Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/133777.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Graphic_Depictions_Of_Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Supernatural
  Relationship:
      John_Winchester/Dean_Winchester
  Character:
      John_Winchester, Dean_Winchester
  Additional Tags:
      Incest, Corporal_Punishment, Rape/Non-con_References
  Stats:
      Published: 2010-11-16 Chapters: 2/2 Words: 3895
****** Unwelcome Surprise ******
by run_run_whithertits_(whithertits)
Summary
     John and Dean after Sam ran away to Flagstaff.
***** Chapter 1 *****
This town was supposed to be safe, Dean thought to himself frantically as he
ran back into the living room. He tracked his eyes back and forth, desperate to
see any hiding places he might have missed when he arrived home. "Sammy?!" Dean
called desperately and listened to the silence offered back by the house.
He ran his hands through his hair, pulling at the ends. He shook off what he
could of his nerves and checked the clock. Four hours until Dad was scheduled
to check in-- four hours to find Sammy and bring him back home. If he could
find Sam, at least, maybe he wouldn't even have to fess up to leaving his
brother home alone again for some sick freak or monster to get a hold of.
Dean closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He counted off seconds in his head
until his heartbeat slowed and he could think straight again. First things
first-- make sure Sam was missing, rather than out by himself to the library or
a friend's without bothering to leave a note. They'd been living in Eloy for
over a month: plenty of time for his dweeby brother to make nice with the
locals.
Dean penned a quick note-- STAY PUT back at 9 for da ds call-- just in case Sam
came home. He left the house unlocked with a grimace; Sam's key, forgotten or
abandoned in the bowl, had been the first thing to tip Dean off.
The door and ratty screen slapped shut behind him, hinges screaming at the
abuse. Dad had asked him to oil them, he remembered. One more thing he'd fucked
up.
He jogged down the walkway. He had neighbours to talk to.
***
Even the neighbours who didn't slam the door in his face had been useless. No,
they hadn't seen his brother. Yes, they'd let Dean know if they did see him.
The cat-lady the next block over had offered to call the police, said she had a
nephew who could get the search started early. Dean's stomach had tied itself
in knots at the suggestion, which he quickly refused-- Dad would kill him if he
got the fucking cops involved on top of everything.
The librarian had been better, offering up a near endless prattle about his
brother, gushing as only a short, chubby old lady could, obviously charmed by
Sam's polite, clean-cut nerdiness. She'd been more than happy to tell Dean all
about Sam's visit earlier in the day, when he'd returned all the books he'd had
checked out.
Running home, Dean had felt like an idiot. It hadn't even occurred to him that
Sam, Sammy, would ever pick up and leave his school, skip out on the brief runs
they made at being normal. John had even bothered to get them a house, for
fuck's sake-- they hadn't had a house since before Sammy hit double-digits.
Why the hell would Sammy run away? Dean thought to himself frantically. The sun
was a hand's width from the horizon, beating down bright and harsh.
Dean jerked open the screen and slammed into the house, running into the room
he shared with his brother. The door to the closet was still pulled open from
his initial, desperate search. His own duffle, full of every item he never
wanted to leave behind, was just as he'd left it. Sam's-- a gift from their Dad
when he decided Sam could be trusted to keep up in case of emergency-- was
gone.
The phone rang. It was nine o'clock.
Dean walked out to the living room and picked up the phone, gripping the
receiver in his fist. "Hello?" he said, voice numb.
"Dean," came the growl of his dad's voice from across the line. "How's Sammy?"
A fist closed around Dean's throat, trying to stop him from speaking. "Sir,"
Dean choked out. His hand on the receiver was shaking. "I can't-- Sammy's gone,
sir. He left."
The phone was silent but for his father's breath. "He left?" The question was
incredulous. "When did he leave?"
"I don't know. I came home and he was gone."
"Your school gets out before your brother's, Dean-- so where the hell were
you?"
"I was out, Dad. Sir. I looked, asked around, but no-one has any idea where
he's gone."
"Shut up, Dean. I'm coming home. It'll take me a few hours to find someone to
take over. You are going to stay put, you hear me? Sammy might still come
home."
