Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/2795531.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Graphic_Depictions_Of_Violence, Major_Character_Death, Rape/Non-Con,
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Supernatural
  Relationship:
      Dean_Winchester/John_Winchester/Sam_Winchester, Dean_Winchester/Sam
      Winchester, Dean_Winchester/John_Winchester, John_Winchester/Sam
      Winchester, Jimmy_Novak/Dean_Winchester
  Character:
      Dean_Winchester, Sam_Winchester, John_Winchester, Jimmy_Novak
  Additional Tags:
      Child_Abuse, Sexual_Violence, Childhood_Sexual_Abuse, Unrequited_Love,
      Emotional_Manipulation, Emotional/Psychological_Abuse, Alternate_Universe
      -_Age_Changes, Age_Swap, Dean_as_Lolita, Psychological_Trauma, Father/Son
      Incest, Abusive_John_Winchester
  Stats:
      Published: 2014-12-18 Chapters: 11/11 Words: 19802
****** This isn't Home ******
by hellhoundsprey
Summary
     Since Mary died, it all went downhill. Temporarily, John finds
     another niche to exist for them, far beyond hunting and demons - they
     rent a house in the peaceful suburbs of New York. The calmness of the
     neighborhood never reaches the boys; not really. They can never run
     from the one monster they fear the most.
Notes
     This story deals with child abuse from early age on and focuses on
     the traumatic/psychological consequences the boys suffer from. I
     absolutely distance myself from this personally; it is nowhere near
     okay, romanticisable or sexually attractive to do any of the things
     in the story to a child/minor/non-consensual person. This is a
     fiction based on completely fictional characters and is written with
     the intention to map out and examine the topic.
     Reader discretion is advised - if you have problems with or are
     triggered by any of the topics/warnings, please don’t read this.
***** Chapter 1 *****
It's a nice neighborhood. Friendly people. Many families. Quiet. Peaceful. Just
how he likes it.
When he looks up from his laptop there is green surrounding him. It was a good
choice to paint the walls. Jimmy writes more words in two days than a week's
worth in his last apartment. This house has good energy. Oh, and the garden!
Once the rain stops, he should grab a chair and sit outside for a change. Maybe
with a cup of coffee. Yes. That'd be nice.
When he looks up from his laptop he can see across the street. Some rooms are
lit in his neighbors' house. In the one on the second floor exactly in his line
of view, a boy sits in the window and stares outside, down the deserted street.
He looks terribly bored on the first glance but something leaves Jimmy's eyes
stuck on him, the way his sunkissed skin and hair gleam in the dim and warm
light around him. On a second look, he looks terribly sad. Melancholic. Jimmy
frowns slightly. It's a tragic picture to look at but still… there's a twisted
part of beauty right there. He looks even closer. Freckles. Some thin and worn-
out leather or braided bracelets. Otherwise, he's topless, which is no wonder;
despite the rain, the temperature almost didn't drop a degree tonight.
Another figure emerges from the background. Tall. Male. Jimmy catches a glimpse
of a black ACDC shirt before the curtains are pulled closed. He watches the
shadows move behind it for another moment before he goes back to his writing.
Quiet. Peaceful. Summer rain is Jimmy's favorite weather.
===============================================================================
When the sun is out the next day, the rain is long forgotten in midday heat.
Jimmy trots into the kitchen, towards the coffee machine. He worked late and
just got up. He dares to give a glance towards the stove's clock - four pm. Not
his earliest start into a day… but neither his latest.
The cup isn't done being filled when a lawnmower roars into the silence.
Jimmy's head flicks up, irritated by the sudden noise, finds the source through
his kitchen window right across the street. It's the boy from the window.
Topless, again, in a pair of jeans which are a bit too saggy and big for his
thin frame. Absently, Jimmy sips the strong brew his friends jokingly call his
"author juice" and moves closer to the window, eyes somewhere between the boy
and the mower.
 He is skilled. Lean muscle pushes the machine that appears a bit ancient for
the current year across the front yard. Jimmy studies his face, eyes, only
little dark dots from the distance. Jimmy searches for a word, quickly finds it
- determination. It's good to see a boy who is taking his chores seriously
nowadays.
The grass is cut before Jimmy's cup is empty. Slow sips go with long stares,
following the sweep of forearm over shiny forehead, precise packing away of the
mower, steps of naked feet across soft green first and bland concrete tiles
later. The front door closes and he's gone again. Jimmy waits, and yes, the
giant windows can't hide what's happening in the living room. The boy passes
through, to the open kitchen, towards the fridge, for a coke supposedly, Jimmy
concludes.
It's a funny thought that they're in the same room in obviously mirrored stock-
built houses, across one street, a simple stripe of concrete. Like a different
dimension, another version of what's happening in each house. Jimmy snickers
into his mug, starts to feel the caffeine's effect to his system. It's a nice
day. He'll get another few pages done today, he can feel it.
Glance back to the window, he catches the boy's eyes, placed directly on him.
The boy is turned towards him, leaned back onto the cooking aisle, just like
Jimmy, and observing, just like Jimmy. The chuckle dies in his throat, he drops
his head. Eye contact has never been his favorite thing. He clears his throat
to ease a sudden rush of nervousness, which is silly, because who could see
him, judge him for his weakness right here and now?
Amelia said it'd be better like this. They could still be friends, right? It
just wasn't working out. She thought he'd be the type who'd just need time - to
warm up, to open up, to someday share his tiny crazy world with her. Well.
Turns out Jimmy isn't that type.
But it's okay. He isn't lonely. Not exactly. He has everything he needs here.
His books. His laptop. His coffee. He's never lonely. Not really.
Another shy glance up, but the boy is gone now. Jimmy turns to have the machine
run another cup and starts reviving the next chapter in his head.
===============================================================================
It's easiest when he doesn't think. Thinks of nothing. Of air. Less than air.
It's a bit like not existing. That's why he likes it so much.
The pool water is fresh, not too much, even though he wishes it was colder.
When it's freezing cold, his body feels the best kind of sensation: numb.
Dean floats on his back, eyes closed, but the sun gleams right through his
eyelids. It's Thursday. That means social studies and then some modern law
studies and then- He hears the engine from far down the street.
It's a nice neighborhood. Friendly people. Many families. Quiet. Peaceful. Dean
hates it.
He'd never thought he'd one day miss the time on the road, the motels, the
anonymity. Arrived today, gone tomorrow. It's barely a month and he'd give one
of his legs to escape what their lives obviously have turned into. It doesn't
feel real. Doesn't taste real, sound, smell. But at least it looks real. For
God's sake, does it look real. At least from the outside.
The car door, the front door, kitchen, fridge, a can of coke. Dean wonders if
he'd stare into the sun long enough, he'd go blind. Without trying it already
hurts, so it must be true. The glass door slides open and he pretends he's not
there.
"School's out early today?"
Sam sounds casual, no threat, no invisible question mark in his voice, no hint
of anger or anything. Sounds tired.
"Yes," Dean answers quietly.
"You mowed the lawn yet?"
"Yes," he repeats.
"Good." The pause is short but heavy. Dean knows. "He'll be back at seven, so…
yeah. Good thing you did that already." A sip from the can before he puts it on
the table. "Damn, it's boiling."
Dean keeps his eyes shut, concentrates on flooding, staying stable, sparing the
water from waves. He hears Sam undress, cotton hitting tiles, naked feet
crossing them. When the water moves, it upsets him in such a sincere way it
makes him frown.
It's theirs. Their house. Their pool. Their garden. Their proudly grown bushes
and trees, keeping nosy eyes outside. Nobody cares if they swim in their
underwear. God knows they don't have anything to hide from each other anyway.
Dean is mad it still feels strange to him.
Sam crosses the pool and picks Dean from its surface, his light weight reduced
to nothing with the water supporting him. There is no struggle, just a short
grimace, but Dean controls himself quickly again. He's cradled, kissed on the
crown of his hair, smells aftershave, sweat, old books, the Impala.
"I don't want him to come back," he mutters against broad chest, solid enough
to be a wall, shield, prison. The nape of his big brother's neck still is his
refuge, even now.
Another kiss, slight squeeze around his shoulder, the back of his knees. "I
know." He noses at Dean's cheek. "Me neither."
It's a whisper. A secret.
It's a nice neighborhood. The water is quiet again; peaceful. Dean hates it.
***** Chapter 2 *****
Chapter Summary
     How it all started somehow, with dad and beds and Sam, and how the
     brothers spend their evenings now, at their new place. (Dean’s POV.)
Most of the time, it's sounds or smells that bring him back to Ohio. Spring air
in the night, window ajar to invite it in.
The bed squeaks. It's off. Wrong. Dean presses his ear into the pillow and
pretends not to hear it.
Sam makes funny noises. Dean's never heard anything like that before. He tries
hard to keep quiet. Dad does, too.
His face burns, he's sweating, even under just a thin cotton sheet at the
current temperatures. He hasn't moved in what feels like an eternity, terrified
of what will happen if he does. Just asleep, just asleep, nothing's happening,
just asleep. Just a dream. Nightmare.
At age ten, he doesn't understand. Can't.
===============================================================================
Dad praises, kisses, hugs, touches, yells, hits, fights, drinks. Dean doesn't
remember anything from before Mary's - mom's - death, so he doesn't know the
difference. Sam does.
Sometimes, at night, when dad isn't around, he hears his brother cry. Sometimes
doesn't hear but feels, senses, just knows. When he opens his eyes, Sam sits at
the table or is hidden behind a bathroom door. He doesn't share everything
anymore, not nowadays. Dean starts understanding that.
Werewolves, death, girls, knives. They talk about that. Sam gives advice where
Dean can't find the answers himself. They fight and scream sometimes, too, but
it's different when dad's there; Dean feels that now. Sees Sam hunch his back,
roll his shoulders forward, tip his nose downwards. Hears him breathe when dad
puts a hand to his shoulder for a pat for that other A he just brought back
home.
"You continue studying this hard, you'll get to college one day, Sammy," dad
beams, so proud he looks like exploding from it; the big big smile he only uses
on his oldest.
Sam returns it with a shrug and a shy laugh, like a grunt, like he doesn't
believe in it anyway.
When Dean learns what college means, that it means dorms and staying in school
all day and learning and opening up to the world, he understands his brother's
reaction.
===============================================================================
"C'mere, Dean."
It's way past midnight. It's Friday. Dad's been to a bar; he smells funny. Dean
wishes to turn into thin air underneath the covers. He's only eleven.
"Dean."
Rough command. Dean knows better than ignoring that. Where he takes the power
to actually turn around and look at them, he doesn't know, not even today.
Sam's on dad's lap, they are naked, dad's flannel carelessly unbuttoned and
splayed across his chest and the bed. He smiles at Dean, reaches out with his
left hand. Sam turns his head to avoid eye contact. His bangs swing back and
forth in front of his eyes each time he moves.
He wants to swallow but there is nothing but tongue in his throat. It's summer,
he's sticky. Thin legs and trembling joints carry him towards his father's
outstretched hand. He takes it. It's wet.
One soft pull and he's right there, next to them, on the bed. Sam makes a
whining sound. Dean holds his breath.
"Come, lie next to daddy, Dean." John's voice is rough. It's whiskey, he
believes. The way Dean presses against his side is stiff. Dad's hand around his
shoulder holds him there, pulls him closer. His head resting on naked, hairy
chest, Dean stares into nothing, his knees touching his brother's. Here, he
smells aftershave, sweat, old books, the Impala. Leather jacket.
"Your brother's so pretty." Sam sobs, holds back the sound but Dean knows the
little tricks he uses already. "J's look at'im. Such a pretty boy."
In the corner of his eye, Dean sees dad's right hand lift. He imagines a soft
stroke of thumb on cheek, like he sometimes does to Dean when he had been
drinking and thinks that Dean's already asleep. Or still asleep.
He hears John's smile in his words. The big big smile he only uses on his
oldest.
"Such a pretty boy," he groans, "My pretty pretty boy, Sammy."
===============================================================================
They have their own rooms here. It's strange, feels unnatural. Too much space
between them feels like an open wound; even now.
In nine out of ten nights, Dean ends up in his brother's room, lies on his bed
while Sam reads piles of books packed in fat leather bindings, writes thick
packs of papers, mutters repetitions of definitions. Dean falls asleep
listening to all of it, distinguishes the constant, almost inaudible scratch of
tongue over teeth from across the room through all the rustling of paper.
