridges there, and that things will never be the same between
them.
Dean doesn't know if his thoughts and disturbing dreams or the sickness gnawing
at his gut for over a week now is to blame for the way he scrambles off the
sheets to just barely make it to the toilet before he loses everything he ate
in the last twelve hours into it. It doesn't matter though, that he's still
sobbing even as he feels the stomach acid tearing up his esophagus trying to
make it's way out, because Sam's instantly wide awake and suddenly rubbing his
back like Dean getting sick in the morning is something new. And that makes
everything okay momentarily. Maybe Dean can make it through this with Sam by
his side like a pillar of strength, reminding him why he ever let it get so far
out of hand in the first place.
Except, Sam isn't by his side later that night when they come back from the bar
again, both of them a little tipsy and exhausted and Dean's been freshly fucked
just like the night before, but this time there's bruises blossoming in the
shape of fingers across his hips and the ache is twice as bad as usual from
both lack of proper lubrication and carelessness on both parties parts. Sam
isn't there when he curls in on himself and passes out under the covers this
time, still separated by the miles of floor and air between them, and even if
Dean wants more than anything ever in his life to cross that distance and slide
behind Sam on the bed, he wills himself to sleep and let Sam lay by himself in
the darkness of the room, just like it's suppose to be despite Dean's weak need
to have his brother impossibly close to him at all times.
And Sam's not there to stop the nightmares when they come again, more graphic
than ever, painted in technicolor across the back of his eyes lids, he demon's
voice gripping him tight like the fingers a dread clutching at his insides,
just below the demon's nails biting into this flesh. His ass aches and burns
and he can feel the wetness of blood and semen trickle down the inside of his
thighs to pool in the dirt at his knees, can feel the possessed man's mouth
move, wet against the back of his neck, "I've already laid the seed, Johnny-
boy. Now the only thing you have to do is partake."
Dean almost forgets how orgasmic the pain feels, how it crashes through him
like a rip-tide every time, because with Sam there he doesn't get as careless,
doesn't let it get violent, because Sam notices things that his father never
did, cares about things his father never did. His father's who's sliding
anxiously between Dean's thighs, and Dean suddenly on his back, spreading his
legs open further so his father can push into him with Dean's own blood to
slick his way.
The burning sensation consumes him, stabbing pain lacing up his back to rest
solid and heavy in his stomach like a bowling ball sitting in the depths of his
bowels, and Dean just wants to wake up so fucking bad instead of living through
this again for even one more second, but then suddenly, the calloused hands are
gentle and Dean's on his hands and knees again, but he can tell it's still his
father behind him. He wants to live through this even less than the last
memory, the feel of Dad's hands on his chest, bringing him back against him
with each thrust, his voice fused with intimacy as he whispers breathlessly in
Dean's ear, dark secrets and promises of always and forever. Dean would give
almost anything never to have to think about this again, about the way his
father's mouth sucks a kiss against his neck, his stubble leaving a trail of
irritated skin behind while Dean begs for more.
It had never felt so pleasurable before, and he could just imagine the way
Sam's hands would shadow the same patterns across his skin, painting a pretty
picture of pleasure and love, that now is just tainted by Dean guilt.
Guilt that only worsens when he wakes up a few hours later, still drunk with a
nasty hard-on tenting his boxers and staining them with pre-come. Dean doesn't
even get out from beneath the covers before he comes in his underwear with just
the simple slip-sliding friction of the blankets, and he's light years beyond
guilty and fucked up now. And this time when he vomits and Sam wakes up to
comfort him with worry written clear across his eyebrow creases, Dean doesn't
even make it to the bathroom.
--------
Today, the sickness doesn't go away at all. He's nauseous all day, dizzy spells
catching him off-guard even while he pokes silently at a breakfast of bacon and
eggs, the sick feeling rising in his throat, nearly sending him to the restroom
on more than one occasion.
"I told you shouldn't have drank so much last night," Sam has a smirk situated
across his lips and Dean really wants to smack it right of his smug face, if
only because he's so irritated at his stomach and it's lack of obedience
anymore. But he behaves himself, instead just slouching down lower in his seat
to let his thighs knock against Sam's under the table with a soft huff.
"You had more to drink then I did," Dean tells him miserably as he breaks the
egg on his plate and watches the runny yoke soak through his wheat toast before
he stabs the fluffy egg white with his fork, more out of distraction rather
than actual intention to eat what's on his plate.