Dean nodded. "Yes, sir."
The phone clicked dead next to his ear.
***
It was dark by the time John got home. The doors opened quietly and he stood
framed against the dim light of the streetlamp outside. "Dean," he said, as he
stepped through and flipped the switch next to the door. The bare light bulb
overhead sent the room into sharp relief.
Dean was sitting hunched over on the couch, head buried in his hands. Spread
out on the table in front of him was all the paperwork Sam had accumulated in
their time here-- homework, tests, permission slips. His eyes, when he turned
them on his father, were dim and bloodshot. He scrambled to his feet as soon as
he registered John's presence. "Dad," he said, voice hoarse.
John's legs ate up the space between them. His hand snapped out, quick as a
snake, and tangled itself in Dean's hair. He pulled Dean's head forward, grip
tight, forcing Dean's head to chest level, body twisted to accommodate the
awkward position. "Where were you, Dean?" he asked. He used his grip on Dean's
hair to shake him, once, hard. "Sammy gets home after you do-- or he should. So
where were you, Dean?"
"I'm sorry," Dean gasped out, tears welling up. He blinked rapidly to clear the
tears. "I was out-- I was. I was with a girl."
"A girl," John said, voice flat. "You've been leaving your brother alone again
for a girl." He let go of Dean's hair and, almost casual, backhanded Dean
across the face.
Dean twisted with the blow and kept his eyes lowered. "Yes, sir," he said
quietly.
John shoved Dean and watched neutrally as Dean stumbled back a handful of
steps. "Fists up," he said. His fists hung loose at his sides, clenching and
unclenching slowly.
Dean straightened. The side of his face was flushed re d, swelling up lightly
already. He raised his fists into a casual fighting stance and shifted his
stance, ready.
When John swung out with his fists, Dean barely swerved. John's right hook took
him full in the face, colliding hard with his temple. Dean stumbled and took a
clumsy swing at John, a glancing blow that slid off John's shoulder.
"You're getting lazy, Dean," he said. He started jabbing at Dean's torso,
sloppy, hard punches-- markedly different from the near-surgical precision he
used in their training sessions. John's fits collided with Dean's sternum,
stomach, gut and in one breath-stealing shot, his liver. Dean was barely
standing by the end of it, fists still held up as th ough they were going to
fight back.
"You can't even put up a fight." John raked his eyes down Dean's body, taking
in the sweat, the back and forth sway . He snorted and lowered his fists.
"Fine, then. If you won't act like a man, I won't treat you like one. Over the
arm of the couch, pants down."
Dean's eyes widened in shock. "Yes, sir." With shaking hands, he undid his
pants, lowering them and stepping out of the legs. He wasn't wearing anything
underneath.
"Whore," John said to himself, angry. "My first born son is no better than a
whore."
Dean bit his lip and bent over the arm of the couch, awkward. His t-shirt rode
up slightly, leaving his ass completely visible.
John dropped his hands to his belt. He opened it slowly, pulling on the buckle
and guiding the strap through his belt-loops. He folded it over once so he was
gripping both ends in one hand. Without preamble, he brought his arm back and
swung the strap forward. It hit across the skin of Dean's buttocks with a sharp
crack, leaving behind a bright red strip.
His arm rose and fell rhythmically, the loud slapping sound of leather on skin
filling the air. Dean's ass, thighs and back went from the smooth, golden colou
r they started at, past pink, past red, until they had darkened to a dark,
bruised colour, red over bruised dark skin. Blue was fading in on Dean's back
around the deeper edges of red already.
Against the bed, Dean was crying silently. Harsh sobs wracked his body, little
wet breaths smothered into the couch cushions. John could see the snot running
from Dean's nose, mixing with his tears to stain the couch dark. His son looked
painfully young like that, limbs too long and thin, coltish. "Do you have
anything to say for yourself?" he asked.
Before Dean could answer, the phone rang. John looked at his son-- unable to
push himself up out of his snot, let alone answer the phone. He set the belt
down and reached over to pick up the receiver. "Hello?" His voice was slightly
out of breath with the exertion but evened out quickly.