He dreams of college. Somewhere far away. He's read you can study abroad
nowadays if you're smart enough. Dean wonders if Sam one day will be smart
enough.
When he wakes, it's dark, he's heavy, throat dry, skin warm and tingly where
big hot palms stretch over its naked parts. The kisses are different from
dad's, wet, a little desperate. Sam spreads over him and he has to groan from
the weight, the heat. Dean's hands slide down their bodies, yes, he knows what
to do, yes, he's a good boy, yessir, yes daddy, yes Sammy.
One firm grip and Sam grunts into his open mouth, rolls his hips, grinds into
Dean's. He's impatient. He always is. Like they're on the run, like there's no
time. Dad sleeps next door but sleeps tight. Dean's sure of that - because Sam
made sure of that. On the hard days, it's Sam.
Dean pulls it free and pumps slow and steady then, just like they taught him,
while Sam reaches under him and into his briefs and pulls them down, just low
enough to have enough of an access. He always makes sure to have it wet and
soft. Dean is thankful; dad doesn't always care.
Sam licks the inside of Dean's mouth, his teeth, while he pushes inside, holds
him by the shoulders, pins him like a dog, eats up his moans or any sound
really that he squeezes out like this. It's been some years and Dean still has
them, keeps an undying stock deep down his throat, his belly; all for them,
their dicks, their hands, their tongues. He hates himself for it. They love it
on him.
The fuck is quick, easy and cozy to fall asleep soon after it. Dean forgot
about good night rituals they had before That a long time ago.
It jumps, jerks inside of his body. He whines. Sam groans, fucks deep, reaches
almost as far as John does by now. Dean is afraid his brother might be a secret
giant and crush him one day during practice or during That. Sometimes he jokes
about it with him - the training part, at least.
Fingers braid into his short hair, scrape the skin, pull the dirty blond so
Dean has to arch, not only his neck but his whole body, and Sam pushes his hips
out another bit and so they stay for a while; Dean's lower body lifted from the
bed a few inches, buried securely in his brother's lap.
Sam catches his breath hunched over Dean's chest. Dean rubs his shoulders and
then up his neck, into his long, adorable hair, shiny and soft like a girl's.
He knows a ponytail suits his big brother. It makes him look a little like a
movie or rock star. He's so handsome it sometimes hurts. But Sam hates
ponytails.
Disconnecting, pulling up underwear, lying down next to each other. There is no
big ceremony about any of it. Dean places his head on his brother's chest. Here
is no hair. Here is no leather jacket scent. He wishes Sam would use a
different aftershave than dad.
They fall asleep to the synchronized beating of their hearts.
Dean dreams of college. Sam wishes he could dream at all.
***** Chapter 3 *****
Chapter Summary
     How they ended up in the suburbs. (John’s POV.)
Nobody on earth would have expected John to be suitable for an office job, a
manager position, even. But here he is, wrapped in an expensive suit, hair and
beard moderately trimmed. He doesn't need a suitcase when he leaves the house.
The company doesn't pay him for paper work - thank God.
He talks, convinces, weakens, breaks the clients for his coworkers to strike
the deals. Big ones. They sell weapons. Guns, bombs, tanks, you name it.
Importing from Germany, exporting to Israel, because why the fuck not? There is
money to be made.
It was only meant as a joke from his hunter buddy back in New York where they
travelled through two months ago. His sons' faces didn't even flinch at it,
John knew, because they didn't take any of it seriously. Of course they didn't.
Vietnam-/demon veteran John Winchester, CEO. "That'd make a great name-plate
for your daddy, wouldn't it, boys?" Sam curled his lips politely but that was
all communication for the evening from him.
Of course it's crazy. Insane. Blatantly impossible. But somehow, maybe even
because of that, John goes for it. Because why the fuck not?
Maybe he'll just do it temporarily. It'd be a nice thing to have a bit of money
on the side for extra ammo and everything else they need or might need. Not
earning dinner for the boys behind a billiard cue sounds promising.
So he tries - and the bastards really hire him, with pleasure, even. You don't
need no resume or college education with the mouth and mind of a Winchester.
The advance is enough to rent a pretty house in the suburbs. John pays three
rents in advance, just because he can. It pleases the saleslady and has the
boys' faces drop in fascination. It's completely worth the annoyingly tight tie
and collared shirt he has to wear.
He'd drive the Impala but his boss says he should get something more expensive,
something that screams "power". So John hands the keys to Sam after a visit to
the nearest BMW dealer. He doesn't exactly like the car. It smells wrong, feels
wrong. The leather is of fine quality but he misses the soft give of the
backrest. He gets accustomed to it every time he picks up one of the boys from
school. The scent of their naked skin has him tolerate the change after a few
weeks.
Hunting is on halt now and John still hasn't figured out if it's really such a
good idea. Each night he checks the salt lines, the runes, hex bags. Rifle next
to the nightstand, knife underneath his pillow. He has the boys do the same.
There's a gym at the office he visits each day. He can't allow weakness. Maybe
the demon knows, sees what he's doing, and smells a chance to take them down.
But John won't let it.
When he comes home, it's surreal. Quiet. Peaceful. Cicadas chirp in the neatly
grown trees, the air shimmers with heat, the sky slowly turns into shades of
pink and orange. Smell of freshly cut grass has him hum approvingly before he
unlocks the front door and enters.
It's theirs now. Their door mat, their corridor. John locks the door, clicks
all four mechanisms shut, activates the alarm system. Kicking his shoes off, he
sniffs for dinner, and yes, his boys got it done in time, like he told them to.
They're good boys.
They're silent at the table. Even after almost two hands full of weeks, they
don't seem to trust the situation, not completely. He thinks Dean actually
likes it, he enjoys the sun, the pool, his own room. Things John knows he
barely got to offer his children. But now he can. Now he's a good dad.
"Had a nice day in school, you two?" He's in a good mood. Sam did a great job
with the steak.
"Yeah," his oldest mutters into the fork, brushes through his hair with the
other hand. He looks really tired. He studies so hard. John wonders if he
maybe, actually, could afford to send him to college. There surely is a way to-
oh. Hunting. He forgot. Out of nowhere, he laughs, notices the boys' startle
but doesn't really mind, just amuses himself about the fact he got so used to
this absurd image of a perfectly sweet apple pie suburbs family life that in
the first time since Mary's death he actually forgot about the whole demon
issue for five damn seconds. He takes big sips from his beer and has the laugh
melt into a soft, sad smile.
"I uhm. I gotta finish this book report for tomorrow," Sam murmurs when all
plates are empty. He avoids John's eyes. John loves how the three of them
developed such a nice and subtle way of communicating. He can read them, they
can read him - and nobody else can. They're a unit, a pack, family. Nobody
else's.
"Okay, Sam." He softens his voice, not a lot, since it's already calm. Evening
voice after satisfyingly calm days. "Don't stay up too long though, alright?"
In the corner of his field of vision, he sees Dean's eyes flicker back and
forth between them for a moment. Then they pause. His chin dips a little deeper
towards his collar bones.
"Sure," Sam sighs. Despite his self-grown barrier of bangs, John can still make
out his son's thick lashes, covering the pretty eyes like black fans. He's
growing up so pretty.
===============================================================================
On the hard days, it's Sam. Because he can take it, knows John better than
anyone, has seen him cry, has held him, helped, rescued, carried his father
countless times.
John knows it won't break Sam. He's seen worse, been worse. Sam can take it.
He's slender, thin and long like a straw, but slowly he's filling, broadening.
Finally his body understands that even unbreakable souls and bones need a
worthy frame to live in. John loves tracing the new muscle, kissing tight skin,
caressing stubble. He loved his boy without all of it and he'll love him after
gaining so much more.
With Dean, it's different.
He's compact, tough. Like a rubber ball he bounces from contact, beams with
energy, heat, fight. At fourteen, he's further than Sam had been at his age.
He's got more baby fat than him; more material to use for his cells. Sam
spoiled the kid with food he should have used for himself but couldn't bring
himself to deny his little brother the few bites that were left so many times.
More times than John wants to admit he left them to deal with.
He's soft, warm underneath his hands. Still squirms from touches; not like Sam.
One of John's favorites is the hitch in his voice that came up lately, a crack,
squeak, especially when he's exhausted but John still pushes him further. He
can't wait to hear it every day when it finally breaks his voice completely,
turns it deeper, rougher, like theirs. John loves sucking on the spot where a
bump will show soon, like he's forcing it to come out, to invite it early.
On calm days, it's Dean. Because he's soft, fragile. He needs to be pampered;
takes a lot, but not everything. They're still working on that. One or two more
years and he'll be perfect, like Sam in some way, but at the same time
completely different.
Sam often reminds John of himself. Dean always reminds John of Mary.
The sofa is gigantic, ridiculous. The TV follows suit. John grew a liking to
combining classic movies with sad women and bitter men with the sofa underneath
him and Dean in his arms. Piano tunes and exaggerated sound effects, sobbing
and gunshots melt perfectly into Dean's soft noises. His weight on his lap is
just right to push him nicely into the soft cushions, like a massage.
He smells like chloride and sun and salt and bed. John kisses lips, cheeks,
ears, neck, bites only softly. Dean hiccups his breaths when he moves or is
moved or when John rolls his own hips, pushes up, pulls him down. Dean's arms
are wrapped around his shoulders, like he told him to put them. They're naked,
the air conditioner isn't on a too high setting; it's cozy and comfortable and
simply nice.
Wet and tight, it's a slow drag. When he pulls Dean's cheeks apart, it
stretches, and has the boy gasping. John licks at his sunburned lips, fat and
pink, shoves his dick up deeper into his belly, soft but flat. It used to show
that adorable bulge but now it's only visible in specific positions. If John'd
put his hand there, he'd feel it, still.
"I love you, baby, I love you so much." He kisses, tongues, moves a tad faster,
thinks that a slap of skin on skin would match the background music perfectly.
Dean comments it with a whiny moan, is stretched again, lets John have at his
mouth. He's pliant. A good boy. "Love you so much. Do you love your daddy? Come
on, do you love your daddy? Tell me, Dean, tell me, come on."
"Love you." It's forced between moans, quietly, he can barely catch his breath
now, is bouncing in John's big hands, his ass jiggling underneath his
fingertips.
John smiles into the kiss. "Who do you love, Dean?"
"Love you, daddy."
"Again."
"Love you, daddy."
"Who does my good boy love?"
"I-I love my daddy."
John stares at his son through halfway shut eyes, studies his freckles, thick
lashes, closed eyes. He's flushed pink, from exertion and sunburn. Upturned
eyebrows almost vanish under thin blond locks on his forehead. "You're so
pretty," John pants, fucks harder, feeds on the twitching of Dean's facial
muscles, "So pretty. My pretty boy, Dean. Such a good boy. What do good boys
get, Dean?"
Dean scrounges his nose, arches his neck, tries to muffle his whining in his
throat when John speeds up once more. One hard slap comes down on his
completely stuffed ass for the delayed answer. He yelps. "D-daddy's come!" he
gasps, "Good b-boys g-get daddy's come, sir!"
"That is right, Dean." Another harsh slap, to the other side now. Dean screams
and tightens up in the most delicious way. "Such a good boy," John grits
through his teeth, feels prickling heat fill his lower belly, not much more,
not much longer. "Such a good little boy. So good for me, Dean."
He comes deep, heavy. His vision goes white for a second and he finds Dean's
open mouth blindly, closes it with his own, mixes their moans in their created
and shared space. Dean squirms in his lap, wants to escape already, as soon as
possible. He isn't as patient as Sam. Yet. John pulls him down lower, lifts his
left arm to push between Dean's shoulder blades until he's flushed against his
chest, forehead against forehead. He waits for it.
"Thank you, daddy." It comes strangled, quiet. The words and air from his son's
mouth are pure bliss against his lips. "Love you."
John's smile is tired but wide. In the background, an actress sobs. "I love you
too, baby. Love you so much."
***** Chapter 4 *****
Chapter Summary
     Sam is more like his father than he’d like to admit. (Sam’s POV.)
"Don't push your luck." It's a threat, his grip iron on his little brother's
biceps. "You listen to what I say, you hear me? Now do it."
Green can be angry. It is most of the time nowadays. Sam doesn't like the view.
"Fuck you," Dean spits.
For a second, Sam plays with the idea of letting it collide here and now, to
shut the brat up, to have him duck his head for at least the next couple of
days. But only for a second. He lets go and Dean stumbles away a few steps.