"But I'm not the one that puked on the carpet this morning," Sam says with
annoyance in his voice, and Dean can't help but wince at the way the words bite
completely unintentionally.
"The carpet was ugly, it totally deserved it."
"Yeah well, the carpet doesn't clean itself, Dean," Sam bites back, now well
passed annoyed and moving right into pissed off territory. But Dean doesn't
answer him, just continues to stare down at his plate and not tell Sam that he
only really had a half of beer before he skipped out on Sam to get fucking in
the ass for twenty bucks in the filthy bar bathroom by some biker with more
tattoos then his dick size. Really, Dean knows there's nothing he can say about
it to make it better in Sam's mind and the truth is just as incriminating.
Anything else would just be a waste of oxygen at this point.
"You're sick. You should see a doctor, Dean." Sam says after a moment, snapping
Dean out of his thoughts, analytical expression on his face, never taking his
eyes off of Dean, as if that would make the point clearer.
"It's just the flu or something. Don't over-react," Dean dismisses.
"It's been two weeks."
"I'm fine, Sam," he stresses, picking his fork and stabbing a piece of bacon,
trying to end the conversation by shoving it into his mouth.
But Sam doesn't get the memo.
"Dean, what if it's cancer or something. What then?" He can see Sam's eyes wide
and worried as he stares back a Dean, and it figures that Sam's worried about
something as normal as cancer when the real cause is probably something so much
worst. He doesn't voice his fears though.
"Stop worrying about me and tell me about this case."
"Of course I'm going to worry about you, Dean. You're my brother. Besides, you
won't worry about yourself. Someone has to do it."
Dean sighs, feeling vaguely guilty, though not enough that he plans on keeping
the promise he's about to make. "Fine. If it doesn't get better in a week, I
promise I'll go to a doctor."
Reluctantly Sam agrees.
Dean doesn't get better though, just better at hiding it.
--------
Dean wonders when it became a competition between them, of whose nightmares
woke them up more throughout the night, though he's pretty sure Sam doesn't
know the game even exists, because after the last time he threw up afterwards,
he's been pretty cautious about not waking Sam up when he sneaks off into the
bathroom in the middle of the night.
And of course, Sam wins the game when he freaks out over a tree and tells Dean
that sometimes his nightmares come true and then they're off to Lawrence,
Kansas, to the one place that Dean dreads going more than anywhere else, and
despite the fact that Dean tells him how much he doesn't want to go, how
fucking terrified he is of being back there, Sam's instance wins over in the
end. It figures, he can bare his soul to Sam, but he still gets him no where.
When all is said and done and the case is over and solved and both of them are
healing from their admittedly minor wounds that really don't call for the mini-
vacation that they're taking --because Sam caught him puking again just after
the poltergeist was gone, which stupidly, brought the argument about being sick
and taking it easy back up -- when he gets the phone call.
They're just a few hours outside of Lawrence, far enough away that both of them
feel much more comfortable, a sense of ease flooding over them both. So it
comes as a bit of a surprise when the phone rings and it's Missouri Mosely on
the other end.
"Dean, honey, is the baby okay?" is not at all the greeting he expects.
Sam's just left to grab dinner for them and Dean's pretty sure he's happy that
he's gone as he says, "I don't know what you're talking about. What baby?"
"Oh, honey. The one that's growing inside of you." Dean nearly drops the cell
phone at that declaration, but before Dean can even try to wrap his mind around
what she just said, she's talking again. "Getting bang around by that nasty
spirit didn't hurt it, did it?"
"What are you talking about? If you didn't notice, I'm a guy," Dean finally
manages to get out, still sounding as sarcastic as he can, his brain not really
able to process what she just said, as he's still pretty struck stupid by the
implications of her words, a sinking sensation going down in the pit of his
stomach because somewhere inside of him, he's afraid that Missouri is right,
even though Dean knows it's impossible.
"Dean, after what you see every day you honestly think it isn't possible?
You've been nauseous and dizzy for weeks now, haven't you? Usually in the
mornings, but sometimes it continues all day?"
He doesn't really know what to say to that, because it's really simple, and he
can't really believe that the thought never crossed his mind before, even if it
is far-fetched, because what the hell else would last thing long?
"Why didn't you say this face to face?" He's pretty sure it sounds like an
accusation and maybe it is, he's not really sure, but, it's really freaking him
out, because it sounds like maybe, she might know what the hell she's talking
about. Or she might be pulling his leg. There's a lot of doubt about the last
one, but a huge part of Dean hopes that this is all just a really fucking sick
joke, one that he's having a hard time finding the humor in.
