Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/272638.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Rape/Non-Con, Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Supernatural
  Relationship:
      Dean_Winchester/John_Winchester, Dean_Winchester/Other(s)
  Character:
      Dean_Winchester, John_Winchester
  Additional Tags:
      Community:_kink_bingo, Community:_spnkink_meme, Forced_Prostitution,
      Drugged_Sex, Fear, Parent/Child_Incest
  Stats:
      Published: 2011-11-04 Words: 1320
****** this sight belongs to you ******
by rosereddawn
Summary
     Here's a thought to mull over: that someone might want a part of him.
Notes
See the end of the work for notes
It’s always dark in these places. A kind darkness that comes down on him with
soft hands, soft unyielding hands, pulling him into a tight embrace before it
sinks into his skin. It’s in his blood, numb, humming little lullabies. Quiet
now, Dean. Shush now. Mumbles like the water, a song to pull him under.
And fear is the monster that hunts in the depths, a spell-bound creature off
the hook. It gets so hard to fend it off. He should be good at it, shouldn’t be
scared. After all, he’s known fear so long that they walked side by side,
holding hands in the long nights, playing childhood games with their companions
named hunger and sawed-off. Lived with it so long, he’s outgrown it. Shed its
cold skin every time he heard the car roll into the parking lot, a low,
welcoming thunder, and then the door opened and Dad came in and took it from
him, this shameful, unnecessary fear.
There is no need for it. None. And yet, under his sternum, between his lungs,
there it sits, the heart with its sluggish beat just out of reach.
Dad takes him in his hands now, whole, all of him. Takes the fear and takes him
too and later will give pieces of him away. Whoever pays, can have a little,
and there’s a thought to mull over. Tastes sour like lemons, fresh in the
water: that someone might want a little of him.
Is it pride, the pinprick in his heart?
One hand held by Dad and the other bitten by fear, they’re pulling him down,
past the staircase and past the padded door that opens with greed, and further
down to where the air curls thick with noise and smoke. Rays of light flash
their teeth-stained laughter near the bar, neon blue and red, shrill as the
shrieks of silver-pierced sirens, but down by the seats, it’s dull. A dim,
reddish dusk that lasts all night, and he’s grateful for it.
Quiet now. Hush now.
Dad strips him down to his sour, cold skin. Turns him round with sure hands,
once, twice, not unlike all the times they were sparring, only that Dad’s
attention isn’t focused on him this time because there, in the shadows, they
hide. It’s the night that brings them out, all these creatures that need
hunting. It’s from the cracks and mirrors that they watch, things that cannot
move in daylight, so they try and dodge the righteous bullet in the strips
between the light. Heavy, sure bullets that Dean knows how to fire. He knows
how to strip a gun blindfolded and put it back together, how to load it, cock
it, shoot and not to miss.
That's a thought of comfort he tries to hold on to, thinking of bullets ripping
into chests and blood spilling wild like a fountain, and Dad’s approval for
every right shot, but something about it makes bile rise up his throat and he
struggles to shove the image away.
Darkness is crawling up his naked thighs to where the skin is so thin. That’s a
part of him they like. Blood shoots so easily to the surface. Dad knows too.
When he pulls Dean on his lap, he makes sure that Dean’s legs fall open, calves
and feet dangling over the outside of Dad’s knees. His back rests against Dad’s
chest, against the flannel with those little buttons, hard rounded edges, and
he’s breathing in quick, hasty gulps.
He’s not little anymore. He shouldn’t be scared of the dark, much less of this,
all this, hands and eyes and Dad’s breath against his neck. Shouldn’t. He wants
to lock the fear in its cage, in a heavy steel cage, a weight in his chest to
pull him down, down, down to where the lullabies tip-toe from acoustic guitars
and lipstick mouths, a shushed song like water. He won’t think no more, just
float below the surface and wait for it happen, wait for it to pass.
“Look at me, pretty eyes,” a voice says. Dean has a hard time making sense of
the words, but then it’s Dad’s voice in his ear - “Open your eyes, son” - and
Dean does. Opens his eyes, and at the same time pulls down the darkness like a
lizard’s lid, peeks inwards from his shimmery wet hiding place.
“How much?” he hears. It’s not the first time he’s here. He doesn’t need to
understand each word to know what these hurried whispers make happen. Damp
palms hand over bills after bills before they reach for his skin. There’s a
trembling sigh as they settle. One, two, three, some soft and some rougher,
some touches split into the scratch of four nails along his ribs, some just a
fingertip dragging across his bottom lip, some so wide they span his stomach
side to side. Shy hands stroke his hair and down his neck like they’re touching
something precious. All these hands, too many to keep track, turn into
background noise as his attention is hauled through his body, from the tickled
inside of his thighs to a sharp sting in his earlobe to an impatient finger
pushing past his lips, spreading salt on his tongue.
“It’ll cost,” he hears, followed by a back and forth, sealed with teeth gracing
his nipples, foreign mouths sucking on them, warm and wet.
His back’s arching, all muscles taut, every breath carrying whimpers and moans.
"How you like that, little whore?" and he’s not sure if he does, not sure if
that isn’t a flinch under his skin, but his cock’s hard, so some whorish part
inside of him must. He’s just right for this, loves it so much, such a natural
slut. Maybe he could dismiss all these tattered words if it weren’t for Dad who
brings him here, who knows him best, who knows what he’s good for. Such a
pretty whore, so hungry for it. Must be true.
His arms are pulled out to the sides so a nose can push into his arm pit,
sniffing, and tongues lick over the soles of his feet, and hungry mouths suck
and swallow his fingers while his own throat’s stuffed full. And all these
hands that touch him, every inch of him, like there’s no part of him, not one,
that couldn’t be sold and given.
“Don’t be shy, pretty boy. Come on, open up.”
It’s not enough, his skin. They want to get under it, push inside of him and
find every little bit that he might hide. No secrecy permitted. For the length
of a heartbeat, he’s struggling, panic burning bright, before Dad’s sharp order
puts him back in place.
He opens. He lets them in. He admits to himself that this wet greed is
pleasure; can’t be any other way. Their hunger to have him inside and out
proves his little worth, shining the brightest in debasement. This is where
Dad’s proud of him. He can hear it in his quickened breaths, little sounds that
make Dean want to curl away, but where is there to go?
Only more hands and more groaning mouths and if it weren’t for Dad, they’d
surely rip him apart now, devour the pieces they paid for with foaming mouths
like hyenas. He’s shaking and calling for Dad, begging, because fear’s bitten
right into his flesh, but it only spurs their appetite, and Dad breathes so
fast, like he’s been running, and his beard scratches across Dean’s neck, and
his wet mouth too.
Dean squeezes his eyes shut. He keeps them shut real tight until it’s dark. And
there, in the darkness, he finds a quiet place like shelter, where the sounds
give way to a lullaby. Every touch, every bite, every finger pushing into him
fades far, far away, and he will lie down in the darkness and sleep, waiting
for the tide to pass.
End Notes
     Original prompt at the spnkink_meme asked for "a drugged Dean naked
     on John's lap in a club setting where others pay to touch him." Title
     is a line from the Portishead song "Strangers." Thanks to go
     reapertownusa and painted_pain for beta-reading.
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