Another deadly glare and he's up the stairs to change into his jogging gear.
The new environment isn't doing well on him, Sam thinks. Dean is too much to
handle anyway most of the time, hard to be kept in place and in a moderate
mood. This situation leaves too much space for his tantrums. With dad gone most
of the time, he develops sloppy habits. Candy had always been a problem but the
TV kills it for real now. Sam knows Dean plays with the thought of asking for a
gaming console. As far as his calculations go, John wouldn't deny it. He barely
denies Dean anything.
He should be happy, content about it. Somehow, he isn't.
In the backyard, the pool reflects the sunrays in beautiful patterns that reach
up into his room. Sam slumps down on his chair and leans back, stares at the
ceiling. He hears the front door bang. Good. Dean followed his order. One sigh
later, he's back into his books and papers.
As long as he has them, he won't let them go. In books, he can lose himself,
warp into another dimension, another life, another reality. Another family.
Novel or scientific topic, it doesn't matter to him. If it keeps his brain
busy, it's good enough for him. New material to bury the darkness under is
always welcome.
He's sent several applications for several colleges, gave them Bobby's address
to answer to. His weekly check-up call will be his reward for his work in two
hours.
He knows it's silly. Stupid. Reckless. Hopeless. Knows that as soon as he'd
leave, John would be right at his heels, drag him back, and after a few weeks
or months of "readjustment", as he calls it, it'd be perfectly the same as it
had been before.
Once he had been told that his place is at John's side, in his family, their
family. That families hold together. They're there for each other and fight
together. With the years, Sam forgot the exact moment it all got so twisted
that he forgot about right and wrong altogether.
Actually, he doesn't want to be mean to Dean, doesn't want to hurt him. Big
brothers should protect, support, not torment and destroy. When he's honest
with himself, he still loves him as much as the moment John pressed the little
bundle of joy into his hands, flames licking at the walls, ceilings, furniture,
and told him to run. Just the same as when he taught Dean to walk, read, swim,
fire a gun, sharpen a knife, cut something's throat.
Just not the same since those three weeks in 1995.
"He's yours," dad had told him in a whisper, a secret, "Yours and then mine.
You love your brother, don't you, Sam? Don't you want to take care of him?"
"'Course I do," Sam mutters. He's confused, excited. His nails dig through his
jeans.
"Know you do." He smiles, strokes Sam's sharpening cheeks with his palm.
"You're a good boy, right? And Dean deserves to be taken care of. You'll be
good to him, right? Like daddy is good to you."
He swallows. "Yeah." A nod. "I'll take care of 'im."
But Dean doesn't understand, is scared when Sam looms over him on the bed. It's
different. This never happened before. In panic, Dean stares across the bed
where John sits and watches in silence. They've done a lot already, but not all
of it. Sam'd say it's too soon but on the other hand… it had started earlier
with himself.
"'M scared, Sammy," Dean whines, squirms, so Sam has to hold him by the
shoulders. He already kneels between spread legs, his own heartbeat drumming in
his ears. He never thought he could get actually excited for something or,
well, someone. Thought it'd be no good, his body broken anyway, no hope for
anything left. But here he is, his dick filled and fat between his legs,
between his brother's legs. Sam is so moved he wants to cry.
"Shhh," he soothes instead, peppers kisses on Dean's face, cleans up the drops
of cold sweat with his dry lips, "It's alright, Dean, it's okay, here, look at
me." He wants to do it gentle, different than dad. Wants to really take good
care of Dean, to make him feel loved somehow, even though this here has nothing
to do with love. When he lies to himself hard enough, he does this because he
loves Dean and that Dean loves him back and this is how you show love, right?
His fingers slide in once more to test the width and Dean barely twitches at
that at this point. He used to complain a lot, cry, but they took care of that
by now. Sam decides he's ready and pulls them out, rubs his dick with lube-
coated fingers and then quickly shimmies closer, right where dad always kneels
in front of him in that position. He's crouched down low, their bellies and
chests almost touching, but Sam has to keep his hips at a specific angle for it
to work, so they don't.
"Here, look at me, Dean, hey. Hey. Shhh. It's okay. It won't hurt. Come. Relax.
Shhh." He almost believes himself when he says it and then pushes in.
Both their eyes widen and before Dean can cry out, Sam covers his mouth with
his own, and before he can push Sam away, he grabs his wrists and pins them to
the mattress next to his shoulders.
His breathing turns erratic in only two seconds. The sensation's incredible,
tight but soft and boiling hot. His dick has never felt this good before, even
when Dean used his mouth on him. Sam's sixteen and he fucks into someone for
the first time.
The pace is hard to control; all he can think of is to get deeper, deeper,
more, wetter, hotter. They pant in tandem into each other's mouth after a few
moments of silenced mewls and pleads and begs from Dean. Sam's in all the way
quickly and moves softly, rocks his little brother and the bed with his hips.
He gets up on his elbows and frees Dean's mouth that immediately spills tiny
and less tiny sounds that are almost loud enough to cover the wet slap from
where they are connected.
Sam stares at his little brother in wonder, like when he said his first word
and it was his name, Sam, he'd said, and laughed, and beamed, and Sam burst
with so much pride. Now that he's so twisted himself, he starts seeing what
maybe dad sees in them, the beauty, the word "pretty". There are tears in the
corner of Dean's eyes, screwed shut, eyebrows hitched and twisted and
impossibly thick. Moonlight paints his cheeks dusty pink, his freckles pale and
spread over the tiny, straight bridge of his nose. In this moment, Sam would
have never ever guessed he'd break it one year later over a simple, one tad too
provocative statement about Mary.
He fucks, Dean whines, he comes, groans deep. He buries his face in Dean's tiny
nape of the neck, but it's enough space for him somehow. He feels himself
soften while Dean wraps his arms around his back and squeezes them together
tightly. Tiny sobs shake the tiny body. Sam sighs, content somehow. His eyes
won't open again for tonight. They fall asleep soon after John softly pulls Sam
down and next to Dean instead. Blond hair curls underneath his nostrils and Sam
loves the smell, has always loved it. Now loves it more.
The first three weeks - and Sam knows it's exactly three weeks, he'll never
forget that time -, Dean's his. He loves, he praises, he fucks, kisses tears
away. He manages to make Dean come on day four. On day six, he's mastered the
perfect angle for the tiny prostate and doesn't even have to use his hands
anymore.
He manages to smile, honestly, after what felt like years, and it's because of
Dean, his perfect little brother, his life. It's the first time his brain comes
up with the idea to run away for real - and take Dean with him.
Dean smiles back at him, but it's different from before. It'll just take time,
Sam tells himself.
John never interferes, most of the time is absent or sleeping or silently
watching. Doesn't even touch Sam when he has the chance to, just lets them be.
When Sam thinks back now, he should have appreciated it way more.
The happiness fades soon after these three weeks and John starts new habits of
switching between them, depending on his mood, blood alcohol level and their
actual behavior. There are strict rules but they don't make sense when Sam
thinks about it. It is used for both praise and punishment and at some point of
It there is no distinction possible.
Dean cries a lot during it again, with John being too much for his body to
take, so Sam cleans up the mess, kisses him well, caresses him, whispers and
rubs until Dean allows him to take John's place between his legs.
"I love you," Sam tells him over and over while he breathes hard, grunts the
words, low and raw.
Dean stops saying it back to him a few months later.
***** Chapter 5 *****
Chapter Summary
     Even though punishment will follow, Dean can’t help but explode from
     frustration and built up anger. He eventually finds something to blow
     off some steam with soon. (Dean’s POV.)
It's still hot. Dean hates cardio. He prefers strength training; at least that
can be get done with faster. Painful but faster.
One hour passed and he's back in front of their house, the phrase "their house"
leaving his head dizzier than it already is. He's panting hard, trying to catch
his breath with his hands on his knees. His clothes are hopelessly soaked. It's
disgusting.
With sweat dropping from his lashes and nose, Dean stares at his new trainers
on the ground. Dad bought both of them new ones, now that he earns so much. The
money seems unreal to Dean. It's just too much. He has no idea how to handle
money. Sam always did that when they had to, back then.
He turns his head and, again, sees the new guy behind the windows, staring at
him, fucking again. Dean can't decide between a frown and a laugh so he does
both. Pitiful bastard. Staring at teenage boys in broad daylight. And he's
always in his bathrobe, too. What a freak.
Maybe he should tell Sam. The guy would have to readjust the windows a few
inches lower so he can continue staring at Dean from his wheelchair afterwards.
He laughs again. It's strange how real the possibility is.
Inside, he kicks his colorful shoes off and helps himself with a big bottle of
water from the fridge. Without hesitation or ceremony, he slumps down on the
sofa and turns on the TV. Feet up the coffee table and he gulps down the water
so fast it makes his stomach hurt.
Sam's voice is dulled through one floor and one door. "Dean, what the fuck?"
Dean doesn't look up, doesn't react - except for a burp.
"Dean!" Sam is raging, practically flying down the steps and crossing the space
to the sofa and around it in no time. He kicks Dean's legs off the table - and
it's not a soft kick.
"Wha- Fuck you, Sam, lemme be, for fuck's sake- NO!" He tries to scramble away
immediately when he recognizes the situation's character and Sam's mood, but
his muscles are too wasted after the run - and Sam is way stronger than him,
anyway.
"No fucking TV, I told you, dad told you, you know the fucking RULES, Dean!"
Sam is angry at John for telling them they could be as loud as they wanted in
this house, that it's extra sound-proof and nobody can hear them outside. He
hates to be screamed at, to scream himself, but he just can't stop himself with
Dean and his shit excuse of manners.
He pins him down, the fabric soft but any fabric turns rough with enough
pressure, and Dean screams, kicks, fights for all he's worth. He has to sit on
his thighs to keep him down, knees digging into thick flesh and he knows it
fucking hurts with all his weight bearing down on it, but Dean doesn't give him
much of a choice here. "You just won't listen," he spits and pulls down Dean's
running shorts and briefs at once, scrapes his skin with his nails, doesn't
care, "You want this to happen, huh?! 'S that it?!"
"No!" Dean sobs, panic in his voice now, finally. Sam gets hard at the sound.
"No, I don't- No- Sam, please-"
"You shut your mouth." By the time he unzips his jeans, his body has prepared
for what's next. He flicks his wrist, once, twice; yes, perfectly ready. "You
kick me and you'll regret it, I swear to God, Dean." He watches Dean's eyes
water and squeeze, his lips turn into a thin line while he climbs down the
legs, pushes the knees up instead, right up to Dean's shoulders.
"Please don't," Dean begs, voice wrecked like this, lungs forced tight in his
chest, "Please, p-please, at least get the blinds first, please."
Sam stops in his movement, thinks fast, approves of the idea. No sound doesn't
mean no visuals for outsiders. He raises his eyebrows down at the boy. "You'll
be good if I get up?"
"Yes," Dean hiccups, pulls his knees up closer, "I'll be good, so good, I
swear." He reaches underneath that certain pillow and produces a bottle of
lube, squeezes some onto his fingers and pushes in two at once; has to
demonstrate that he is really willing to listen now.
Sam watches all of it with flared nostrils. He puts his dick back into his
pants and gives a sharp slap to Dean's knee, but not a heavy one. A strange way
to show affection, but it's his one. "You know you don't deserve lube, you
fucker."
"But you like it when it's wet," Dean groans softly, not provocative. It's his
"bed" voice. It's especially soft and took him some time to develop. He uses it
to get what he wants and that ranges from avoiding a beating to getting a new
Walkman. The voice comes with an adorable pout. Neither Sam nor John can say no
to that for long.
"Bitch," Sam hisses and gets up, closes the blinds and- Eyes stare at him,
foreign ones. He didn't pay attention to whether or when the house on the other
side got sold or not. The guy quickly looks away once Sam mirrors his stare.
Good for him.
He returns and Dean lies there like he left him, covered in sweat from the run,
knees up his face, ass in the air and stuffed with fingers and lube. "Enough,"
Sam barks and frees his dick again, weighs it in his palm while Dean withdraws
and grabs the backs of his knees instead. He crawls closer, places one hand on
the back of Dean's thigh and uses the other to line himself up. Dean chews on
his bottom lip with a painful expression when Sam takes a peak at his face. His
eyes aren't exactly closed, only two thirds. They're pointed somewhere on the
left corner of his vision, downwards. Somewhere nowhere.
Sam pushes in. Dean tenses, eyes now pressing shut.
