briarwood: (SPN JohnDean)
Morgan Briarwood ([personal profile] briarwood) wrote2006-09-04 05:41 pm

Fic: Not Exactly The Bradys (Part Three) (Adult)

TITLE: Not Exactly The Bradys (Chapter 3 of 3)
FANDOM: Supernatural
RATING: Adults Only
PAIRING: John/Dean.
SPOILERS: None. Well, maybe sort of vague spoilers for the pilot.
WARNINGS: Blood, death, sex...nothing you shouldn't expect, really.
DISCLAIMER: I don't own the Winchesters or Supernatural. If you were under the impression I might, I can do you a great deal on the Golden Gate Bridge...
SUMMARY: In the Winchester house, when things go bump in the night, it's best to have a gun under your pillow.
NOTES: Set pre-series: Dean is 18, Sam 14.


Not Exactly The Bradys

Chapter 3: John

2.41 am

John Winchester's jeans were still caked with dirt and blood. He could smell it, stale blood like an evil presence in the room. He was wearing a clean sweater which covered the fifteen or so wounds across his arms and chest, but there was drying blood in his hair and streaked across his face. It was a woman's blood. A woman he had killed. Accidentally, probably unavoidably, but even so, his hand wielded the knife that cut her throat.

John lifted the glass to his lips and drank, feeling the scotch burn down his throat. Tonight, the drink wasn't going to help much.

Dean crossed the kitchen again, this time to take a beer from the refrigerator. John, watching him, wanted to tell his eldest son to go and get dressed. Dean was a fearsome sight with blood drying on his arms and bare chest. He still wore nothing but the pyjama pants he'd been sleeping in when John woke him. He didn't seem to notice or care. None of the blood clinging to Dean's skin was Dean's, and for that, at least, John was grateful.

Dean passed the beer bottle from one hand to the other, restlessly. He opened a drawer and scrabbled inside, finally extracting a bottle opener. John knew Dean didn't really want that beer; he just needed something to do with his hands.

Dean turned his back on John, setting the beer bottle on the work surface and lifting the bottle opener. John stood up and felt sudden stabbing pain as the movement flexed his injured muscles. Pain was good. Pain meant his body hadn't absorbed too much of the poison from those spines.

Dean was having trouble opening the beer. He dropped the bottle opener with a clatter and swore under his breath. He tried again.

John reached his son's side and laid a reassuring hand on his shoulder. "Dean, it's okay," he said. Words to comfort a child, not a man and he knew he'd misspoken as soon as the words left his mouth.

Dean abandoned the bottle and turned to face John; John had to let his hand drop and take a step back to give Dean some space.

"I know what you're feeling," John tried.

A not-unexpected anger flashed into Dean's eyes, quickly stifled by what looked like guilt. He shook his head. "No, you don't."

In this, Dean was like any other eighteen year old; he thought he was the only man who'd ever felt what he was feeling. John remembered - an old memory, this one, but still too-vivid - a day of blood and fire in Vietnam, a day that ended with John stumbling back into the barracks with the stink of smoke and napalm and blood clinging to him. He remembered taking off his watch and becoming fascinated by how very clean his skin was where the strap had been, when the rest of his wrist was stained nearly black with soot and mud and the blood of friends and enemies alike. And he remembered less clearly gazing up through a woven roof into a starlit sky, while a girl who couldn't have been older than fifteen rode his body. He remembered he'd been so drunk that night he could barely make it, but he did. He remembered holding her after, for the few seconds they were alone, an oasis of comfort in a world gone mad.

Dean had seen death before. He had killed before. But he hadn't seen human death and certainly not up close and personal. Not since Mary...

The thought led John to the memory of another hunt gone bad (though not nearly so bad as tonight). He remembered Dean pushing him out of the way of the black dog's attack. They'd been right on the edge of an old quarry and Dean had shoved him way too hard. They both fell over the edge, rolling down a near-vertical slope in a tangle of limbs to end, dusty, bleeding and bruised but both laughing in the bottom of the abandoned quarry. John remembered their laughter turning into something else...