"Hi!" chirped a happy, female voice. "Is Dean there? It's Sarah."
"Sarah," John repeated. He turned his gaze, hard, on his son. "I'm sorry Sarah,
but Dean can't come to phone right now. I'll tell him you called."
"Sure!" came the voice from the receiver, before John settled the phone back in
its cradle.
"Was that the girl you were with, Dean?" he asked. His rage, quelled by the
violence, swelled up in his breast again. "Was that the girl you went out and
whored around with while your brother ran away?"
"Yes," Dean gasped out around his still hitching breaths. "She's-- she's in my
homeroom, her dad owns the grocery store, she lets me--"
"I don't want to hear it," John said, disgusted by Dean's attempt at an excuse.
"I told you to stay here and take care of your brother. You disobeyed and he's
gone. I don't want to hear about how you've been sticking your dick into girls
for the sake of your family. Your family walked out that door and you had no
idea it was happening." He put his hands on the bruised flesh of Dean's ass and
gripped it tight, digging his fingers in. "You try to peddle your ass the same
way you peddle your dick?"
Dean twisted around to stare at John, eyes wide. After a too-long pause, a
quick "No," escaped his lips.
John stilled and loosened his grip for a second. "You have," he breathed out,
shocked. He let his fingers stray into the crease of Dean's ass, wondering.
"Did you turn yourself into a whore while I wasn't looking or have you always
been this way?"
"I didn't-- it wasn't like that," Dean said, the whites showing around his
eyes. He tried to twitch away when John's fingers brushed over his entrance, a
scared whine creeping out from inside his chest.
"My son, the whore," John said, voice distant. He pushed his fingers into his
son's ass, too-hard against the tight skin. When he twisted his fingers, he
could feel his nails catch on the delicate skin of his son's apparently
fuckable ass, but ignored it. He knew where the prostate was-- Mary had been a
firecracker in all the best ways-- and he used that knowledge to find and press
into his son's, hard.
Almost in a trance, John fucked his son on his fingers. It seemed like a dream-
- Sammy gone and Dean here, beaten past red into hurt, his hole clenched like a
vice around John's fingers.
"Daddy, please." Dean's voice broke in on John's thoughts like a clap of
thunder. He dragged his fingers out of Dean's entrance and stumbled back,
nausea rolling his stomach over.
"Put your pants back on," John said finally. He ran a tired hand over his face
and rubbed at his eyes, trying to work out the tension headache he'd been
wracked with since Dean's call. "And for god's sake, put on some underpants."
"'Can't," Dean said, eyes low. "Everything's dirty."
"Then you should have done the laundry, Dean." John kept his eyes off his son
as he dressed. "If you can't handle a simple thing like that, I don't know why
I thought you could handle your brother."
"I'm sorry," Dean let out. A fresh bout of tears squeezed past the slit of his
eyes, dampening his too-long eyelashes. He took a deep, shuddering breath and
opened tear-free eyes. "But I think-- I think I found something."
"What, Dean?" John asked, head tipped back.
"Sammy's class had a day trip a few weeks back, just after we moved here-- you
remember, you had to sign that slip? They went to Flagstaff. They went to that,
that pioneer village thing. I called the bus station; they said a kid matching
Sam's description bought a ticket to Flagstaff." Dean's words tumbled out of
his mouth quickly, almost tripping over themselves in their haste to escape.
"Flagstaff," John muttered to himself. Flagstaff was big-- a whole hell of a
lot bigger than Eloy. "If he's there, we have to leave now. We won't be able to
catch him, but we might be able to find someone who saw him.
"You're driving, Dean. I need to sleep. When I wake up, we're going to find
your brother. You think you can do that, at least?"
Dean practically wilted at John's words. "Yes, sir."
***** Fallout *****
John's entrance made Bones whimper and draw back, ears pressed flat to his head
. Sam curled his left hand into the dog's collar, his right into the scruff at
Bones' neck. He'd always known John would find him. Two weeks-- not bad, all
things considered. His father had never taken that long to find a living,
breathing human being before.