"Don't be such a pussy, for fuck's sake," Sam groans and bottoms out with one
sharp thrust that has Dean hold his breath, "It can't be that tight. He fucked
you this morning, didn't he. So don't complain."
Dean doesn't complain.
===============================================================================
It's week eleven by now, he counted. It's an insanely big number in their
statistics. John seems to like the job, their life as it is now.
Dean feels like a caged in animal. There's so much anger in him he doesn't know
what to do. Right now he sits in his room and stares out of the window. He
broke some plates earlier that day during a rage fit, so Sam locked him here
and now he has to wait for John to come home to punish him. Dean can't do
anything but wait.
He spies into the other house easily; it helps that these windows are insanely
big. Bathrobe-guy isn't much of an entertainment, just sits there at his laptop
and types, types, types. Not only a freak but a boring freak. If he'd at least
jack off or something. But no, fate really wants him to be punished today.
A peak at the clock tells him that about one hour is left before dad will come
back. Another half hour for dinner - which Dean won't see one bite of,
naturally - and then- He scratches through his short hair, rougher than he
actually needs to.
Bathrobe-guy gets up and Dean's full attention is back on him with high
expectations. But he simply leaves the room, probably for a piss. Dean moans in
frustration and puts his head into his hands on top of the windowsill. Fucking
tease.
Now he's back, doesn't sit down immediately. Stretches, picks up his coffee
cup; turns to the window where Dean keeps staring. Their eyes meet in a matter
of seconds. Bathrobe-guy shies away and Dean laughs, wide and unseen to the
world. But then, the eyes are back.
"Grew some balls, eh?" Dean murmurs into his fingers, eyes fixed on his
neighbor. He misses hunting so bad, so so bad. Misses being in control, being
the predator instead of the victim for once. Misses the smell of fear from
whatever they're hunting, whoever, the panic; misses cutting or shooting
through skin and tissue. This here is nothing like it but sadly, it's as much
as he'll get.
He's obviously nervous; the way he strangles his cup says it all to Dean. Dean
smiles in the way that lets his teeth show, perfectly straight and white -
because They never hit the face and he's been lucky during hunts until now -,
tilts his head. He knows the guy'll see them thanks to the harsh contrast to
his by now bronzed skin. And yes. He smiles back. Only a quick twitch of his
face but Dean's eyes are sharp enough to catch the motion. He laughs once more
and watches bathrobe-guy relax a bit around his anchor aka coffee cup.
Dean raises his hand for a wave, more like a smooth swing of his wrist. Shyly,
bathrobe guy raises his free hand and halfway closes, then opens it once before
dropping his arm again. Dean smiles. He mouths the word "progress" without an
expectation for the man to understand it; but he laughs, a nervous chuckle, and
scratches through his messy dark hair, eyes to the ground. Dean bites his
bottom lip and snorts a little laugh of his own.
The hand comes up again, closes and opens once, and then his neighbor turns
away again, sits down in front of his laptop screen. Dean's smile drops slowly.
At school, the other kids are none of his interest. It's all alien to him, the
things they talk about; TV shows, music, homework, crushes, family issues - how
could he ever relate? When someone goes near him, students, teachers, he feels
uncomfortable. He leaves or makes them leave; the second option being his
favorite.
It's okay with the girls though; with them, it's different. They tend to like
him because he's so "cool", how they call it. Dean isn't too convinced about
that himself but takes their attention anyway. They seem to like his big mouth
and the way he can swear like a sailor. It makes them giggle and blush and
that's an adorable sight, Dean thinks. But short chats are all he invests.
After Rebecca, he can't, just can't. If dad, or worse yet, Sam, would find out
he was seeing a girl, again-
His room isn't too gigantic but bigger than a lot of motel rooms they stayed
at, all three of them together. His sheets are smooth and cold against his
skin, the windowsill, made of marble, as well. Still not cold enough, though.
Nausea mixes with heat in his stomach when it twists, growls. He blinks through
the afternoon sunrays outside. Bathrobe-guy types.
If he'd jump out of the window, would he break a leg?
===============================================================================
"Please, please stop, daddy, please!"
"You know this ain't my fault, Dean, you know that."
"Please, it hurts, I'll be good, please, please!!"
"Should've thought of that earlier. And stop crying for once, Jesus Christ! You
wanna make me mad? This not good enough for you?"
"N-n-no, no, please, I'll be good, I-I won't-"
"Shut up. Shut the fuck up. God, I hate you. Look at you. This is how you repay
your father, huh? This how you treat your father? Cause him trouble after he
worked his ass off for you and your goddamn brother the whole day? You make me
sick."
"AAAH!!"
"SHUT UP I SAID! God, you fucking little shit; I'll show you, oooh, I'll show
you!!"
===============================================================================
Temperatures dropped over night. The grass' dew is cold on Dean's naked feet
when he crosses through it, concrete of street not boiling yet; it's only ten
a.m.
Dad called in sick for him at his school since he can't really sit. The teacher
is told Dean has a nasty headache.
Actually, he's under strict curfew. Actually, they should know better than
leaving him in a locked down house with more sharp objects than they usually
have on hand the times they need them. The security system is no problem as
well, naturally. Dean isn't stupid, even though they tell him that a lot
lately. Maybe it's better they actually believe in that.
He saw that he's up. Walking hurts but at least he's doing something else than
pitying himself while lying flat on his stomach. Curiosity kills the cat,
right? Right. So he passes the street, the mailbox, gives it a short glance.
"J. Novak".
The ring of the bell leaves an echo in the hallway that even Dean can hear from
outside. A peak through the painted glass parts of the door tell him that it's
completely empty. No sideboard, carpet, nothing. He makes an unimpressed dance
of eyebrows and corners of his mouth. If their house hadn't come with complete
furniture, it'd look exactly like this as well now.
The tell-tell of scuffing steps has him rearrange his posture; torso upright,
shoulders down, knees a bit bent. He thinks that's how maybe the guy would
expect him to stand, how he'd expect him to be like. How a normal kid would
stand in front of a door. It doesn't exactly feel right for himself, but he can
do it.
He's seen and identified through the glass parts by confused eyes that come
closer, now faster. Dean leaves his poker face on. The door swings open.
"Hey, Mr Novak." Dean tilts his head in the most innocent way. Because
everybody likes puppies. "I think our mail got mixed up."
***** Chapter 6 *****
Chapter Summary
     Jimmy doesn’t expect the turn of events that result from Dean
     inviting himself into his house. (Jimmy’s POV.)
If he had been asked how they ended up in his office room, Jimmy wouldn't have
had much of an answer for that someone. The boy shuffles through his stuff
absently and makes little approving noises here and there. He damns the
bathrobe. Nothing should make you feel this comfortable without wearing
underwear and yet keep you moderately clothed. It's a bad habit, he understands
now, a really really bad habit.
The mail, apparently only some unimportant ads, lies downstairs on the kitchen
counter, shamelessly forgotten at this point. "This your works?" freckles asks
as he points at a certain part of one of Jimmy's many bookshelves.
Jimmy shuffles closer, ducks his head unconsciously. "Uhm, no, they're over
there, under 'N'." He nods towards another shelf.
"Alphabetical order? Wow, OCD much?" he snorts and makes two steps to the side
to get in front of the correct part of the collection. Jimmy doesn't exactly
understand what the boy means; he's quite sure this way of keeping books in
order is very common. But he puts that aside.
From the distance of only a few steps compared to several meters across the
street, including a double wall of window frames at most times, the image of
the kid is way different. It isn't only an image anymore, he's here, in this
very room, together with him, radiating energy and a warmth of some kind. Jimmy
decides it must be the simple human presence and the sad fact that he has grown
completely unfamiliar to it over the past months. When he really thinks about
it, this kid is the first visitor he's had here yet.
Freckles pulls out one especially thick book and weighs it in his hands before
turning it around to have a look at the summary on the back.
"It's a fictional novel," Jimmy murmurs, trying to pick easy words so the boy
will understand, "about the civil war. It's about a man and his family at that
time. And how they cope with the events."
"Heavy," the boy replies, eyes flying over pages he flips through carelessly.
Jimmy feels like he has to sell his manuscript to one very bored agent right
now.
"H-he uhm. He gets disabled during a fight and then has to return home."
Freckles frowns into the pages but his mouth smiles. "So war itself wasn't
depressing enough for you, huh?"
Encouraged by the smile, Jimmy steps closer until he can slide his finger over
the spines of his books, his babies, as he sometimes calls them when no one is
around to make fun of him for it; until he can smell the kid, heavy with soap
and sun. It's a shame he barely manages to breathe out of nervousness. "These
here, uhm, were all written by me over the last fifteen years. This is my
first," he pauses his finger at a medium thick one, "and this is the latest."
Hardcover, leather-bound - he has his taste. And with his career in his back,
the publishers obey to his wishes, finally.
He peeks to his side and watches the boy's eyes wander over the letters, neat
and firm in one row in front of his nose. It's bubbly in the front and
minimally crooked on the bridge; kind of hard to make out under the deep layer
of freckles he keeps there. His skin looks dry, sunburnt, not properly kept,
but still gleaming, oh so gleaming in the slowly strengthening sun. When his
lips part to speak, Jimmy pays attention to them for the first time and for the
time being won't be able to fall asleep without thinking of them first.
"Crippled veterans all you write about, Mr?"
Jimmy tries to think of other words than "fat" and "pink" and "mouth" and
clears his throat to buy some time for it. "N-no, I-I. There are novels and
there are scientific topics. Social ones, for example; here, this one, uhm-" He
wants to reach out for another book, far to their right - and goddammit, why is
it so far away -; the boy has to move a bit or he will brush against his chest.
But he doesn't move and Jimmy is torn between reaching out anyway and being
polite; it must look silly, like a physical stutter. He feels heat rising to
his face, creeping up his neck. Why is it so hard to deal with people? Why does
he have to be so awkward all the time? He curses himself for another of the
many times in his life.
"I never thought the phrase 'Peeping Tom' really suited the thing, you know?"
Jimmy freezes. The boy hasn't looked up from the books, shoves "When I came
Home" back into its place, eyes dropped lazily, heavy lashes hovering just
above his cheeks. The green irises seem unreal in the light from this angle.
When he turns his face towards him, the spark they radiate is dangerous. He
instantly has to think of a cat.
"No wonder, I mean… your name isn't 'Tom', right? Mr J dot Novak?"
Jimmy feels like a mouse. "I- uhm- I- i-it's-" He hasn't had a panic attack in
years. The certainty of having thrown out all of the old medication doesn't
help. His lungs knot up in his chest instantly while he desperately tries to
find words, an explication, an alibi, anything-
A firm hand comes down on his chest; its warmth perceptible even through the
thick robe. It's like snapping awake from a bad dream. He stares into green.
"Jesus, man, calm yo'self. I ain't no cop. And there are none waiting for you
outside. Okay?"
"J-Jim," he stutters, cold sweat breaking out of his pores even though he feels
the panic melt from his body again, "Jimmy. My name's Jimmy."
His laugh is high, barked out like a jagged breath. Jimmy is beyond feeling
ashamed for his awkwardness at this point. At least someone in this room enjoys
it.
"Okay, Mr Novak. Mr Novak? You with me?" His hand lifts, moves up his neck,
through sweat and over a pulse so raging it must be visible, and stays there,
cups it.
Jimmy's brows twitch into a slight frown. "Y-yes."
"Okay." Freckles' smile doesn't really make sense to Jimmy. He's thankful for
it, but still. "Calm down, okay? I'm not mad at you for stalking my every
move."
He tries again. "I- I wasn't-"
"Mr Novak, don't play dumb on me, alright? I am way too old for taking your
shitty lies, so please, spare both of us from that."
The warmth of the hand makes Jimmy realize how cold he actually is. He huffs,
catches his breath from doing exactly nothing, feels the skin of a roughened
palm scrape his sensitive neck along with it. "H-how old- how old are you,
then?" Again, he doesn't have an exact reason to ask for this information. At
least that's what he'd like to tell himself.
Freckles' head drops an inch while his smile explodes and many of the precious
brown spots hide in deep wrinkles around his eyes and cheeks. While he barks
another wave of laughter, Jimmy finally feels heat rising to his head again.
Maybe a bit too much, actually.
Yet another smile. It leaves Jimmy running those first few lines of Nabokov's
in his head over and over, like a chant, a prayer, an inevitable truth.
 
Lolita, light of my life, fire of my loins.