Yeah. He knew exactly what Dean was feeling. He checked his watch. Sanchez had been gone about thirty minutes. "Listen, Dean, Sanchez won't be back for at least another hour. There's about eighty bucks in my wallet. Why don't you take it and take a walk down King Street." King Street was where the prostitutes hung out at night. It wasn't something a father should encourage his son to do, but they weren't exactly an average family and tonight...special circumstances.

Dean's eyes went wide and he stared at John, open-mouthed as he understood what John was suggesting. "I can't believe you just said that!"

John returned his look steadily. Man to man. "It'll help, Dean. Take the edge off what you're feeling."

John wasn't sure what reaction he expected from his son, but it wasn't this quiet, reflective look. It made him nervous. John could face malevolent spirits, demons and monsters, but nothing had as much power to terrify him as his sons.

When Dean moved, it was quite deliberate, his hand coming up to slide beneath John's sweater. Dean's palm felt hot against John's bare skin.

"What are you doing?" John asked. He meant it to sound firm but to his ears his voice sounded breathy, uncertain. He hoped Dean couldn't hear that.

Dean's gaze was confident. The boy (no, not a boy, not any more) had his mother's eyes above a half-smirk, half-smile that was purely Dean's own. John was glad to see that smile. If Dean could still smile after everything John put him through tonight, he was going to be okay.

Then Dean spoke, answering John's question. "Takin' the edge off." His meaning was unmistakeable and it froze John's blood.

This wasn't like the last - and only - time. Then it had been reckless, a sudden, hot need. Then it had been overwhelming, powerful...and mutual. Not until much too late had John truly realised that the man he held, the man kissing him back with a frantic passion to match his own, was his son. His child. This wasn't like that.

John moved Dean's hand away from his skin. "I am your father," he said, gently but firmly.

Dean acknowledged the statement with a tiny nod, but there was a challenging look in his eyes. A look saying Yeah, so what? and somehow managing to make it seem an utterly reasonable question.

"I'm not a kid," Dean asserted, and his fingers twined around John's fingers, his thumb finding the pulse-point in John's wrist and rubbing it, slowly.

"Stop it," John said.

(Oh, god, don't stop...)

He grasped Dean's hand, twisting his arm upward, knowing it would hurt, but not too badly. The pain made Dean gasp. The movement made him move forward, closing the space between their bodies until they stood so close it seemed a mere breath would bring them together. It made John's body heat, and he knew that if they touched, he would be lost.

He felt the bones of Dean's wrist beneath his hand and for a moment he thought about squeezing down, crushing those bones with his strength. He could do it.

Dean winced, but gave no other sign of pain. He licked his lips, and perhaps it was fear but John found the gesture unimaginably erotic, Dean's pink tongue darting out from between his lips, the shine of saliva. Dean's eyes, so much like Mary's eyes, filled John's vision.

"Stop it," he said again.

Dean didn't stop. "I'm not a virgin. I know what I'm doing. I know what I want."

And damn if Dean didn't lean in to him then, forcing John to feel the heat of his body, making him acutely aware of Dean's near-nakedness, firm muscle and smooth flesh. And did it matter so much, really, that Dean was his son? Did anything matter but this? Desire. Need. Lust.

"Dean..." he whispered and had no idea what words were supposed to follow because that was the moment Dean's other hand found John's zipper and slowly, his eyes never leaving John's face, he drew it down.

There was no more than that. Dean didn't try to undo John's belt. He didn't try to touch John, though they both knew he would have found John hard and ready.

He seemed to know there was no need to do any of those things.

What incubus possessed his son that he could undo John so easily?

John released Dean's wrist. He cupped his son's cheek and felt Dean lean into the touch, his gaze still holding John's. John's thumb traced Dean's lips, once, then a second time. The second time Dean opened his mouth, turning his head a little to take the first joint of John's thumb into his mouth. He sucked, and John's cock throbbed with anticipation.

John raised his hands to Dean's bare shoulders, and pushed Dean to his knees.

It was, John told himself as he unbuckled his belt, a test of sorts. He was calling Dean's bluff. But he knew it was a lie. Dean did not bluff. And John didn't much care because the way Dean fell willingly to his knees, the sight of Dean looking up, offering himself was simply intoxicating. Yes, intoxicating was exactly the right word: it was like a drug John had to have, regardless of morality or consequence. In some corner of his mind John knew he was going to regret this, that there would be a price to pay. He didn't care.