The first thing John did was draw Sam into a quick, hard hug. It would have
been awkward-- Sam had no intention of hugging back-- but John stepped forward,
forcing himself past Sam, into the house.
Dean followed in their father's wake, tired eyes sunk into his pale face. Dean
closed the door quietly. He inspected Sam quickly, relief stark on his face.
"Sammy," he breathed out. His spine straightened and tension visibly fell out
of his shoulders.
Sam shoved aside his feelings of guilt; he'd done what he had to do. Two weeks
he'd lived on his own, free from Dean's over-protective hovering, from John's
orders, from any authority but his own. He'd been fine by himself; he'd cooked,
cleaned and even learned how to work a washing machine. He'd taken care of
Bones. He didn't need his family smothering him.
Bones strained against Sam's grip on his collar, tongue lolling out, tail
wagging slowly back and forth. Sam let the dog go and watched, unsurprised,
when Bones tried to jump all over Dean. Animals always loved his brother.
"Dean," John's voice snapped out. Dean pushed the dog down with gentle, clumsy
hands and turned his attention to their father. "Get Sammy's stuff and put it
in the car. We're going to be back on the road in ten minutes."
"What makes you think I'll go anywhere with you?" Sam asked petulantly. He
watched, heart-sick, as Dean gathered up everything he'd brought with him to
Flagstaff.
"I'm not in the mood for your lip, Sammy." John crossed his arms and glowered.
"You want to explain just what you thought you were doing?"
Sam stuck out his jaw, stubborn. "Does it matter?" he demanded. "Is there any
reason you'd accept?"
John looked down at his son evenly. "No," he admitted. "There isn't. But that
doesn't mean you don't have to tell me exactly what you were thinking. You're
not even a teenager, Sam. Even the government wouldn't let you out on your
own."
"Oh, like you really care what the government thinks," Sam snarked, crossing
his arms over his chest. "You left Dean an d me alone for that long when Dean
was my age."
"Dean's different." John's eyes flickered to Dean for a moment, darkness
clouding his eyes. It faded when John looked back at Sam. "He can take care of
himself."
"And I can't?" Sam demanded, voice climbing with his anger. "What makes Dean so
much better than me, huh?"
"Don't use that tone with me," John said quietly. "I never said Dean was
better, but it's his job to take care of you. He's your big brother; he's
responsible." John looked toward Dean, who was slowly zipping Sam's duffel, dug
out from under the bed, closed. "Or so I thought."
Sam scoffed. "Dean couldn't be any more responsible if he tried."
John sighed. "Why did you leave, Sam? What are you doing here? This isn't your
house-- you can't be going to school.
"I said I was going on vacation," Sam muttered, looking away. "They gave me a
homework assignment I'll have to hand in when we go back."
"Go back?" John actually seemed surprised. "We're not going back, Sam-- you
drew too much attention to us. Dean wasn't subtle-- the whole neighbourhood
knows you went missing." He sighed and ran a hand over the rough stubble on his
face. "You need to realize there are consequences to your actions."
"Consequences?" Sam asked, incredulous. "How is that a consequence? You'd have
just picked up and made us leave as soon as you got back from your stupid
hunt!"
John breathed deep, obviously trying to calm himself. "I just want an answer,
Sammy. Why did you run away?"
"Just answer him, Sam," Dean said quietly. He'd moved over toward the door
while Sam and John were arguing and stood there looking resigned. "If you
answer him, he'll let it go, and we'll leave."
"I don't want to leave, Dean!" Sam exploded, rounding on his brother. "I want
to stay here and live a normal life, be a normal kid! That's why I left-
- because I know I'll never get that with you and Dad running around after
every ghost or monster you hear about! I want to have a home!"
"You have a home," John said firmly. "We're your family. Your home is with us.
If I hear anything about you planning to run off to live a normal life again,
it'll be the last. Now. Get in the car."
Sam scowled at his father. "Fine." He shouldered past his brother on his way
out the door, brushing deliberately hard against John's obedient, perfect son.