My sin, my soul.
 
"If I told you, would it stop you from staring at me like earth's last slice of
cake?"
Jimmy swallows. The answer on his tongue scares him. The hand knows, feels it
throb there, probably. He doesn't answer. Doesn't have to.
The smile is unbroken, eyes switching between the two of his own, back and
forth, back and forth, slowly, so Jimmy can follow, watch the pupils dilate and
constrict as in a dance, a performance. For the first time, Jimmy gets a faint
idea that maybe, it's all this here was from the start, from when their eyes
first met, from when he got goose bumps from staring into these gems of green.
"Yeah. I thought so."
Calloused but soft it is, this palm. It nudges up his jaw so that Jimmy's head
falls a bit to the side. Some moments - decades? - ago, he forgot how to
breathe.
 
Lo-lee-ta: the tip of the tongue taking a trip of three steps down the palate
to tap, at three, on the teeth.
 
"So, enlighten me, Mr Novak."
His breath smells sweet, like pie, and fresh, like peppermint. It's a soft
breeze against his lips.
"Which one's your favorite? My face or my ass?"
 
Lo. Lee. Ta.
***** Chapter 7 *****
Chapter Summary
     Dean enjoys how his plan is working out. (Dean’s POV.)
The way he melts right in front of his eyes, right underneath his fingertips -
it's delicious. With his hand on his neck, he feeds on the ever-increasing
drumming of his blood, wonders if maybe Mr Novak is already hard or if his head
occupied all available blood for its own? He doesn't have to check to get his
answer.
He laughs again, feels the man cringe in humiliation, licks his lips at it
while tilting his head back up, hollows him right out with his gaze. This, he's
never used on dad or Sam. They wouldn't buy it anyway, and he couldn't pretend
it for them anyway. This usually is for girls. Was for Rebecca, 24/7, well, at
least "the number of hours he could possibly excuse himself for staying at
school/the number of days it took for Sam to find out about the truth".
But now, it's for Mr Novak. And he reacts just like the sweet little things in
his class. All that he lacks are the pigtails.
"You don't have to tell me, I know anyway." He lowers his hand along the same
path it had ascended, approves of the sweat's rise of temperature. Just a bit
underneath the bathrobe, he stops, fingers splayed wide over not-too impressive
pecs. Authors aren't hunters, obviously. "Do you think of me when you jack off,
Mr Novak?"
When he hits home like that and the man stumbles with his whole being, his
soul, even, it excites Dean himself. Blood rushes downstairs and this sensation
is so rare to him that he savors it, patiently, slowly, drags it out. It hurts,
burns, screams down there, back there; but the front is more than interested.
And this is what is new, exciting. So it dominates the pain easily.
"I- I- It's nothing physically, not s-s-sexually-"
"Oh, I am so sure it isn't, Mr Novak."
"No, r-really, please, listen, wait-" He almost stumbles over all the air
around his naked feet, the blank floor, but mostly over his tongue. Dean is
very positive it's fat and red and that it'd feel nice wrapped around his own.
But he isn't in a rush. "I-I just thought you looked b-beautiful, th-that is
all, I promise!"
The warmth between his legs flees harshly. The adjective is too familiar. His
smile drops for a few seconds before he can catch it and replace it with
another - the show must go on. "Hm. Which of my parts do you think are
beautiful, Mr Novak?" The name rolls from his tongue like a treat. He
especially likes the absence of d's and y's in it.
This time, he wants an answer, waits. He's patient, lets Mr Novak search for
his voice in the chaos of his stomach where he knows everything collects before
it drops one floor deeper. "Your eyes," he mutters.
Dean grunts. "Pretty cheesy answer for an author."
"But it's true," Mr Novak assures, attempts to re-arrange his useless arms and
ends up leaning against the bookshelf to his left. He adds: "I'm not lying."
"You don't look like a middle school student, so why do you talk like one?"
"I-I'm thirty-four!" The offended tone in his voice makes the whole thing even
funnier.
"Look, Mr, I'll make this one easy for ya: what about my mouth?"
"Y-your mouth?"
"My mouth." It's a great word to put emphasis on, Dean notices. He doesn't even
have to try to make it sexy when the letters drop from his well-trained lips;
purses them at "u" and shows the delicate tip of his tongue at "th". If he'd
take another step closer towards poor Mr Novak, he'd have a perfectly erect
dick stabbing his stomach.
"I-it's a good mouth, I-I guess…" The guy is lucky Dean is so into torturing
him, otherwise he'd be long gone thanks to these useless answers of his. But
Dean is patient.
"Oh, it's a very good mouth, Mr Novak." Sweat lets his fingers glide easily in
nonexistent patterns over naked, hairless chest. It doesn't seem too stable
though. Would it hold his weight if he bared all of it on it with his hands?
"There are many ways to use it, you know."
Breath rattles through the man and Dean witnesses it directly underneath his
hand, the vibration, the new wave of sweat, feels and smells coffee-heavy
breath brush his collar bones and neck because Mr Novak's head is dropped so he
can properly look at Dean and Dean doesn't have to crane his neck to do the
same. Something about it, the tremble, the panic, Mr Novak's innocent or not-so
innocent excitement, bleeds onto him. The heat is back. It's like a drug.
Mr Novak solely whines when Dean sinks forward into his chest and
simultaneously grabs at his dick, carelessly poking out of the bathrobe since
God-knows-when during their conversation. If it wasn't for the shelf's support,
he'd fallen straight on his ass now. The man's palms are sticky and sweaty as
they come down on his upper arms, grab the biceps' there with so little of what
one could call "strength" that Dean is assured Mr Novak only likes to play hard
to get. And not even that role he plays very convincing. He pumps his fist,
firm but slow. Mr Novak's whole body jumps at that.
"Why do you think I looked back at you? Came to your house? Hm?" He noses at
scratchy chin, jaw, cheek. Voice reduced to a whisper, he can listen to the wet
slick of hand on precome-dribbling cock while he makes the last working cells
of his neighbor's brain fall apart for good.
"Do you want to stuff my mouth with your dick, Mr Novak?"
When he hears the heavy gasp, he bites at the stubble, the corner of the mouth,
the upper lip; ignores the pursed lips, avoids the kiss. "Wanna suck your dick,
Mr Novak. May I? May I? Please."
A grunt is enough of a command for him that sends him to his knees, hand
wrapped tight around the base, eyes upwards, always eye contact, Dean, don't
youdarelook elsewhere. Mr Novak stares back in wonder, like he didn't expect
this, like he didn't see this coming when Dean had rang his doorbell for the
shittiest excuse known to mankind, like he doesn't expect Dean to be as dirty
and rotten as he is. He laps, once, tongue broad, across the underside of its
head. Mr Novak yelps. Dean grins - and swallows it whole.
His reward is a strangled sound from the man, like he's dying or choking or got
his nuts kicked into last week and Dean would laugh again if it wasn't for the
dick in his throat. Both of his hands are in his lap now, the right pressing up
against the building bulge in his jeans. Mr Novak doesn't even notice. They'd
always notice and then swat his hand away. But They're not here.
He pulls back completely, balances the tip on his tongue while he takes a deep
breath and then repeats, barely gags anymore nowadays, and this one is smaller
than dad's or Sam's, so this is kindergarten. The sounds are wet, sloppy,
familiar; Mr Novak's moans make it bearable.
Soon the rhythm is found, a mixture between simple bobbing back and forth and
twisting his whole head to the sides so he can feel the ridges and veins spin
against the back of his throat. He starts sweating, blushing, rubs his dick
through the thick jeans, ignores the pulsing ache in and on his ass. He rarely
gets this excited - and never before on his own will.
He chose this. He wanted this. He is in power.
Dean hums around the thick flesh and makes Mr Novak shiver with it.
"Fuck my face," Dean groans, voice ragged already, doesn't care. He takes it
back down his throat before the ropes of spit and precome can drop from it. But
Mr Novak is too caught up, too confused, overloaded with this surprisingly
blissful morning to listen, maybe too shy to do what he's asked for? Patience
lost with a dripping dick of his own to take care of, Dean's free hand comes
down on Mr Novak's ass and pulls and pushes him until something like a steady
pattern of thrusts is achieved. After a minute, his hand can return to his lap
while Mr Novak's hips do their own thing.
His own hand feels wonderful through the fabric, he doesn't even need to unzip
and free it; actually doesn't want to get naked at all. The jerking motion,
right pressure, heavy friction - his thighs start to tremble.
Eyes full of tears from the worried gag reflex, he stares up once more, right
when Mr Novak opens his own, bright and blue like the clearest cloudless sky
and Dean's flutter shut with a muffled but clearly high-pitched moan that fills
the room like his come fills his pants.
Mr Novak makes a sound that reminds of a question mark, continues to thrust
into the contracting canal Dean at the same time would love to use to make
sounds; but he's a good boy, ends what he started, nobody likes a cocktease,
Dean. The heel of his palm kneads out every last aftershock he can get, his
hips rocking, his tortured bottom long forgotten, finally, for once.
A hand flies into his hair, grips tight while hips stutter helplessly. Dean
holds still while it pulses and jumps inside of him, gives it all the time it
needs; and it's a lot of time, lot of come. He adds "sexually frustrated" to
the "boring nerd".
His eyes peel open and he searches for Mr Novak's. When they blink open and
meet his, he slowly pulls off from the spent cock with tight lips to get it out
nice and clean in one go. He doesn't exactly need any more come on his jeans.
It's not too easy but Dean eventually stands on his feet again, heavy breathing
freaky pedo author - he adds a mental note to call him that the next time - in
front of him. Lips still closed, Dean smiles, swings onto the tips of his toes
to reach high enough for Mr Novak's mouth. Even though he opens greedily at
first, Dean can clearly feel the shock running through the man when he is fed a
generous amount of his own come. Dean makes up for it by massaging all of it in
with gentle dips of his tongue.
When they part, Mr Novak is staring at him like Columbus at America. "A whole
new world" indeed.
"The name's 'Dean', by the way," he grins.
***** Chapter 8 *****
Chapter Summary
     A usual weekend at the Winchester’s and how Sam shows his gratitude.
     (Dean’s POV.)
They never found out about his break from the curfew. Mr Novak is being
informed that if he ever makes any attempt to get in contact with Dean on his
own initiative, the police would be on his ass before he could spell "child
abuse".
Dean decides. Dean is in power. It is made clear. It is his newest try,
project, pastime, whatever. His.
Mr Novak will be his pet. It is decided.
Dean lies awake in his bed, eyes closed, mind wandering in the house across the
street. Against Mr Novak's chest, his breath in his hair, while the idiot just
holds him tight. Dean figures he's a romantic like that.
The noises from next door terrified him once - now it's just one usual Saturday
night event. It once used to be Fridays, when Sam's week of school would be
over; now it's John who has to work on Saturdays as well, so he can't drink too
much until then. He always makes sure to get his share as soon as he can,
eventually.
John is a nice drunk most of the time; during the week, before and during
hunts, that is. But once he allows himself to fall, to think of the past, Mary,
her loss, his loss, his whole damn life, Vietnam, his dad… To Dean, it's no
wonder he snaps from time to time. Hell, wonders how any bone in each of their
and especially in Sam's body can still be anything but bent beyond
disfigurement.
His brother's screams terrified him once - now it's just one usual Saturday
night event.
Dean's hand traces down his chest, solar plexus, navel, the fine shadow of a
treasure trail he would be way more excited about to get if dad wasn't so into
it as well. It comes to a rest above his rock-hard dick, fingers brush the soft
curve of it underneath pajamas and cotton briefs. Behind his eyelids, he rubs
himself on Mr Novak's warm, sweaty palm until he creams it. In reality, he
doesn't dare to touch himself with them next door.
When there's a scary crack and Sam yelps and John screams at him for doing so,
Dean thinks of the smell that radiated from Mr Novak's books. It was different
from the ones they usually get their hands on for research, and that is every
time John gives them with books, really. New. Clean. Cared for. Treasured.
Loved.
There used to be a time when Dean wished for nothing more than to help his
brother during these nights. To somehow be able to help, to stop it, even take
his place - he'd done it without hesitation.
This time ended somewhere in 1995.
Another collision, dumber. There is no cry following it.
===============================================================================
Most of their neighbors go to Church on Sundays. Regarding the Winchester
household, John sleeps off his drink while Dean does his best to fix his big
brother up. He figures that every family eventually has its own rituals.