Dean's eyes (Mary's eyes) watched every movement of John's hands. The belt was open. He undid the button. He slid his hand inside to pull out his cock. He was already hard as a rock, just anticipating having Dean's mouth on him. But he couldn't say it. He could not give this order.

Dean raised himself up on his knees, bringing his face close to John's groin. That confident half-smile returned. He wrapped his hand around John's cock, leaning even closer and closing his eyes. Dean rubbed his face along the hard flesh and the feel of his rough, unshaven cheek across so-sensitive skin drew a gasp from John. Dean looked up at him, smiling. Pleased. He looked like the cat that got the cream...and John was the cream.

Holy god...

One day, John thought, Dean was going to understand just how powerful he was. One day he would learn that his charm was good for more than mere pleasure. He would wield that smile as a weapon, and it would be devastating. One day.

Now, tonight, there was only this...and it was more than enough to weaken John's knees and set his heart pounding with an anticipation that was very close to being fear. Fear of his own son. Dear, god, what have I created?

Dean wet his lips, making sure John could see him do it, and took John into his mouth. The sensation was exquisite. A thought flashed through John's mind that Dean had done this before. No one could be this good on natural talent alone. But he pushed that thought away, not wanting to know who else might have seen his son like this, wanton and teasing, on his knees.

John laid his hand on Dean's head, ruffling fingers through his hair. He could feel the blood drying there, sticky against his fingers. His other hand clenched into a fist. He fought to stay in control and let this happen slowly. He wanted to take Dean, rough and hard. He wanted to fuck the beautiful mouth that was engulfing his dick in heat. John wouldn't do it, but it was there. The desire. The danger.

Dean took him deep into his throat and then drew back, so slowly, the hot, sucking pressure building up until John couldn't bear it. Dean raised his eyes to John's and John saw the pupils dilated with desire, Dean's eyes darkened almost to black. Wanting.

John relaxed into it; the firm pressure of Dean's hand around the root of his cock, the wet heat of his mouth, the long, slow strokes. He let Dean control it, afraid of hurting him, but Dean took him deep and loved it. John's hand gripped Dean's hair convulsively and he knew he was on the edge of losing control. One more touch, one more look, and he would lose it.

"Enough!" John rasped. He pushed Dean away from him, drawing back before he could give in to that dark need to fuck.

Dean's face showed confusion, disappointment.

John fell to his knees beside Dean, and pulled him close, fiercely. Pain pierced his healing wounds but John ignored it. He kissed his son, kissed him the way he wanted to fuck him, hard and demanding, tasting himself in Dean's mouth. That taste almost broke him. Dean's hands gripped John's shoulders, fingers digging into his wounds, reminding him to hold back. He broke away, breathless.

There was no hesitation in Dean. He showed no sign of regret, no sign he knew there was anything wrong in this. His hand slid up, cupping the back of John's neck. His lips formed one word: Please, but no sound came out.

John buried his face in Dean's neck. He kissed his skin, tasting blood and sweat. "Tell me what you want."

And for the first time he felt Dean hesitate. It was only for an instant, but it was enough to make John draw back, searching Dean's face for some sign. Did he want to stop?

Dean took John's hand and guided it to his cock. John rubbed him through the thin cotton and Dean drew in his breath with a hiss. He arched his back, throwing back his head, exposing his throat. There was a word in there somewhere, Dean saying something John couldn't hear.

John pulled Dean's pyjama pants down. He would have taken them off but Dean was still kneeling, making that difficult. But it was enough. "Tell me what you want," John demanded again, making it an order this time.

Dean met his eyes, pleading.

"Say it."

"Fuck me." Dean thrust his cock into John's hand. "Oh, god, please, just do it. Fuck me."

John didn't believe he could have done it without that demand. In his head it was a line that shouldn't be crossed, as if going that far would somehow be more than all that went before. John picked up the closest thing that would work as a lubricant - it happened to be olive oil - and Dean watched him, his expression suddenly solemn.