"You haven't told your brother. He's worried about you, Dean. You should tell -
-" He doesn't need to let her finish that sentence before he knows what she's
about to say, instead he flips his phone shut and stares blankly at the
carpeting, hoping that she's wrong about this, his stomach doing flip-flops
until Sam finally comes back with dinner.
Thankfully, he also brings a bottle of cheap whiskey with him, and Dean doesn't
even wait for Sam to say anything before he cracks open the bottle and takes a
long drag, hoping the less time he spends sober, the less time he'll have to
think about the mess he's somehow found himself in, as well as what, exactly he
should tell Sam, because, 'That physic from Lawrence said I might be pregnant,
and I think she might be right,' isn't really going to cut it.
-----
He can barely recall the next week. Beyond bar after bar and beer after beer,
which he's pretty sure led to stranger after stranger, he's not sure there is
much worth remembering, or maybe it's a good thing that his memory is fuzzy.
Especially when he lifts his shirt over his head on Thursday morning to shower
and sees a series of bruises blossoming across his stomach, and down his hips.
He doesn't remember how they got there, but he knows there wasn't a hunt and
he's sure as hell that those bruises aren't all from human hands.
When Dean drops his pants and lets them pool around his ankles he can see the
trail continue, across both his hips, littered with black and blue and small
red cuts that Dean figures can only be from some kind of leather hitting his
skin. And then there are the distinct hand prints, colored dark across his
skin, reminiscent of his father's anger, and his own shame at letting himself
stoop down to this level again, knowing full well that no matter how drunk he
was, he wanted it, probably even asked for it. And he has the wad of twenties
in his jeans pocket to prove it.
His skin is pale and stretched too thin across his bones except the slight
curve his stomach that Dean would do anything not to see, the memory of the
phone call not distant enough in his mind to even pretend not to see the way
the distended stomach pushes out despite the way his ribs feel, solid and bare
under his fingers, lacking the familiar cushion that normally lines them.
Dean showers quickly, trying hard to pretend that he doesn't feel the dried
come flake off his skin as he moves, trying not to think if it's his own or
some other guy's that just used him for a fuck-toy while he was too fucking
wasted to even consent. He scrubs so hard -- just wanting to wash away
everything -- like the world will be better if only he could pry loose the last
layer of dirt from his skin, that he's amazed it's not bleeding. And even if it
isn't, by the time he lets his fingers dip between his legs to feel his opening
-- swollen, loose and still coated with lube and traces of dried semen, making
wonder when the last time was, probably only a few hours ago -- his skin is an
angry red and it aches all over like a bad sunburn.
He forgoes wrapping himself in a towel, too afraid that Sam will see the
bruises, that he'll know, and instead with a snort of disgust, slides back into
his soiled clothes, squirming uncomfortably at the feel of the dried come caked
on the inside of his jeans.
When he lets the door swing open, Sam's perched on the edge of the bed staring
up at Dean with tired eyes and Dean can't help the way he flinches at the sight
of his younger brother, guilt flooding through him.
"Dean," Sam's face turns up to meet Dean's, eyes bloodshot and swollen, cheeks
hallowed out in the low light of the room, the only illumination flooding in
from under the thick curtains, stained and rotting away with the years. His
voice is completely wrecked, and Dean has no doubt that when Sam says, "I've
been worried sick about you," it's as far from a lie as it can get.
But Dean's never really claimed to be smart, though, for the most part he
wouldn't really call himself dumb, but he can only imagine what Sam must think
of him. It's pretty obviously by the way Sam's eyebrows crease, and his frown
deepens that the words, "You look like you weren't losing any sleep over it,"
were a really, really stupid thing to say. But Dean should know just how deeply
Sam was sleeping, not just because he was snoring loud enough to wake the dead,
but because when Dean stumbled in during the wee hours of the morning, Dean was
still fucked up enough from his week long bender that he couldn't stop himself
from pressing his lips against Sam's slightly parted ones. He's just lucky Sam
never woke up.