It's nasty this time. Dean plays with the thought of suggesting seeing a real
doctor for the ribs, but knows that Sam wouldn't do it. Would never do it. As
long as it's not permanent, it's not worth another beating for "betraying the
family" which is John-vocabulary for contacting anyone about anything involving
his "parenting". So, basically: about anything.
"You want something, anything? Tea? Soup?" He brushes the wet strands of hair
out of his brother's eyes. Sam usually hates that but when he's barely able to
move, he lets Dean pamper him for a change.
He blinks once for "no".
"Okay." Dean doesn't get up but stays despite the stench of antiseptic. He
could never bring himself to leave his brother alone, even nowadays, even after
last week, even after Christmas last year.
It had only been a joke, for fuck's sake; he's only a child, isn't he? Aren't
kids supposed to say stupid, reckless things sometimes? Now, every time he
looks in the mirror, the unnatural bump of his nose reminds him of how he said
that "mom should've fucked a different jackass".
His hands still look tiny against his brother's paws. They look pitiful,
lifelessly folded over his stomach on the fresh sheets. One nail is black. Dean
traces its edges with feather-like softness and wonders if it will fall off
before or after dad decides to bruise another one.
"If you get accepted into college, you'll take me with you, won't you, Sammy?"
He doesn't look up from their hands on Sam's body, splayed wide and covering
his middle like a shield - one that came too late.
They decided on the blinking code the first time John choked Sam so hard he
sprained one of his own thumbs while doing it. Sam hadn't been able to speak
for two weeks. The bruises stayed for four.
Sam's palm is cold and dry as it wraps around Dean's. Even though it must hurt
his arm, he squeezes it.
He croaks a barely audible "yes".
===============================================================================
It's Tuesday. John works late tonight. It's raining again.
Sam's recovered fast this time; Dean did a good job. As a reward, he's allowed
to come as often as he wants while he's fucked into the mattress, to even touch
himself; Sam is generous.
It's hard to think of Mr Novak while Sam is in a constant flow of talking; Dean
also isn't allowed to close his eyes, so it takes a lot of concentration that
he doesn't have with a dick hammering against his prostate for handfuls of
minutes straight. A grab at Sam's slowly roughening cheek is all connection he
can achieve.
"Love you so much, I love you so much, Dean, I'll never let you go, we'll
always be together, right?, won't we?, oh Dean-"
He barely stops his mouth for kisses and then it's the same old song, over and
over, and Dean wished it wasn't so similar to dad's. Maybe then, he could
believe in what he hears.
There is a clock above Sam's desk and it says that it's been over an hour. He's
sore, spent, came two times and then once dry, still palms his cock because
that's what Sam wants to see. His throat is dry, his ass dripping with Sam's
first load from about half an hour ago. It burns like acid on raw skin but he
won't complain. That isn't his task here. Has never been. Never will be.
"Love you, Sammy," he croaks, now the one who can barely speak, tears in his
eyes almost dried up if Sam hadn't changed position and forces overstimulation
on already tender parts now.
"Again," Sam pants, fucks faster, makes Dean scream like this, it's too much,
but they long forgot where pleasure ends and torture starts; maybe never knew.
"Love you, big brother!" It's studied, practiced, well practiced. If he says it
right, it's over sooner.
"Again!"
"Love you, love you, lo-oooh FUCK; Sammy, Sam, SAM!!"
Sometimes when an orgasm roars through his body, it hurts more than anything
else Dean has known. Worse than a broken leg, worse than torn skin and tissue
and worse than a lube- and spitless fuck despite both things. Everything
cramps, he screams, while Sam can't tell the difference.
By the time Sam has come as well and lay down on top of Dean, the pain has
started to fade while Dean sobs giant hot tears into the wide, naked nape of
his brother's neck. When dad isn't at home, he allows himself to cry like this;
like a child. Sam doesn't mind it, not after Dean's been such a good little
brother for him and assured him of his never ending love. Sam always falls
asleep with a smile on his face after evenings like this.
There was a time where Dean would have ran away with his big brother without
hesitation, question, destination.
Nowadays, he wonders if there'd be any difference compared to staying with dad.
***** Chapter 9 *****
Chapter Summary
     Another visit. (Jimmy’s POV.)
Even with Amelia, he's never felt this naked. Not in their most intimate
moments, even the real strange and most embarrassing experiences he let her
guide him through. Not quite like stripped down on his own bed with this…
being, very well disguised as a teenage boy, on top of him.
Showing up on his front porch like no big deal at nine a.m. in the morning,
like it doesn't matter if Jimmy will die of a heart attack or not.
He had been told to undress and lie down. Dean hadn't even flinched at the
sight of his already throbbing erection that showed before actually reaching
the top of the stairs.
Still in his full outfit of tee and shorts, Dean climbs onto him. Their bodies
not touching any more or less than at Dean's knees and Jimmy's thighs or Dean's
hands and Jimmy's chest, he's being watched by sharp eyes that he knows know
how uncomfortable it makes him feel, how naked and vulnerable and imperfect,
old and wrinkly instead of young and beautiful like his counterpart he knows he
is. A mismatch, harsh contrast, not symmetrical or harmonic in any way - and
yet, he's drawn in by it, by the warmth of this body and the cold of these
looks; his charisma, way too old for such a young boy with a face so soft it
makes him want to kiss and caress it until these pretty eyes soften and fall
asleep.
Dean breathes calmly against his chin while he grinds down and Jimmy can do
nothing but to jerk thanks to harsh friction of fabric on his naked cock. He
trembles when he makes out the shape of Dean's against his own, both of them
trapped between their bellies. Automatically, his arms raise in order to pull
the kid closer, hug, feel, do something, anything - but Dean slaps his left
with a flat palm, harsh enough to leave a sting on his skin. "Behave, Mr
Novak," he is scolded and lowers his arms back into their former position. Eyes
pressing shut while Dean resumes his slow rhythm of circles on his groin, Jimmy
flexes his fingers in frustration and helplessness. This shouldn't arouse him,
no, it really really shouldn't. He knows this much, his brain knows, for God's
sake, but does it help? Of course not.
Had it helped these past days where all he could think about was that kid, that
wonderful thing that turned his knees into pudding and his thoughts into sand
and his fingers and toes into lit matches? That kid that could set him off like
a firework with only a few words, sounds, looks; a body like walking sin or
heavenly blessing - Jimmy can't decide despite arguing about it with himself
since that one morning.
He never gave other people's sexuality much of a thought, but he can't get rid
of that nagging question about how in the hell Dean became what he is today,
how a teenager can be this naughty and skilled and wonderful and finger-licking
good. There is no way he's any older than sixteen. No. Way. And yet, he is so
calm, like going over a well-studied technique when handling Jimmy and his
arousal…
How many did you have? How many other men except me did you turn insane? Who
taught you all of this? Who let you have you for the first time?
"Did you miss me, Mr Novak?" It's a whisper and sweet, oh so so sweet. Jimmy's
poor heart trips over itself in nervousness, in affection for this tone. A kiss
comes down on the patch of skin the lips can reach and Jimmy sighs at the burn
and sting and want it leaves there. "Yeah," another whisper and he knows
somehow that Dean is smiling right now, even though he can't see, "Knew you
did."
He smells nice. Wonderful, even. Jimmy thinks of Süskind and wonders if Dean
would've been suitable for Grenouille's perfume (and he's quite sure he'd
been). Mostly, there's skin, endless skin, warmth, sun, soap; clean and smooth
and only for him. He noses at the crown of hair he is presented with when Dean
lies down on top of his chest slowly, like a sleepy cat, and nuzzles the nape
of his neck like he owns it. And yes, for God's sake, own it, make it yours,
I'll be all yours. Smells like fresh air and even more sun, and oh, is it soft
and just perfect to bury his face in, so Jimmy does.
Dean lets him, stops moving and just lies there, calloused, warm hands spread
wide on his chest, eyes closed. As if he'd listen to Jimmy's heart gallop in
his chest like a whole herd of mustangs and as if that'd actually calm him,
soothe him.
He knows Dean'll feel the sweat rise from his pores but he can't just lie here,
not like this, not after waiting and hoping and fantasizing and going insane
for days. Usually, his lips only chip in winter, but somehow they got dry
enough to do it right now. "I thought that you'd maybe… changed your mind…"
Dean snickers at the confession (and yes, Jimmy knows himself how pathetic he
is, complaining like an abandoned dog, but does he have to be confirmed?),
calmly kisses and then licks his way up his collar bone and Jimmy hadn't
thought it to be even possible to feel any more tingly but holy shit it is and
he wants to move so badly he's aching. "Why would I do that?"
"I- uhm- I mean, I'm- I'm really old, after all, and uhm… Y-you're still…" He
clears his throat but it doesn't exactly has any remarkable effects on his
broken voice. Saying it out loud is scary and arousing and terrifying
altogether. "You're still a… a kid…"
"You're dick's pretty hard for the fact that I'm still a kid."
Hormones flood his skull and why does that one simple word become so incredibly
erotic when it's Dean's mouth that says it? It isn't fair and makes him forget
to breathe which Dean must have noticed with this very mouth neatly pressed
onto his neck; mouth and teeth and tongue to be exact but it somehow all just
turns into one with Jimmy's senses as sluggish and overtaxed as they are. His
eyes slam shut when Dean laughs and resumes moving his hips and he knows he is
watched, laughed at and kind of being fucked at the same time and never had he
ever thought it to be possible for it to be the most addicting thing he'd ever
experienced.
"You're working so hard," Dean grinds down with especially much force at the
last two words so that Jimmy just has to gasp, "Mr Novak, you really deserve
someone sitting on your dick."
A tiny kiss to his chin, another, then moves up to the corner of the mouth.
Jimmy's fingers dig into the sheets, searching for friction for the itchy
fingertips that would rather slide through blond hair or up these slim but
strong arms and underneath that t-shirt and down his neck and back but oh, he
can't; doesn't want to disappoint, to chase too much and end up alone because
he was being too greedy. Because yes, he has a feeling that's exactly what will
happen once he displeases the kid, doesn't play by his rules. He can do it. He
will do it. Just as long as this boy never leaves his lap, he'll do anything.
When he hears a soft sigh that he can actually feel on his face because Dean is
close enough to kiss- oh, kiss. His eyes slide shut again and he breathes the
air Dean exhales, produces stuttering breaths of his own and just knows Dean
feels the new wave of sweat that his skin can't help but to push out. It had
always been Amelia who had initiated anything, even kisses. She'd accepted that
so he had never had to move out of his comfort zone. He now curses his laziness
since it let him end up in this one-sided situation where he has to jump into
ice cold water head-first, without lifebelt or anything; has to, or he won't
get anything. Jimmy's jaw twitches as he makes a shy try to mouth at Dean; and
Dean doesn't hush him, kisses the corner again before Jimmy blindly find his
lips. It's sudden, impatient, and Jimmy's never thought it'd work or that
Dean'd let him and straight-down moans into the shared space between their
mouths.
Barely noticing anything, even the fact that Dean's hips stay perfectly still,
Jimmy's lips move like they've never wanted anything else but to kiss Dean, get
everything out of it, the sensations, the taste, what it freaking does to his
whole body; and Dean lets him but doesn't give much back, only replies
hesitantly, slowly, carefully, like Jimmy'll break if he goes at it too hard.
But oh, he could do this for hours, will do this for hours if Dean only lets
him.
He knows it's probably a bad idea (really really bad idea) but he decides he'll
try anyway - and Dean pulls back immediately at the first flick of a tongue
against his mouth. Jimmy whines in loss and squints through his lashes, meets
fully awake eyes. "Greedy," he is entitled and Jimmy wants to cry all over now,
chest visibly heaving in panic and he curses his impatience like a mantra over
and over like a tornado inside of his head.
"I-I'm sorry-" he starts but is immediately shushed with softly peppered kisses
all over the skin that covers his jaw, everywhere but where he wants them back.
His pathetic sounds that once again make him feel like a dog stop mattering too
much to him by now.
"Shhh, I know, I know." He shouldn't be the one comforted and has a hard time
leaning into the heavenly warm, dry palm on his cheek that rubs over his
stubble like it doesn't scratch it. Eventually, he gives in, Dean's whispers in
his ears like one of the many voices his skull inherits and who tell him "yes"
and "no" in perfect unison with every move or thought by or about the boy.
"It's okay. We have time. Relax, Mr Novak."
