FIC: Thin Ice (Adult)

[briarwood]

TITLE: Thin Ice
RATING: Adults Only
FANDOM: Supernatural
PAIRING: Dean/John
WARNINGS: See pairing - that's all you need to know.
SUMMARY: Missing scene from Dead Man's Blood
NOTES: Written for the "Get John Laid" challenge over at papawinchester. I'll be honest and admit this fic is more about Dean and Sam than it is about John, but it does involve John getting laid, so in the spirit of the challenge, here it is. The Sam-POV part of this story has been sitting in my "maybe" file for a while. I kept expecting it to go somewhere, but apparently it's not going to, so I thought I could rewrite it as a "missing scene", and I ended up with this. In the episode DMB, both of the brothers seem pleased to see John when he first shows up. That's at night. The following morning, Sam is very pissed off with John and even knowing that those two have some major issues with each other, Sam's anger seems excessive to me, under the circumstances. So this fic, just maybe, goes some way toward explaining it.
DISCLAIMER: I own nothing, 'kay? No, seriously.

---

THIN ICE

Dean sat on the edge of the motel bed. The only light came from the window: the orange glow of the electric lights outside. In that light, Sam's body was just a dark shape beneath the covers. Dean sat still for a while, listening to his brother's breathing. Finally, when he was sure Sam was sound asleep, Dean slipped quietly out of the room.

The winter air was cold and Dean wasn't wearing a coat. He shivered involuntarily, but he would not be out in the cold for long. He crossed the parking lot, glancing toward the Impala automatically as he walked (she was fine). He was surprised to find the door to his father's room unlocked. He was not surprised to hear a gun cock as he turned the handle.

"Hold fire, Dad, it's me," Dean said quietly.

The light came on and Dean waited in the doorway until John set down the .38. Then he stepped into the room, closing the door behind him. He looked around. He saw papers pinned to the walls: newspaper cuttings, photocopies, pictures, notes scribbled on hotel stationary from half a dozen states. Dean knew his Dad's methods and had seen similar displays before...but never quite like this. It took weeks or even months for John to accumulate this much paperwork. Either John had been staying here for a while, or this display had nothing to do with the vampires they were hunting.

"Whoa," Dean whispered.

John was sitting on the bed, a silent radio on the nightstand beside him. Dean recognised the radio: he was monitoring the police bands.

"Dean, is everything okay? Where's your brother?"

"Everything's fine," Dean answered quickly. "Sammy's sleepin'." He walked over to the bed and sat down beside John. "I just thought...you know...it's been a long time, Dad..."

John was silent for a moment, and then he smiled. "Yeah, it has." He looked at Dean.

Dean waited. He would not make the next move himself. Not this time. Too much had happened in the past year; too much had changed.

John was still smiling. "I was hoping you'd come, Dean."

A tension eased that Dean hadn't realised he was carrying. He returned his dad's smile. "Yeah?" He began to strip off his t-shirt.

John's smile faded. "Dean, no."

Dean balled the t-shirt up in his lap and leaned back on the bed, resting his shoulders against the wall. "Why not?"

"What happens when your brother wakes up and finds you gone?"

Dean shrugged. "He'll think I'm out cruisin' for a hook-up and go right back to sleep."

"That happen a lot?" There was a different look in John's eyes with the question.

It was a loaded one, Dean thought, but he answered honestly. "Often enough." He met his dad's eyes and for the first time felt uncertain about being there. He took a breath. "Look, I'll go if you want me to go. I just thought that, after...everything, you'd need..."

Abruptly, John stood. He walked over to the motel room door and for a moment Dean thought he was going to walk out. But instead, John locked the door.

"Dean. Shut up and strip."

Dean's mouth fell open at the order, but he stood and started undoing his belt. It surprised him because John never made a move so quickly. He always made Dean wait. He'd talk around what they both wanted, lecture Dean about weapons or discuss the next hunt.