John wanted to ask Dean if he had done this before, but he didn't. He wasn't sure he could handle the implications of either answer. He poured oil into his hand and held the open bottle out to Dean. "I want to watch you."

Dean's eyes widened, just a little. He hadn't expected that. Then he took the bottle from John. He stood, kicking off the pants, and poured oil onto his hands.

John stroked himself slowly, his eyes riveted on his son's hands as they moved over his tight stomach, sleeking oil over his pubic hair, and his cock. The oil shone under the electric lights and he wanted to take Dean in his mouth, to taste and suck...

Another time, perhaps, because as the thought came into John's head Dean dropped to his knees, turning his back on John. He gave John exactly what he'd asked for: a perfect view of Dean sliding oiled fingers inside himself. Dean groaned softly but not in pain. He pushed in further, twisting his hand until his gasp told John that he'd found that place inside.

John's breath caught in his throat. He couldn't help imagining what Dean felt, what he was doing to himself. John could not wait another moment. He moved closer and Dean shifted onto all fours, his legs apart.

And John knew he was going to hell for this but it didn't matter. It was worth it.

Sliding into Dean was like sliding into heaven. He tried to go slow, but Dean pushed back, trying to hurry him.

John groaned. "No, don't." And when Dean moved beneath him again, "God, Dean, keep still! I won't last."

Dean's soft laughter vibrated through their joined bodies and it was just too much. What control John had left snapped and he drove himself deep, forcing Dean to support much of his weight.

Dean whispered a fierce, "Yessss!" the s-sound drawn out in a long hiss.

John watched the muscles move beneath Dean's skin, a tension matched in his own body. He reached around Dean's shoulder, pulling their bodies close together as he moved inside him, harder, faster, hardly aware that he'd closed his eyes.

He whispered Dean's name over and over against his skin and Dean groaned, "Oh, god," and he came, his cock pulsing in John's hand, his body bucking hard, struggling to stay quiet. A few more strokes and John came too, muffling his cry against Dean's back.

For a few moments they remained still, kneeling on the kitchen floor. John's harsh breathing seemed very loud to him. Then he withdrew himself carefully, and rolled onto his back to fasten his pants.

Dean sat up beside him and suddenly the moment became extremely uncomfortable. In the end, John couldn't avoid that this was his son, his boy.

One more mess to clean up.


9.43 am

John heard the rumble of the Impala's engine outside and set down his scotch, moving over to the living room window. The room was clean now, the different carpet the only sign that anything untoward had taken place. He watched Dean get out of the car and retrieve the laundry sack from the rear seat.

He thought back, then, remembering Dean as a child, before the world changed on them all. He remembered kicking a ball around the yard with his laughing son, and the way Dean would run into his arms when he came home from work. He remembered Dean curled up on a couch between himself and Mary, when she was pregnant with little Sammy, his little hand on her swollen stomach, feeling the baby kick.

He remembered Mary on the nursery ceiling.

He remembered teaching Dean to shoot and the intensity with which his six year old son listened to every instruction. He fired at the practice target with such a serious expression on his face, as if he saw, or imagined, something there which John couldn't see. It was always that way for Dean. He knew how to have fun, but serious came first.

John opened the front door for Dean and took the clean laundry from him.

Dean reported without being asked. "There was no one else at the laundromat, and I got everything clean. Is Sammy up yet?"

It was a reasonable question; Sam was an early riser. But thankfully, not today. "I checked on him about fifteen minutes ago. He was still asleep."

John put the laundry bag away under the staircase - he would sort through it later - and they headed into the kitchen. John noticed that Dean carefully avoided looking into the living room. He couldn't blame Dean for wanting to avoid the memory of the night's carnage, but Dean was going to have to learn to put this stuff aside. John started to gather what he needed to make breakfast.

Dean sat down at the table. John glanced his way, noticing how tired Dean looked. He hadn't had much sleep, but he was young and very resilient. A couple of mugs of coffee and some food, and he'd be good as new.

"How can you eat?" Dean asked.

"I'm hungry," John answered practically. "You should be, too." He turned on the heat and reached for the frying pan. He sighed, feeling awkward suddenly, knowing what he needed to say. "Listen, Dean..."