It's a hard thing to do when your stomach and lungs are in knots and your balls
are so blue it physically hurts, and, no, not the good kind of hurt. No,
Jimmy's way beyond that, but he tries, oh, he tries so hard, shuffles his
fingers through the sheets instead of grabbing Dean's hips and crushing them on
his dick like he'd actually need it right now. His breathing's erratic and
pumps out of his nostrils since he's pressed his mouth shut to keep it under
control, and he just knows he's everything but sexy like this, just feels
horrible - and that's the exact moment Dean chooses to work his hips again.
Jimmy almost comes right there and then but grinds his teeth and is reduced to
a smooth shudder when Dean snickers once more.
"Gosh, you're so needy, Mr Novak."
Yes, I am, and you're the reason, you damn little-
"Let's see if you can come just from this."
Jimmy's eyes snap open and he wants to protest because yes, he absolutely knows
he can do that and that he will do that and that it'll take about five seconds
at this rate and Jesus Christ, Dean just ruts their dicks together without
restraint, stares into Jimmy's face he himself knows must be red and sweaty and
oily and his mouth is gaping like a fish's. It's like he's waiting, daring
Jimmy to do it, as if this was a game, a fun way to pass the time; how fast can
you make Jimmy Novak blow his load?
He barely blinks from the moment it starts until his dick stops emptying itself
in thick spurts he knows will leave Dean's shorts in a mess which he feels all
bad and guilty about once it's over, but until then has problems remembering
his own name. Breathing comes in choked strokes, his hips jump and fuck upwards
but he holds them back as good as he can, bounces Dean on his lap a few times
nevertheless but isn't punished. Dean watches, patiently, excited, yes,
actually excited, Jimmy can feel his boner right next to his own. The first and
only sound Jimmy allows himself to make is a groan Dean absolutely planned on
making him spill with sucking in and chewing on his bottom lip like that.
He drops his head back onto the pillow and lets all muscle go lax, sighs, and
sighs once more at the feeling of Dean's mouth on his Adam's apple that he
presses down on with his tongue until Jimmy can't help but swallow even though
his mouth is as dry as a desert.
"Man," Dean exclaims, louder now, somehow disappointed, "You really don't get
fucked that often, huh."
If he'd have any fighting spirit or, well, any spirit left in him at all, Jimmy
would do something different than huffing a tired "uh-uh".
"Single, huh? Figured that, freaky pedo author. You a virgin?"
Jimmy knows there's that smile that's not nice or cute at all, just nasty and
mean and he wished he didn't know that one just too well. "'ngaged," he
mumbles, halfway passed out.
"Engaged?" Dean repeats and pronounces the word like it's a nasty thing he
wouldn't even touch with a stick. A long, long stick. "You? Engaged? With a
woman?"
"Her… her name's Amelia." He succeeds to say her name out loud for the first
time in weeks, maybe even months. The sting in his heart has him wake up a
little and he blinks open, doesn't have to search for those beautiful eyes that
stare down on him in confusion for long.
There's a short pause before Dean speaks again - after throwing a quick glimpse
at Jimmy's left hand. "But. Not anymore. Right?"
Jimmy wobbles his head, just enough of a movement to count as a "shake".
"Wow. That sucks. Sorry, man." Dean licks his lips, slides his hands into
Jimmy's hair. There's a dumb throb where his heart is and if he hadn't known
that he just lost half his bodyweight in come, Jimmy'd been very surprised by
the emptiness that now dominates his body. "Since when?"
"She uhm. She left in January this year."
"Jesus. That's like… half a year ago. And you still look like shit."
Jimmy frowns. "We were together for fifteen years."
Dean's eyes widen and Jimmy is halfway proud of blowing the boy's cover - but
the moment doesn't last long. A smile settles back like a well-practiced
masquerade (which is probably what it is and has been all along; but Jimmy
cannot gather enough imagination for that right now) and the kiss Jimmy
receives is so soft and sweet and loving that he forgets about being angry and
offended and sad altogether. "But now I'm here to take care of you, Mr Novak,"
he's told, kissed again, gets his bottom lip licked and then his teeth and the
tip of his tongue. He barely remembers to hold back and not slurp it down and
chew it up and kiss and bite and taste like he wants to, just leaves his jaw
relaxed and open so Dean can take whatever he wants from- "You can kiss back
now." Or not.
Again, Jimmy's perfectly aware of how absolutely not sexy he is or sounds or
taste or smells, and how could he be anything but unworthy of this boy, this
being, this thing. They kiss and kiss and kiss and he pants and rolls his hips
just enough for Dean not to scold him, sweats like a pig and he's not too sure
his cock went soft after his orgasm at all. The way Dean moans and grabs him by
his hair and crushes their groins together despite the gooey mess Jimmy left
them in tell him that he's doing good and Dean's excited as well and oh God the
idea of Dean losing it over him is even better than getting lost all over Dean.
They part and Jimmy would be upset about it if it wasn't for that tremble in
the boy's voice that makes him shudder all along with it. "What's it. Uhm.
What's it like? With a girl, I mean."
Jimmy stares, confused, just as out of breath as Dean who suddenly looks very
very young and maybe has a shadow of something like embarrassment on his face.
"I-it's. It's n-nice, I guess," he mutters, unsure what he is supposed to say,
what Dean wants to hear.
"Do they- How do they smell like?" Suddenly, Jimmy's not the only one on this
bed who's sweating. "I mean. I mean their pussies. How?"
The word and the question itself hits Jimmy hard in the face and he's so far
from female genitals right now that he could swear he's never been near them
his whole life. His brows and eyes twitch while he tries to remember. "Uhm. I.
Musky. I guess? Heavy? Great? I don't- There's nothing to compare it to,
really-"
"How does it feel like?"
Probably, the situation could get weirder. Jimmy just doesn't know how. "I
can't really describe- Wh-why're you asking that?"
"Come on, tell me, please!" Dean thrusts his hips and causes Jimmy's eyes to
roll back into his skull. If he didn't know any different, he'd say the boy is
kind of desperate.
"I-it's great," he tries, "It's, uhm, wet and hot and just the right kind of
tight, I-I guess." Dean looks needier by the second and it's as much of a
confidence boost Jimmy will get, so he is brave. Stupidly brave. He doesn't
even know why he says it and blames the absence of blood in his head for it.
"S-so much experience but n-none with a girl?"
Dean's face drops - and so does Jimmy's stomach.
He's ruined it now, surely ruined it, oh God no-
"You've ever done anal, Mr Novak?"
***** Chapter 10 *****
Chapter Summary
     Dean has to keep his neighbor in place. (Dean’s POV.)
The look on Mr Novak's face is priceless. The things Dean'd do for a camera
right now…! "So that's a 'no', huh? Too bad, too bad," he sing-songs, pushing
himself up on his hands braced on Mr Novak's chest, "Cause that is some awesome
shit. You really should try it." Mr Novak looks like he's about to suffocate or
blow another load or maybe both. Either way, it'd be way more enjoyable if
Dean's brain wasn't dumb with rage right now.
Okay, yes, it had been his fault to give the guy enough space to actually being
able to talk back. But that hadn't been necessary. Really, no. It's never a
good idea to make a nasty move on a Winchester and Dean feels like teaching his
neighbor the hard way.
"Actually," he states, pushing his eyebrows up his forehead and himself down Mr
Novak's body, "I think you should try it right now." He barely gets to do this
with Them but when he's asked to he does a good job, so he's confident he'll
succeed in making Mr Novak loose it.
With strength Mr Novak obviously didn't expect him to have, he pushes between
his legs, just shoves the thighs aside and swallows down the persistent cock he
knows he owns by now, savors the whine and whole-body-jolt he pulls out of Mr
Novak without much of a hassle. But, nah, not that easy, big guy. You wanna
play mean? We can fucking arrange that.
One, two, three strokes of his throat and Dean practically feels the gigantic
leaps towards orgasm number two he helps his neighbor with. He watches with
strict eyes, has to slap his hand another time as it rises to pull at his hair,
barks a sharp "Hands off I said, asshole! Jesus fucking Christ!" and shoves his
right hand between under Mr Novak's balls. The guy whimpers and jumps and
twitches all at once when he pushes his thumb down his taint, right onto his
asshole. "Now, be real good, Mr Novak," he chirps, spits where his thumb is
pressing down and then pushes right in without giving much of a wait to the
tight muscle. Another whine and the man tries to shy away from the intrusion,
so Dean just has to push in harder and dig his other four fingers into the
saggy flesh on the insides of Mr Novak's thigh. "Shhh, I got you, shhh, come on
now, don't pussy out on me, man." It's not his best apology or comforting
speech but it'll have to do and it's more than the guy deserves anyway. Mr
Novak's dick disappears into his mouth again and it's actually pretty fun to
have these two sensitive things right in his control, so Dean tests how each
one reacts when the other one is played with.
He shouldn't have asked. Now it's gone, all that wonderful friction, his
excitement, his boner, every-fucking-thing, just because he couldn't keep his
damn mouth shut. But of course the guy had had a girlfriend before, of course;
the perks of being a slightly normal person and all. It had been so far away
from Dean's perception of "normal" - a heterosexual relationship, that is -
that it hadn't crossed his mind; even though he had thought about many many
aspects of Mr Novak, to be honest. The idea of getting information on that one
sensitive, wonderful part he'd been thinking about ever since but was strictly
permitted to experience just had been too damn seductive - and had come too
sudden. Not the best basics for a teenage brain to work in proper dimensions.
Mr Novak clamps down on his finger and Dean thinks of Rebecca, how soft her
lips had been and how good she had smelled and how he had never wanted to hurt
her or do something she wouldn't want, so a kiss was as far as it got between
them, besides holding hands. Her giggling in his ear when he almost innocently
had brushed her thigh, maybe a hand's worth above from where her skirt ended,
sends so much acid up his throat that he has to ram his thumb up to the knuckle
into Mr Novak's ass to keep it down; knowing himself how strange that is but oh
well, what does he care?
The poor guy groans but he's rock-hard, so Dean won't be fooled. Maybe he's
even into that pain? He knows dad does, on rare occasions at least; doesn't
even let spit come near him, just wants to be fingered dry and it makes him
come like a fucking fountain if Dean does it right. And Dean always does it
right.
Dean shushes again as he withdraws his thumb maybe a tad too fast for it to be
pleasurable, gathers and spits again, more this time, kisses down Mr Novak's
cock and balls while he presses index and middle finger against his entrance.
He has to blatantly laugh into Mr Novak's pubes as he slides in to the second
joint and the guy curses and moans all at the same time while trying real hard
not to rip the sheets apart. "Shit man, pull yourself together, will ya!" He
slaps Mr Novak's cock with his free hand and, wow, he really likes that sound,
even without the surprised cry his neighbor produces thanks to it.
Somehow, he can't really stop laughing while lapping and kissing away precome
from the tip; it's just too adorable how raw and urgent and feral a man can
become when the right switches are flicked, especially if said switches were
unknown and a taboo and nothing but dirty and wrong right up to this point for
said man. Crooking his fingers does the trick - Mr Novak moans like Dean
imagines a woman to sound like when being fucked real, real good. Again, he
laughs, fucks his fingers because ha, damn, that guy had it coming and if he
isn't gonna get off himself, he'll make it worth for the other one at least.
Feet scramble next to his legs, search for support they won't get. Mr Novak's
sweaty, white chest and belly are heaving because yes, Dean knows, he's never
ever felt like this and it's probably super fun if it isn't done by someone you
just know isn't supposed to do it with you; someone who you aren't related to
first-line by blood and bonded and stuck with because you've never learned to
get security and love and self-esteem from something else than fighting evil on
the good days and facing your caretakers on the bad ones.
"Close, huh?" he groans, tries his bed-voice even though he really doesn't feel
like it, but he knows it adds another notch to Mr Novak's insane-o-meter that
he has a highscore to break with, "Tell you what - if you can get it up again
after this, I'll let you fuck my ass."
And that's it, that's fucking it; Mr Novak lifts up from the bed like a rocket
and Dean can barely catch all of his come in his mouth which at the same time
is very busy with laughing. Some gets in his face and hair but he doesn't
really care now, fucks his fingers in right to the knuckle and presses upwards
and there is no better word for what he's doing to this body than milking it.
It takes some time until it really stops and Mr Novak is nothing more or less
than a fleshy puddle in Dean's fingers. A nice view somehow; fucked out and
happy and sleepy little Mr Novak. He wipes his fingers into the sheets before
climbing back up on his neighbor's chest, kisses and licks at the stubbled
parts of it.