Dean came to John's room for this. He'd listened to every word his Dad said to him and Sam that night. He'd heard the weight of sorrow in John's voice when he spoke of Daniel Elkins. Dean understood, perhaps more than Sam, what that meant. He knew his dad was hurting tonight and he knew he could help.

There was a strange expression on John's face as he watched Dean undress, as if it wasn't exactly Dean he was seeing. Dean folded his jeans and laid them on the floor then straightened, hooking his thumbs into his underpants. He pushed them down to his ankles, stepped out of them and stood before his father. His lover.

"I thought...maybe this was why you left."

John nodded slowly. "I knew you'd think that."

Nervously, Dean asked, "Was it?"

"No." John was still standing by the door. "I left because I picked up this demon's trail, and I hoped you'd do exactly what you did. Find your brother."

"You could have just told me that."

"I told you as much as I could, Dean."

Dean nodded, because he didn't want to talk about it. John had left him a voicemail; it wasn't his fault that there was so much EVP on the damned thing Dean couldn't make out more than every sixth word. He left his clothing where it was and walked toward his father.

Four years, he and his father hunted together: a team, a family. Four years, after Sam left them. Dean had driven Sam to Palo Alto. He stuck around for two nights, just in case Sammy changed his mind, and then he drove home, or, rather, to the town that was "home" for them that month. It was past midnight when he reached the house and he found the place quiet and cold. He'd undressed and crawled into his father's bed, desperate for the warmth of a human body and too damn tired to go out and work for it. John asked him a single question. Dean answered it. And without either of them speaking again, his father made love to him.

It wasn't the first time, but it was rare before Sammy left. That first night when Dean returned from Palo Alto alone marked the change. What had been a seldom thing, furtive nights marked by guilt and shame, became something new. Something real.

Not until four years later, when John went missing, did Dean understand that his dad had been afraid Dean would stay with Sam.

Now, a year after that understanding came to him, Dean walked toward his dad, nude and willing. Ready for whatever his father needed.

*****

John watched Dean walk toward him. He had both wanted Dean to come to him tonight and dreaded his coming. He could never refuse Dean, but this night there was no thought of refusal in his mind. Dean was as seductive as ever, his cock half hard as he walked across the room.

He met Dean partway, reaching for him without saying another word. He ran his hands up Dean's bare arms to his shoulders and then his neck, fingers tracing the tendons. He found a scar that wasn't there before. He explored the scarred skin, just a slight ridge beneath John's fingertips but it was a bad place to be cut. John wondered how bad the wound had been.

"Blackwater Ridge," Dean said quietly, answering John's unspoken question.

"You get whatever did it?"

Dean grinned. "Extra crispy."

Good, John thought with satisfaction. He ducked his head and kissed the barely visible scar. He could see others on Dean's body and the sight was a knife in John's heart. If Dean kept up this pace, he was going to die young. And yet, Dean had found his vocation in the hunt. John wouldn't want to take that from him.

All it takes is one bad day, Johnny. Sooner or later, even the best of us has a bad day. You want to leave those boys alone?

Goddammit, was Daniel's voice gonna haunt him now?

"Dad?"

"Son."

Dean reached out to him, beginning to unbutton John's shirt. "You've got some new scars yourself."

"I guess I have."

"Are we goin' to bed? 'Cause I'm gettin' cold, and that ain't good for..."

John laughed; he couldn't help himself. Oh, thank you. I didn't think there was any laughter in me tonight. He drew Dean into his arms. Dean came willingly, even eagerly. It was exactly what John needed. He kissed Dean and started to undress.

Moments later they were naked together on the bed. Dean had complained of the cold but John didn't feel it. Dean's body was heat enough.

And then Dean was above him, kissing a path down John's body. Teeth scraped his nipple and John arched into the touch. God, he had missed this! Dean's tongue laid down wet trails on his skin. John held Dean's head to him, running his fingers through Dean's short hair.

