Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/919141.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Supernatural
  Relationship:
      Dean_Winchester/Sam_Winchester
  Character:
      John_Winchester
  Stats:
      Published: 2013-08-09 Words: 1332
****** Even Heroes Have the Right to Bleed ******
by kelex
Summary
     Dean sees more than he wants to about his father.
Dean had been disconcerted at first to realize that his father had nightmares.
Not that he was especially surprised; after the things they'd gone through,
John would have to be made of stone for it not to bother him. But it was still
very unsettling for a fifteen year old boy to have concrete proof of his
suspicion that maybe Dad wasn't quite as super heroic as he wanted everyone to
believe he was.
Cause Dean was pretty sure that Superman didn't have nightmares.
He realized, now that he was old enough, that their father had been trying to
shield them from a lot of things despite the way they'd been brought up,
including his own failings as a father. And it was only in this moment between
not-quite-childhood and not-quite-adulthood that Dean was able to appreciate
it. That's why he was used to the quiet noises coming from John's bed. He
mostly tried to keep them quiet, Dean knew, even in his sleep, but sometimes
they were just too loud to muffle.
When they got that loud, Dean would go in and wake John up, before John's cries
could wake Sammy, because Dean wanted to protect his little brother's image of
SuperDad for as long as he could.
And Dean was doing that now, standing outside the bedroom and listening,
waiting to see if his father was going to quiet himself down. Sometimes he did;
when he didn't, Dean would go in and shake him gently awake, say "Dad, you're
talking in your sleep again," and ignore the fact that there might be tears on
his Dad's face. John would nod gruffly and push Dean back towards the fold-out
couch he shared with Sam, and there'd be no more nightmares that night. He
really didn't want to wake his father up if he didn't have to; John rarely got
rest as it was and Dean was hesitant to disturb him when he was resting.
He moved into John's room at the soft cry of "Mary, oh, God, Mary!" Pushing
open the door, Dean looked back over his shoulder to make sure Sammy was still
asleep on the fold-out couch, then stepped into the little bedroom and closed
the door behind him.
As he turned back, Dean pressed himself against the door. John was in bed, his
eyes closed as if asleep, lips parted as he moaned. But instead of the frantic
tossing and turning Dean was expecting, John's back was arched as he cried out.
Dean saw a flash of motion, and quite suddenly he couldn't tear his eyes away
from the hypnotic stroking of John's hand.
He didn't know how his father didn't see him, but Dean threw the door open
silently and fled the bedroom abruptly, cowering instead in the bathroom as he
half-expected John to follow him and shout at him for intruding.
After several long moments, Dean allowed himself to breathe. John wasn’t coming
after him, and Dean relaxed.
He’d been to every health class—sometimes twice—on the subject at what felt
like a hundred different schools. Some had barely glossed over it, some ignored
it entirely, and a few had actually treated the subject normally.
Masturbation was the fifty-cent word for it, but Dean preferred "jacking off"
or "whackin’ it." Of course, he’d never done it; he’d heard all about it, both
from school-sanctioned sources and from the boys’ locker room walls. He knew
how to do it, even—come on, it wasn’t really rocket science—but doing it
brought Dean up short.
He hadn’t realized Dad did it; hell, he’d never really thought about it at all
in connection with his father, and doing so now thoroughly skeeved him out. Dad
was Dad, and Dads didn’t have sex. Period. Even if it was just with their
hands. But doing it himself was different; nearly every minute of the day was
spent with Sam, watching, protecting, bathing, doing homework. He and Sam even
slept together on the fold-out couch because Dad got the bedroom. And not even
Dean was sick enough to do sexual things in the same bed as his eleven year old
brother, no matter what he might’ve had thoughts about before.
But now, in the stark silence of the empty bathroom, adrenaline thrumming, Dean
tried it.
His zipper sounded impossibly loud as he eased it down—he and Sammy both slept
fully dressed mostly because Dad said to. His cock poked out almost
immediately, mostly soft but definitely interested in the sex train of thought.
Dean gripped his cock firmly and jacked once.
A soft moan escaped him, and Dean jacked himself again, a little harder than
before. He couldn’t help the violent shudder that passed through him, and
before he knew it, his hand was moving quickly, just like John’s had been. Dean
was biting his lip as he tried not to make any noise, panting hard through his
nose like he was running a marathon. Images flashed through his head, first of
John’s body bowed and arched like this, and Dean shoved that out of his head
even as his hand copied the same stroking motion, the same brush of thumb over
head, the same little twist of the wrist that made Dean bite down harder on his
tongue to keep from sobbing.
Katherine MacNeill, the little redheaded cheerleader that had the D-cup tits
and the bright red mouth with full lips, both of which were inviting his cock
to fuck between them. Dean’s hand squeezed as he imagined that, his breath
getting faster as his fingers started to get sticky with his own pre-come.
Then there was Sherry, the tall blonde with legs up to her chin that Dean
desperately had wanted wrapped around his waist, and he stroked even faster as
he imagined pounding into her cunt like the ones in the dirty magazines.
Then there was little Sammy, looking up at big-brother Dean with incredibly
adoring and worshipful eyes, slicking his hair back with water and trying to
imitate Dean’s swagger, deep dimples just starting to form the lady-killing
smile that Dean knew would have every girl that he smiled at damp in the
panties.
His cock exploded at the thought of Sam watching him do this, smiling broadly
with admiration for his big brother. The first spurt hit the bathroom wall and
Dean panicked, turning and directing the rest of it into the toilet, where it
fell like clumps into the bowl before getting flushed away. Dean washed his
hands, and used a handful of toilet paper to scrub at the wall until it was
clean, and flushed that wad of tissue too. He washed up again, and then
splashed cool water on his face. Looking in the mirror, he could see himself
flushed and his eyes were hooded, and he washed his face again as if he were
trying to wash off all traces of what he’d done.
Coughing once, Dean was in the middle of drying his hands when there was a
knock at the bathroom door. Startled, he nearly jumped out of his skin as he
opened it, and Sammy came in, rubbing at his eyes sleepily with one hand.
"hadda pee," he muttered.
"Me, too," Dean said, trying to quiet his heartbeat as he dropped a kiss on
Sam’s head. "Night, Sammy."
A sleepy grunt and the sound of urine splashing in water was Sam’s answer to
that, and Dean escaped quickly, thanking his luck that Sam was too much asleep
to notice what Dean had been doing in there. By the time Sam came back out,
Dean was already back in the fold-out, holding the blanket up. "Kept it warm
for you."
Sam crawled back in bed and curled up beside Dean with a jaw-popping yawn.
"Bes’ brother ever," Sam said, and in seconds was snoring softly again.
Dean lay awake in bed the rest of the night, staring at the ceiling with Sam
tucked trustingly against his side.
The End
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