"I… uhm I… Just gimme a minute… please… Dean…"
Dean snickers and kisses the stupid mouth. "Said we have time. I gotta be home
by three, so as long as you wake up before that, I'm all yours."
The smile he gets as reward is as honest and bright and warm as he could have
wished for it to be. Dean wonders if someday he'll be able to learn to smile
like that.
"Okay," Mr Novak hums and then falls asleep in a matter of seconds beneath him.
***** Chapter 11 *****
Chapter Summary
     How nothing about Dean’s plan seems to work out and how he eventually
     returns home. (Dean’s POV (last paragraph: narrator’s POV))
Just lying like this, peaceful and safe and without a worry but the clock
hitting three p.m., is almost the best part about his plan. Mr Novak put his
arms around his back some time ago in his sleep and Dean let him do it, is now
securely snuggled to his chest, legs loosely straddling the thin waist;
actually something in between of dad's broad build and Sam's almost
undernourished frame.
He dozes on and off himself, sniffing at Mr Novak's skin here and there and
inhales it deep, the musky sweat being only one of its many features. For the
first time that he can remember, Dean enjoys the scent of bare skin.
When Mr Novak comes to, Dean is almost tempted to tell him to go back to sleep.
A deep rumble and a surprised sound and Mr Novak remembers where he is and what
the weight on top of him is and Dean of course feels the immediate reaction to
that against his butt. "Takin' that 'rise and shine' real seriously, huh?" he
mutters against collarbone and is squeezed by these arms he accepted so
carelessly. It doesn't feel exactly good even though this is Mr Novak and not
Them and he's doing it completely different… but still.
There's a kiss to the top of his head, and then another. He chews on his bottom
lip. "What I said earlier. You still in for that?"
A short silence, enough for Mr Novak's heart to play a whole drum solo against
Dean's cheek.
"I-if… if that's okay with you…?"
"It is," he lies against skin, sniffles at it once more before pushing himself
up on his forearms. He's a bit sleepy himself now from all the lazy lying
around, so maybe his eyes aren't as sharp and warning as they should. Mr
Novak's seem awake, really awake, the icy blue shimmering in the glim light the
blinds generously let in. Dean sighs. "Okay. Here are the rules."
Mr Novak looks up to him like a dog who's real eager to make his owner proud.
His dick is sticking up just as neatly as that. It's almost adorable. Almost.
"No hickies. No biting. And the shirt stays on." Mr Novak gives a faint nod.
Dean approves of that. "And I mean that, you hear me? Do anything I told you
not to do and I'll cut your fucking dick off. Which ain't a joke. I won't even
need a knife to do it. You'd be surprised what a music disc can-"
"Okay, I got it, I got it; please, I-I won't do any of that. I promise."
Dean squints at him. "Alright. Well, aside from that," he rolls off the
surprised author and lands flat on his back next to him, "do whatever you want.
All yours." There could be more Eros in that offer but when Dean turns his head
to check on his poor neighbor, said man is already all hands and mouth for him
anyway, rolled to his side and fingers traveling over Dean like he's never
touched another human before.
"Okay," Mr Novak breathes and immediately kisses, hungry and wet. Dean keeps
his eyes open, concentrates on the coffee-taste he's being fed with instead of
the actual sensation of the kiss. Sweaty hands and fingers traveling through
his hair and down his neck and chest are difficult to tolerate, especially in
summer when even Sam's hand get sweaty from time to time. Dean witnesses the
rise of his own pulse, panic and disgust creeping into his stomach, and
desperately tries to push it away. This hadn't been the plan, no, really, no.
Why did he let this happen now? He never wanted this, not like this, not on his
back with the guy looming over him, no, not fucking again.
Dean makes a sound he used to make when he was younger and Sam started getting
at him when he had already been close to falling asleep, something that meant
"oh no, leave me alone, please" but just like Sam Mr Novak hears something
different, something that makes his dick even harder and his kiss even fiercer.
His nipples are flicked and it's so close to the bruise it feels like being
electrocuted. "N-no, n-not there," he mumbles against chipped but throbbing
lips, surprised by how high-pitched he is speaking, loses another tiny bit of
ground under his feet.
It's staying at home ill from school or nothing in order to get some time
alone. And they don't get to stay at home for a headache or some shit; no.
"Luckily", Dean knows how to push Sam's buttons - two or three "I hate you"'s
and there's a punch to his torso, most likely his ribs, because they hurt as
fuck and Sam can dig his fingers in there while he pounds his screaming mess of
a brother and make him regret what he's done. Dean had repeated his plan for
today over and over and over in what his brain could come up with, and it had
helped a bit. Nothing's for free, they say.
"Oh, oh, sorry," Mr Novak whispers immediately and shoves his hand down deeper
towards his stomach but of course passes his ribs on his way down and Dean
yelps, presses his face into the nape of Mr Novak's neck where he is showered
with panicked "what?"'s and "sorry"'s but doesn't answer them, shoves down his
shorts and briefs instead.
"Come on, just do it already, please." Bed-voice is better than almost-
throwing-up-voice. Yes, certainly is.
Again, he's kissed and then shivers at the shy tries of touches Mr Novak starts
on the sharp edges of his hip bones and belly button and then his dick. But no,
he doesn't like that, being confronted with how limp and useless and without
the slightest bit of fun he is doing this here, so Dean pushes his hips up and
Mr Novak's hand down so his fingers can dig right up his crack. Mr Novak gasps
against his lips and kisses just as soft as his fingers press down.
"Y'can go harder," Dean mutters, pulls on Mr Novak's hair, ignores the tiny raw
throb that remained from last night along with the black and blue underneath
his shirt, "Come on, be a man an-" One finger breaches him dry and Dean chokes
a bit. His voice sounds strangled but maybe Mr Novak likes to make him feel
like this, so he doesn't bother to cover it up. "That's the spirit," he
praises, brows furrowed tight, mouth gaping when the finger probes deeper.
"Do you like it like this?"
Dean squints through his lashes, digs his one hand into the pillows and the
other one into Mr Novak's neck. "What?" he breathes.
"Do you like it, Dean? When I do it like this?" Mr Novak looks like he's losing
his mind right now, all dumb and love-struck and it's so innocent it makes Dean
want to punch it all out of his face. Their noses meet and suddenly Mr Novak's
hand is on the back of his neck, between pillows and flesh, and Dean feels
trapped in so many ways he doesn't know where to start kicking and screaming
against.
"I- I don-" I've never been asked this question before so what the fuck do you
expect me to say now?"J-just- Just do what you want, man, I don't care; just-
" He wants to bite off his tongue. Panic ties up his chest. The bruise pulses
deeply. The look on Mr Novak's face tells him he has to change directions or-
"Just fuck me, please. Need your dick, Mr Novak." Needy-bitch-voice is even
better than bed-voice, he figures, and humps back onto Mr Novak's finger. The
man's face melts again and Dean manages a relieved smile he hopes maybe somehow
looks at least the tiniest bit of sexy. "Please, make me wet, Mr Novak."
It does the trick, of course it does. Suddenly, it barely takes a few seconds
between being fingered with only one digit in the worst and unexperienced way
ever and then rimmed so deep and enthusiastically his cock almost decides to
fill up again, but in the end doesn't, can't, with Dean's brain reminding him
over and over again of how dad loves to do this for ages and ages until Dean
has no feeling left in his legs because he has to hold them up the entire time.
He does it now as well, which isn't of any help for him but Mr Novak seems to
like him needy and slutty, so this'll do.
Moans are played off like in a cheap porn production, at least it feels like
that for Dean, but of course he knows his show is nowhere near cheap, knows
even without Mr Novak practically jumping him after a few minutes and even
fewer well-placed and -played "oh"'s and "mmmh"'s and "fuck"'s. Dean would
laugh but he's afraid it will involuntarily turn into a sobbing feast instead.
"Put it in, please," he mewls in between his own knees, cheeks red not from
arousal but exertion, but Mr Novak could never tell the difference.
The guy's shaking like a pile of leaves like Dean's some celestial epitome or
some shit like that. Like a good, good boy, he gasps and whines when Mr Novak
starts pushing in, holds their eye contact, rolls his hips so the tip dips
deeper, clenches his muscles with intention. Tries hard and harder not to think
about the fact that Mr Novak looks down on him so very in love and desperately
just like Sam always does - but fails.
This should be fun. He should be enjoying this; watching this man fall apart
and throwing his morals into the trash just for him and by his command only.
But he doesn't. And that fucking hurts.
He drifts off a few minutes into the act, plays his role like he knows he's
supposed to, like Mr Novak wants to see him, how They want to see him. Good and
horny and yes, you like that, don't you? - yes, yes I do, please, more, deeper,
fuck, yes. It's yes, always yes. Give it all, keep nothing for yourself.
"Please come inside me, Mr Novak, p-please cream me up real good," he whines
through sharp slaps, wraps his arms around half-back and -neck, pulls him in
close, buries his nose in sweaty, coffee-y, book-y, Novak-y skin and hair and
listens to him come undone for the third time. Three times' a charm, they say.
Buried underneath a sweaty, loose body once again, Dean doesn't even feel the
fist-thick bruise being crushed.
===============================================================================
Mr Novak falls back to sleep soon after it. Quietly, Dean picks up his shorts
and underwear, pulls it up and leaves, doesn't look back, doesn't even visit
the room with all the pretty books, doesn't run his finger over them like he
had planned to.
It didn't work. Okay. Time to get over it, Winchester. It's okay. Next time,
it'll be different. Don't cry. Don't fucking cry. You'll find a way. One
fucking day, you will. Fucking. Make it.
The sun is blinding, the heat sizzling outside. A wave of sweat pours from Dean
immediately and he's happy he'll have to shower very neatly anyway before doing
anything else. And hand-wash these clothes, oh man, why did that stuff have to
be so damn sticky, nature, huh? He feels it running down his thighs and chooses
to ignore it.
Big steps take him to his own house fast and easy. He lets himself in. Sighs
when he closes the door behind him, lets his forehead rest against it for a few
seconds, savors its coolness against his burning skin. Maybe he'll jump into
the pool after this. Or maybe even shower on the coldest setting. Yeah. That'd
be a nice thing to do, actually.
"Dean?"
His heart stops beating.
"Dean, 's that you?"
Feeling in his limbs is forgotten, but he runs, upstairs, upstairs; oh God, how
had he not heard the car roll up the street?; just make it to the bathroom-
John gets him by the ankle and he crashes down face-first. The stairs' edges
are sharp and pain lights his face up like fire. Trying to break free, he
tastes iron on his tongue, screams, grabs at what won't hold him, sobs and
shakes in John's vice like grip once they're chest to back.
"I decide to look after you in my lunch break and this is what I-" The growl in
his father's voice is terrifying by itself but Dean knows, just knows John just
now took a real look at him, smells the foreign scents on him; practically
hears the pieces click together in his damned, way too fast brain. "Dean. What.
What in the-"
John decides to stop talking and just breathes into Dean's neck.
"Please," his son sobs, "Please, daddy, please, I'm sorry, please, please
don't!"
The kid doesn't know what he's begging for and neither does John. It doesn't
really matter, actually, because both of them know John can't be stopped from
anything he puts his mind to.
It's one single cry from when John picks his son up over his shoulder up to
when he throws him into his bedroom.
The door clicks shut behind them with cruel calmness.
===============================================================================
It's a nice neighborhood. Friendly people. Many families. Quiet. Peaceful.
Houses number seventeen and eighteen haven't been touched or entered for a
handful of days, but the saleslady won't come check until another few.
Two empty houses, one with still a big mortgage to pay off and the other one
with yet four rents in advance. She'll miss this tenant. Always so dutiful with
his payments. He even left the beautiful BMW behind, only took his boys and
that old but somehow charming black car with him, some neighbors say.
About the house owner of number seventeen, she doesn't know too much. Maybe
he's visiting his family or something. He couldn't possibly have left with the
Winchesters; Mrs Bigsby is very sure she'd only seen three people get in the
car.
She won't be too happy about all the blood, though. But blood-stains can be
fixed - just replace the furniture and paint the walls and it's all new. At
least there are no bodies.
If she'd look real close, she'd find a chunk of a tooth on top of the stairs.
But she probably won't.
It's a nice neighborhood. Friendly people. Many families. Quiet. Peaceful.
It had never really been their home.
Please drop_by_the_archive_and_comment to let the author know if you enjoyed
their work!