Dean moved lower, licking around John's navel. The air was cool, the wetness chilling John's skin just a little - just enough to be a delicious counterpoint to the heat of Dean's tongue. John looked down to watch what Dean was doing to him and saw Dean glance up, as if asking permission, before his fingers curled around the base of John's cock and he closed his lips over the swollen tip of him. The touch tore a gasp from John. He felt a familiar disorientation at the way this could feel so right, yet be so wrong.

He reached down to his son. "Dean," he began, but his voice came out a bare whisper. "Dean, wait."

Dean looked up at him.

"Come up here," John said. "I want to do that for you."

Dean smiled and crawled up the bed. He moved slowly, rubbing his body over John's, making sure John felt every inch of him. And John felt it. Oh, yes! He grasped Dean's shoulders and rolled them over so Dean was beneath him. Now it was he who teased Dean with lips and tongue and teeth, leaving a faint bruise on his collarbone, an imprint of his teeth on Dean's stomach. He loved the moans and half-spoken words that spilled from Dean's lips.

When he took Dean into his mouth Dean cried out sharply, "Fuck!" and thrust into him, balling his fists into the comforter.

John raised his head. "No. Don't move," he instructed and heard Dean groan, his fists tightening. He savoured Dean's struggle to obey as much as he savoured the taste of the hard flesh in his mouth. He rolled his tongue around the head of Dean's dick and felt his muscles shake with the tension as he fought the need to thrust. To fuck.

John slid his arms beneath Dean's thighs, curling his hands around Dean's hips to hold him down. The position allowed him to take Dean deep into his throat.

Dean writhed, fighting John's strength. "Oh, god...fuck...oh, please..."

Dean was so close to losing control and it was the most arousing sound John knew. Pure need, pure sex. It made him want to hear more, want to make the moment last as long as possible. When Dean came, filling John's mouth with his bitter cream, it was John's name he cried out.

How could something that felt so good, be wrong?

*****

There was nothing but country music playing on the jukebox in the corner and the air was thick with cigarette smoke. Sam stared at the glass of Jack Daniels on the bar in front of him. It was his third. He lifted the glass and drained it in one gulp. The alcohol burned his throat and he breathed deeply of the smoky air, wondering how many more it would take until he didn't care any more. Or until he passed out. Sam was happy to settle for either.

"Another," he said to the barmaid as she passed him. She was in her 40s, a motherly woman with sunflowers on her blouse and a kindly smile. She took the glass from him but didn't turn to refill it.

"Are you driving, son?" she asked him, concern written large in her eyes.

Son. It made Sam look up unhappily.

"If you've got a car outside, I'm gonna have to ask for your keys. You could get hurt."

"I walked from the motel down the road. Could I please have another drink?"

Her look was disapproving but she refilled his glass. Sam paid for the drink without speaking again. His cell phone rang. He pulled it out of his pocket, glanced at the display, saw that it was Dean and turned the phone off.

"Are you okay, son?" the barmaid asked him gently.

Sam shook his head. He didn't feel like talking. "Family stuff," he said curtly.

She didn't take the hint. "You don't look old enough to have a cheating wife or kids playing up."

Sam tossed back his fourth shot of J.D. (Or was it the fifth?) "It would be nice," he told her, "to have normal problems like that." He pushed the empty glass toward her.

She refilled it. "Alright, son, but this is your last. You're going to kill yourself."

"I can handle it," Sam insisted. He picked up the glass, turning a little away from her in the hope that she'd go serve someone else. A movement at the door caught Sam's eye and he looked that way to see Dean walk in. "Fuck." Sam drained the glass and laid some cash on the bar. "Thanks," he told her. He got down from his tall barstool, a little unsteadily.

Before he could stumble, Dean was at his side, grabbing his arm. "Easy, tiger. How much have you drunk?"

Sam snarled at him, "Don't touch me!"