Some memories of the past week flood back to him after that one, memories of
Sam, and earlier in the week. Dean can remember the bar they went to together,
and Dean slipping away to use the bathroom and then just -- it's fuzzy, but he
remembers a tall man with shaggy brown hair that was definitely not Sam, and
leaving with him. He's pretty sure they went back to his hotel room, and his
hands shaking as he took something from the guy. Pills maybe? Shit. It's no
wonder he can't remember a fucking thing beyond that. Who knows what the fuck
happened while Dean was fucking blitzed out of his mind on fucking booze and
drugs. Normally, hard drugs aren't really his thing, sure, maybe a little pot
now and then, but taking pills from strangers usually isn't in his daily
routine, but Jesus, he must have been more fucked up over this whole baby
business than he thought.
"You know what, Dean? Fuck you." Dean's brought back to the present at the
sound of Sam's voice, teeming with anger and hurt and Dean can't help but
cringe as Sam goes on. "It's been a week, Dean. I finally passed out from
exhaustion last night. I mean, Jesus, Dean, I know you ditch me for every hot
girl we come across, but to just disappear for a week with one. I don't know
why the hell I should be at all surprised when you stumble in like nothing
happened, reeking of sex and booze."
"Hey, I took a shower," Dean mumbles weakly in his defense, shying away from
Sam's bed and retreating back to the bathroom doorway.
"God, Dean, you're the one that keeps preaching that we need to do Dad's work,
that saving people is important, but you were so fucking wasted this week that
we've been stuck in this shitty town. We maxed out the card for this room and I
actually had to hustle pool for last night's stay. Seriously, Dean? Do you even
care about finding Dad? Because you're doing a shitty job of showing it." Sam's
on his feet pushing Dean up against the door frame, a look of pure disgust
showing clear across his face, just inches from Dean's.
More than anything in the world Dean wants to lean up and press his lips firm
against Sam's. As stupid and dangerous as it sounds, that's kind of the point
right now, to just push Sam's anger beyond anything reasonable or sane, to
kindle the flames until he can feel Sam's fingers against his cheek, curled
into a fist and bloody against the sharp cut of Dean's teeth. He wants to taste
his own blood as Sam's knuckles beat a pattern of blind fury against his face
the same way his father's did.
He could just put it all out there for Sam, show him exactly how fucked up his
brother can truly be, because he's pretty sure that when he lays it all out
there, Sam's going to finally have the excuse to leave that he's so obviously
fishing for with his words. He can see it in the way Sam's eyes burn,
recognizing the way the fire consumes him and remembering the way the flames
burned in his eyes right before he left for Stanford. The fire makes Dean's
blood freeze in his veins the same way now as it did then, eyes clenched shut
like knowingly swallowing down arsenic.
Dean doesn't kiss him though. He stops himself an inch from Sam's lips, pressed
tight together, bloodless and white with strain, as Sam's breath, hot and
moist, hits his face in erratic puffs. The tip of Sam's tongue carefully wets
his lips and Dean can't help the way it draws his eyes down, staring openly at
the way the wet drops of saliva still hang there, reflecting the weak light of
the room like an invitation to taste the ripe fruit of his brother's mouth.
But he resists the temptation, his own breath unsteady for an entirely
different reason as he fights against the rising erection pressing against the
seams of his jeans and asks between grit teeth, "Why don't you just leave then?
It's pretty obvious you don't want to be here."
"Goddamn it, Dean," Sam lets out, breathless, his fists curling into Dean's
filthy t-shirt, and pulls Dean even closer than before. Dean can feel the
wetness of Sam's lips, just barely there, and he swears, when Sam speaks Dean
can taste his brother's morning breath.
Finally, when the urge gets to be too much for Dean to take, and he's seconds
away from giving in and forcing his tongue in Sam's mouth, he lets his head
fall back against the sharp edge of the wooden door frame currently jabbing him
in the spine and with voice barely audible to his own ears manages, "Just go
Sammy."
"What's wrong with you Dean?" Sam says in askance, his words softer this time,
though the tone betrays his hurt, his fingers loosening their grasp on the
front of Dean's shirt and he feels his whole body go lax with relief when he's
released from Sam's iron grip.
Dean has no desire to answer Sam, though, nor does he plan to, and he knows his
brother can see it in the way he calmly diverts his eyes from Sam's.
Eventually, when Dean starts to feel like his shame will just swallow him
whole, Sam's fists pound lightly on his chest before they pull away with a turn
of Sam's body, and Dean feels vaguely like he's melting into the carpeting as
he lets his entire body slide against the keen edge of the fake wood, the
hinges of the door snagging the hem of his t-shirt as he goes down, but Dean
couldn't really care less when he hears the rip of cloth.