Dean interrupted him forcefully. "No way. No fucking way." It was a tone John rarely heard from his eldest son. Dean shoved himself up from the table and moved to stand near to John; close, but not touching him. He looked right into John's eyes from inches away, and what John saw in his eyes was anger.

"Dad, how can you be okay with what happened in our living room last night, but not with what we did right here? I've gotta tell you, the other way around makes sense to me!"

John slammed the pan down on the ring. "What happened to Carla is part of what we do. It's a risk we all accept, Dean, a risk I've got to accept again tonight, when Sanchez and I finish that hunt. Do you think it doesn't bother me?"

"I didn't say that. I said what we did bothers you more. And...I just don't get that."

How could Dean not get that? They were father and son. Fathers and sons don't fuck each other. But this was something John already knew about Dean. He remembered Dean's eagerness: no hesitation, no guilt. And if Dean truly didn't understand how wrong it was, then John, as his father, was responsible for that, too.

It was too late to fix it, but John tried, for the last time, to explain. "Dean, we are family. I know you know what that means."

Dean nodded curtly. "Yeah, I know what family means. I'm beginning to wonder if you do." He turned away from John, a sharp movement. Then he looked back over his shoulder. "Dad, you said you knew what I was feeling last night. I don't think you did. I was freaked out by what happened to Carla but..." He threw up his hands, as if he'd run out of words. "Oh, fuck it. You're not going to listen anyway."

Son, have I failed you so badly? John raised a hand toward his son, but Dean never saw the gesture. He let his hand fall and said, "Dean. Tell me what's on your mind."

For a long time, Dean was silent, the tension in his back and shoulders almost screaming. Abruptly, he turned around to face John. "It's not about getting laid, Dad. I don't need to pay for a fuck; that's easy to get for free. But... Dad..." Dean fell silent again, looking down at his boots, and then he looked up, directly into John's eyes. When he spoke, his voice was low and tight, as if every word was being torn out of him. "Sometimes I...I wanna lay down with someone I love. And only you and Sammy are on that list."

Fear ripped through John like lightning. He watched Dean stagger backward before he even realised he'd hit him. Dean looked up at him from the floor, one hand touching his jaw. "What the hell...?"

John offered his hand to help Dean to his feet. After a moment, Dean took his hand warily. John hauled him up. He kept hold of Dean's hand. It was a struggle to keep his voice even. "Don't you ever mention Sammy in the same breath as this."

Fear flickered into Dean's eyes but he didn't answer.

"I mean it, Dean. If you so much as think about touching your brother..."

"I wouldn't! Dude, he's fourteen!" Dean pulled away from John's touch, rubbing at his jaw again.

John wasn't satisfied. "If that's the only thing stopping you, son, we have a problem."

Dean shook his head. "It's not. Dad, I swear, that never crossed my mind. Hell, I know we're a fucked up family but... No. Just no."

John studied him for a moment, searching for some sign of deception. Finally, he relaxed. "Good. Sit down and tell me what you want for breakfast."

Dean pulled out one of the tall chairs and sat down at the breakfast bar. "I couldn't eat, Dad. Just coffee, okay?"

By the time Sam joined them, the scene was as normal as they could manage. John had made coffee for Dean and scrambled eggs and toast for himself and he was sitting at the table with the morning newspaper open in front of him. Dean was drinking his coffee with his back to the breakfast bar: a position that gave him a view of the stairs.

"Sammy!" Dean called, alerting John.

Sam appeared in the doorway. He was dressed for training, which surprised John a little: Sam had been talking about some football game that was supposed to happen today.

Dean grinned at his brother, the smile a little too bright. "Morning, Sammy. You want scrambled egg or Wheaties?"

John raised the newspaper, pretending to read.

"Wheaties," Sam answered, dragging out a chair with a loud scrape and sitting down at the table. "What's going on today?"

John folded his newspaper. "I have to meet someone, so Dean's going to take you shooting. After that, you can please yourself today. Suits?"

Sam smiled. "Yes, sir."

He would probably talk Dean into ending training early so he could go to his football game. Well, today Dean deserved the break. Was Sammy playing or watching? John couldn't remember. He would have to ask...later.

First, there was a hunt to finish.

The End


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