Dean stepped back, raising both hands in a "peace" gesture. "Glad I found you before you did something stupid. C'mon, Sam."

Sam stumbled toward the exit, not caring if Dean followed. As he walked through the door the cold air hit him like a wall of ice and he swayed on his feet. Dean caught him again and led him toward a low wall where Sam could sit. Sam shook off Dean's hand. He sat down not because Dean wanted him to, but because he really couldn't stand for much longer. Dean sat beside him, close enough to catch him if he fell but not too close.

They sat in silence. Sam sure as hell wasn't going to start the conversation. He had no idea what to say. He didn't even know how he felt about this, except that it hurt like hell and he wanted to drink until he passed out and didn't have to feel this way any longer. Until he was no longer thinking about his fucked up family and how impossible all of this was.

A car pulled into the parking lot, its headlights blinding Sam for a moment. A couple got out of the car, holding hands as they walked past the brothers and into the bar. They were both smiling. Happy. The girl looked at Sam as they passed, a look of pity in her eyes.

"Dude, I didn't want you to find out like that."

Dean's words made Sam look at him. But all he could think of was the expression on Dean's face when...

"I was goin' to tell you, Sammy. I should have told you."

Sam laughed and even to his own ears it sounded a little hysterical. "Jesus, Dean. Tell me? How exactly were you gonna tell me that would make this okay?"

Dean shrugged. "You got me there." He looked up at Sam, but Sam couldn't bear to meet his eyes.

"Dude, it's not that big a deal."

Then, Sam did look at him. "Not a big deal? Dean, you had your dick halfway down our father's throat! I know you've got a thing about taking his orders, but, dude, I thought even you would draw the line at 'bend over'!"

Dean was on his feet in an instant. "If you weren't drunk, I'd kick your ass for that." He grabbed the front of Sam's coat, hauling him to his feet. "Come on. Get in the car." He shoved Sam toward the Impala.

Sam lost his balance and grabbed for the side of the car to steady himself, but the car wasn't where his hands thought it was. He missed his grip and fell to all fours. Acid burned the back of his throat and he knew he was about to throw up. His stomach spasmed and he vomited up most of what he'd drunk. He felt Dean's hands on his shoulders, urging him up.

"C'mon, Sammy. I'm taking you home."

Sam shook off Dean's touch angrily.

"Don't be a jerk. Dude, where else are you gonna go tonight?" Dean opened the car door and pushed Sam toward it. Sam obeyed sullenly, climbing into the Impala. He thought - a petty thought - that it would serve Dean right if he were sick again.

He wasn't sick. Dean said nothing on the short drive back to the motel. He parked the car close to their room. When Sam didn't move, Dean walked around to his side of the car, opened the door and hauled Sam out. He half-carried Sam into the motel room. He laid Sam down on the bed.

Sam let him do it because...well, because his head was spinning so much he couldn't really do anything else. It was easier just to let Dean do as he pleased.

For a moment, Dean stood over him. Then he sighed and bent down to take off Sam's boots. "I get it, dude. I know you didn't need the visual tonight. But runnin' off like that when we're in the middle of a hunt..." He dropped the second boot on the floor, moved around the bed and started to sit Sam up, clearly intending to continue undressing him.

Sam pushed him away. "What're you doin'?" he slurred.

"Putting you to bed." Dean got an arm under Sam again, sitting him up. "C'mon, Sammy. Just the coat and the pants and you can sleep it off."

"Why?"

"Because when Dad gets a lead we've gotta be ready to go."

"No. Why?"

Dean stopped, Sam's coat in his hands. "Oh. You mean Dad."

"Yeah."

Dean looked down at him. "It just is, Sammy. We're both okay with it." He sat down on the bed beside Sam. "Dad doesn't know you were there, Sam. I want to keep it that way, you hear me?"

"Fuck you," Sam mumbled. He turned onto his side, giving Dean his back, and closed his eyes.