"Dean," Sam turns back to him, poised in front of his duffle bag, spewing it's
contents all over the coverlet of the bed, his eyes alight with an emotion
completely foreign to Dean. Lips parting, Sam opens his mouth to draw in a
breath so deep that Dean can hear the unsteady intake of air even across the
room, before Sam's talking again like nothing's wrong at all, his voice all
casual and smooth like Dean's heard it a thousand times before, but it's never
felt quite as painful as this.
"We should get packed. We need to get back on the road soon," calm and assured
like Dean isn't going to catch the way 'We' falls precariously from his lips.
Ten minutes later finds them in the Impala with Sam sitting behind the wheel
and Dean wishing more than anything for a shot of whiskey to wash the sour
taste of betrayal from his mouth.
------
Sammy doesn't leave him, despite the promise thick in his voice, and the next
case goes fairly well for them, a salt and burn without too much leg work, at
least on the surface. Sam doesn't know, though, that a well placed kick to his
stomach lands Dean in the bar after they've blown town, drinking shots like
water and wondering if Missouri was right, if that gut-wrenching sensation he
felt when the spirit delivered the blow really is a baby.
He throws back another shot of Jack with a wince at the burn, wondering if he
should call her. He doesn't though. Instead he slams the shot glass down and
directs his attention to the man down at the end of the bar, nursing a beer.
Dean can tells he's a light-weight, just like Sam, probably been here for hours
already and only on his second beer. But Dean figures, two beers might be
enough and slides off his barstool.
Sam may not have left, but the idea is still there and Dean knows it. He can
see it in Sam's body language every morning as they sit across from each other
and push food around their plates, Sam at least eating half of what's put in
front of him, Dean's just tasting like ash the instant it touches his tongue,
only able to choke down a forkful. Sam doesn't seem to notice though, that
Dean's barely able to stomach the sight of food, let alone swallow anything
past the thickness in his throat. He knows it's not healthy, the way his ribs
protrude so prominately beneath his skin, but the more he stares at the slight
roundness to his stomach the more he wishes he could just starve it away, like
a beer gut or a little pocket of fat, nothing a little diet and excerise won't
take care of. Except that Dean can see it in his face, in the hallows under his
eyes, how thin he's become and it never goes away.
It's a constant reminder of what Missouri said, a baby. His stomach turns at
the very thought, of being alone with a new born baby, wondering if this is how
Dad felt when he stood with Sam and Dean, watching the fire consume his wife,
his house, his whole life.
Sam might still leave, but at least Dean has this still. He could still line
his pockets with cash, to take care of himself after Sam was gone, and for a
half an hour, maybe more if he tries to make it last, he could pretend that Sam
was still there. If it's true, if he really has been knocked up, probably with
some demon-hell spawn, then he probably won't have to worry about it much
longer. If he's lucky, the birth will kill him. If he isn't...
He throws back one last shot, and shaking his head, clearing the thoughts as
well as wincing at the way it still burns his throat and trickles hot all the
way down to his stomach, even though his vision blurs and his stomach aches.
He catches the man at the end of the bar staring at him as he saunters forward,
a swagger in his hips, that may be just as much from the alcohol he just
consumed as from the burning need to get someone's -- anyone's attention, to
tempt them out of their well-earned cash, and he's confident that he didn't
read the man wrong at all. Not with the way his eyes rake over Dean's skin,
desire and desperation clear in his eyes.
And it's good, that look of desperation, the one Dean keeps from his own face
with all the booze he's drank tonight, but it means that this one will pay for
him, and for once, Dean can set the price. There won't be any crumpled bills
being hasty shoved in his pocket right before they leave him aching and alone
in some dirty bathroom. He knows if he play his cards right, this one will pay
for a hotel room, and Dean won't have to face Sam again tonight.
It's ironic, but for so long Dean tried so desperately hold on to Sam, to never
let him go even for a second, almost smothering him with his need, but now,
when Sam's on the very verge of leaving him forever, Dean can't bear to even
look at him, can't stand to be in the same room with him. It hurts, knowing
that for the first time, letting some random stranger fuck him is an escape
from Sam.
He just hopes it won't last.
In the morning, he can't even meet Sam's eyes, his shame is so thick. There's a
new crop of bruises darkening his skin and the smell of whiskey on his breath
already, despite the fact that dawn is just breaking and the only thing Dean is
really ashamed of is the fact that last night, when he got fucked so hard he
bleed on the white, over-starched sheets, his whole body twisted up in pain,
for the first time, he didn't think of Sam, but of their father.