Dean grabbed his arm on the way out the door. Sam stared back, unphased, until
Dean brought him in close in a tight huge. "I'm glad you're alright, Sammy,"
Dean whispered into Sam's hair.
The rush of guilt Sam had ignored when he first saw Dean rose up inside his
chest. "I didn't mean to make you worry," Sam muttered back, grudgingly. He
ducked his head and wriggled out of Dean's grasp. He went out to the Impala,
Dean following close behind.
***
John dropped Sam and Dean off at a motel and left to "take care of loose ends".
Sam felt a pang at the thought of Bones going to the pound but let it go. He'd
always known he wouldn’t be allowed to keep Bones for long.
Dean stepped out of the shower, towel wrapped around his waist. He dropped the
towel and tugged his pants on and frowned. "You seen my shirt, Sammy?" he
asked, head scanning the room.
"It's Sam," he said, nose buried in the book of obscure summoning rituals John
was making him read. "And no, I haven't seen your shirt."
Dean frowned and turned back to the bathroom, muttering obscenities. Sam
watched him lazily for a moment, and then frowned. "What happened to your back,
Dean?"
Dean spun around, shock painted clear as day across his face. "Nothing," he
said quickly. He crossed the room to his duffel and pulled on a new shirt,
motions quick.
"I'm not kidding; your back is covered in bruises." Sam's brow furrowed in
confusion. "They look old. Did you and Dad go on a hunt while you were looking
for me?"
"Of course not, Sammy," Dean said. He sat himself on Dad's bed and turned the
television on. "Jenny Jones' is doing a makeover episode, I wanna watch the
hotties."
"Don't change the subject, Dean." Sam closed the book and clambered onto the
other bed, trying to get a grip on Dean's shirt so he could see his brother's
back. "Your whole back is yellow-- it looks like you were thrown into a wall by
a poltergeist!"
"I said it's nothing, S am." Dean shoved Sam's hands off of him and twisted
away, scowling. "I'm fine."
"If you were fine you wouldn't be covered in bruises," Sam pointed out archly.
He crossed his arms and leveled a stare at his brother.
Dean sighed. "It's no big deal, Sam."
"If it weren't a big deal you'd have told me what happened."
Dean's face was a carefully constructed wall of blankness. "He didn't mean any
harm," he said finally, reluctantly.
"He-- you mean Dad?" Sam asked, incredulous. "Dad did this to you? When? Why?"
"It doesn't matter," Dean brushed it off, hand cutting through the air. "He was
angry, he reacted. It was my fault, I should have-- never mind. Sammy, it
doesn't matter."
"Of course it matters, Dean!" Sam cried. "If Dad's shoving you around hard
enough to bruise, that matters!"
Dean sighed. "I was out of line, Sam. End of story."
"It's so typical for you to defend him," Sam said. Anger at his brother burst
to life in his chest and clouded his vision. "He could stick you with a knife
and you'd still be making excuses. That's why I can't stand this family, it's
like I'm living with a fanatic and you're his eager follower! I'm sorry, but I
didn't drink the Kool-Aid and I don't want to be a part of this life."
Dean's eyes stayed trained on the television. "I'm sorry you feel that way," he
said quietly. "Just-- please don't run away again. Even if you're on your own,
you won't be able to live the life you want until you're an adult. So just-
- just wait, okay? It'll get better."
"This isn't because of hormones," Sam snapped out. He shoved himself back on
the pillows next to Dean. They sat in silence and watched a woman-- obviously a
fan of plastic surgery-- confront a man the captions helpfully informed them
was a bully from her high school. "I hate him."
Dean's eyes were closed when Sam looked over. "I know, Sam. He does his best."
"That doesn't make me hate him any less."
"He loves you."
"Well, he has a funny way of showing it then. Why can't we just-- stay put,
Dean? Make real friends? Even Dad has Pastor Jim and Caleb."
"They know the truth, Sammy. That's why Dad trusts them."
"Whatever, Dean." Sam turned over on his side, away from his brother.
Dean was quiet. Then, "I love you too, you know, Sammy."
Sam closed his eyes. "I know, Dean. But that doesn't help anything."
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