He feels dirty and sick when he remembers the way it felt, how horrible it
burned with pain when the guy forced his way inside of him and the only thing
Dean could think about was how much he deserved to be punished for betraying
Sam.
----
They're on a hunt in bum-fuck New Jersey, and Dean's flask hasn't left his lips
nearly the entire time. It's been five days and Sam hasn't said a word about
it, and Dean's just hunky-dory about keeping it that way.
But his luck never seems to last.
Sam’s stitching up a wound on his inner thigh, his fingers sprawled against the
lily white flesh there when Sam startles him out of his thoughts of just how
close Sam is to what he really wants, just an inch more, and he’d be there. Sam
doesn’t reach up though, his fingers don’t so much as even twitch, eyes never
leaving what his hands are doing.
“You shouldn’t be so careless, Dean. It’s going to get you killed one of these
times,” Sam says without so much as glancing up to see if he’s listening. It’s
quiet, the underlining accusation to his words, but Dean can hear loud and
clear what Sam really means.
Dean doesn’t respond, just sits silently, leg muscles spasming as the needle
pierced his flesh again, Sam’s neat stitches standing out stark against his
skin.
He can tell Sam knows he’s not really sorry about it, not really caring if he’s
drunk off his ass more often than sober these days. It dulls the pain, and
that’s all Dean really cares about anymore, because Sam’s finally pass the
stage of his grief where he needs Dean to lean on these days, and Dean just
doesn’t think he can do it without the sweet burn of the alcohol coursing
through him. It’s a fool’s hope to think that maybe one day, Sam could return
the favor, after all, Jess died on the ceiling, and Dean only bled on the floor
as Dad fucked him. It’s miles of difference and he knows it.
Sam frowns deeply and Dean feels guilty as he watches the way Sam’s lips turn
down, disappointments clear in his facial expression. “If you don’t care about
yourself you could at least think about everyone else.” Sam presses his lips
tight together until they go bloodless as he pierced the skin one last time.
“You nearly got Josh and I killed.”
Dean winces, muscles twitching again as Sam pulls the needle through, though
it’s more from of thinking about the way kid’s arm had snapped as the damn
thing had grabbed him than from the pain. Dean had been uncoordinated from too
much liquor to really do anything more than trip over his own feet, his brain
too sluggish to even think to pick up the gun beside him. It had been Sam that
had enough insight to even pick up Dean’s gun and blow it’s fucking head clean
off while Dean was still sprawled across the wet grass. The kid had been
alright besides the arm, but Dean still felt guilty either way, if only made
worse by what could have happen -- what could have happened to Sam -- if Sam
hadn’t had the sense to grab his gun.
Sam leans in close after he knots the thread and catches it between his teeth,
breath so moist and hot against the sensitive skin of Dean’s thigh that he has
to close his eyes and will himself down, too afraid he’s going to embarrass
himself with an erection he wouldn’t be able to explain.
When Sam pulls back Dean doesn’t met his eyes, doesn’t say anything, completely
ignoring the fact that Sam ever spoke at all, and he can see a certain defeat
on Sam’s face like a stab to the gut as he takes a long pull from the whiskey
bottle in his hand, and pushes himself up from his place on the edge of the
bed.
-----
“Is it true?”
Sam’s been asleep for a few hours now and Dean’s been laying awake, staring at
the ceiling for about as long, trying to fomulate the words he knows he needs
to say.
Missouri’s voice is groggy and Dean doesn’t at all for guilty for waking her
up, after all, she’s the entire reason he’s been laying awake for so long.
“Yes, baby, it’s true.”
There’s some rustling on her end, probably her trying to pull herself up into
alertness so that she can have the conversation that he so desperately needs to
have.
“It is --” Dean starts, but his throat seems to close up around the words, a
sudden thickness in his throat as he thinks about what he’s about to ask, not
even sure if he really wants to hear the answer, his head thunking back against
the wooden siding of the hotel wall.
He swallows thickly, glancing through the window at Sam, as if seeing that
Sam’s still dead to the world might give him the stregth. Sam turns over in his
sleep, peaceful face pointed towards the window and Dean’s heart nearly
faulters. He closes his eyes, clearing his brain of Sam, they’re dangerous
thoughts with a psychic on the other line anyways, and not at all helping the
situation.
He lets out a breath before he tries again, and he knows how patient Missouri
is being with him consider what time in the morning it is. “Is it demonic?” He
finally manages.
It’s a fair question given what they hunt and the fact that, hello, he’s a
pregnant man, but he’s not entirely sure that she’s going to agree with his
sentiment.
Her response seems to take forever, and he can tell that she has to mull over
the answer for a moment before she says, defeat pretty clear in her voice, “I
don’t know.”
Dean presses a a hand to the slight swell of his stomach, fingertips pressing
hard enough to bruise.
“I don’t know what to do,” he admits after a long moment, the silence between
them tense as Dean tries to collect himself, and he has no doubt that Missouri
understands this when his own voice hits his ears, shaking and barely audiable
over his own heartbeat. He hates sounding weak, maybe because it’s been
ingrained in his head ever since he was entrusted with Sam that there’s no room
in his life to feel weakness, but he hasn’t been this lost since he was staring
into the mirror with the imprint of his father’s wedding ring on his forehead.
And nevermind the fact that Sam seems to get more and more distant from him
with every passing day, and any attempt Sam does to lessen the distance only
seems to make it worse.
His stomach churns as he presses his fingers in even further, his pain dull
when he compares it to the way his chest is aching with something he can only
discribe as fear, and his throat is swelling shut until he can barely breathe.
His breaths are coming in gasps as he tries desperately not to think about his
father, about the demon, about his nightmares -- he’s just deperate not to give
anything away to the woman on the other end of the line, no matter how much he
wishes she could just fix everything for him. But he knows she can’t. He knows
there’s really no way to fix this.
“I’m sorry, Dean,” she whispers, and for a few heart-stopping seconds, he’s
convince she knows about everything, and he almost wants to hang up, the shame
is so powerful in just that slipt second before she continues to speak and he
almost has a heart-attack, his relief is so strong.
“I know I don’t have the answers you want, but, I really think you should tell
Sam. He’s worried about you. And I think you know how much you need him
already,” her words have a certain edge to them, this sort of all-knowing tone
to her voice, and for a second, Dean thinks that she knows about how much he
really needs Sam, about how heavy his chest feels when he thinks about how
close Sam had been just days before, his breath hot against Dean’s face, about
--
He shakes himself out of it, and forces his mind to focus, reminding himself
that there’s someone that can read thoughts on the other end of his phone, and
damn if he’s going to find out whether her talent works just as well over the
phone as in person.
“He can help,” Missuori urges, her voice full of confidence, even if her words
are cryptic, and Dean’s not sure why, just knows that she meant them that way.
Maybe because she’s really not sure how, just that she knows it’s true, or
maybe it’s just that, even with all she’s seen, it’s still taboo to speak
outloud about how Sam could really help Dean.
His cheeks feel wet, and he raises his face to the sky, wondering at first if
it’s raining, until he raises his fingertips to his skin, feeling the heat of
the drops against his flesh. He blinks the tears from his eyelashes before he
wipes the rest away and tries to pull himself together, failing pretty
miserably as he sinks down against the wall to sit down on the walkway of the
motel, hand immediately reaching for the inside pocket of his leather jacket,
feeling for the comfort of the cool metal of his flask against the palm of his
hand.
He doesn’t even bring it to his lips before he hears Missouri’s voice again,
with a scoff, saying, “Dean, you need to stop drinking. It’s bad for the ba--”
He hangs up the phone before she can finish the word, not wanting to be
reminded anymore of this thing inside him, instead pressing the flask to his
lips, the sweet burn of the whiskey bringing with it a feeling of relief that
spreads through him like wildfire.
--------------
It’s just after one in the morning and Dean hasn’t been able to see straight
for almost an hour now, his vision as blurred as his moral boundries as he
slides from the bar stool, a stranger’s arm circling his waist, the only thing
still keeping him standing as he leans heavily against the man. Dean doesn’t
even know what the guy is saying to him anymore, can’t even remember what he
looked like, just knows the comfort of the man’s hand on his hip, guiding him
to what he hopes is a warm bed, but is more likely a cold alley.
Dean leans his head against the man’s shoulder regaurdless and lets him lead
the way.
When he awakes hours later, the room is cold and dark, and he’s disorientated,
wondering if he had more than just alcohol last night to feel this hung-over.
Please drop_by_the_archive_and_comment to let the author know if you enjoyed
their work!