Fic: Lucem Vocare (Adults Only)

[briarwood]

Title: Lucem Vocare
Fandom: Supernatural
Rating: Adults Only
Pairing: Dean/John
Summary: A sequel to In Vino Veritas - The morning after, John and Dean must deal with the consequences of their sexual encounter.
Warnings: Implied under-age sex (consent open to interpretation).
Note 1: In In Vino Veritas, I deliberately didn't specify Dean's age. Here, I think it's more explicit that he's under sixteen, so if that squicks you, please don't read.
Note 2: I have a third (and maybe a fourth and fifth) story to tell in this sequence. It probably helps to read them in order, but hopefully each will also work as a stand-alone story.

Also posted on AO3: http://archiveofourown.org/works/2476

---

LUCEM VOCARE

John woke and instantly wished he hadn't. Light stabbed into his eyes, the thin curtains no protection from the noon sun. His stomach roiled with nausea. John groaned, rolled over onto his side, and opened his eyes a crack.

He saw a chipped glass on his nightstand half filled with water and a couple of white pills next to it. Dean must have left them, he realised guiltily. Dean shouldn't have to do this.

He swallowed the pills, chased them with water and forced himself to get up. It took him a long time to dress. The jeans folded on the floor of his room were wet and unwearable; John had to rummage blindly through the box beneath the window for clean pants, his eyes squeezed shut against the painful light. Eventually he found the sunglasses he wore when driving and put them on, too. It helped. Dressed, he stumbled out of his bedroom into the empty apartment.

It was good to be alone when he was in this condition. By the time the boys came home from school, he would be back to normal. More or less.

The welcome scent of coffee drifted out from their kitchen. John drew down the kitchen blinds and poured himself a mug of the coffee. Black. No sugar. It tasted terrible, as if it had been stewing for a day or two in the percolator. John drank it anyway. The bitter taste didn't help the nausea much but it did keep him awake.

When he'd finished his second coffee, John checked the cash box he kept under the sink. It was empty. That was odd; John knew for sure he'd come home the night before with money. He pushed the thought aside to deal with when he felt a bit more human.

He wandered over to the couch and turned on the radio.

Not long after, John heard a key in the lock and turned around as Dean appeared, laden down with grocery bags. Two thoughts came to John then: first that this explained the empty cash box and second, Dean was supposed to be at school.

Don't be scared, Dean.

John blinked. Where did that come from? Pushing the errant thought aside, John followed Dean into the kitchen. The caffeine had done its job: John was sober and alert. He felt like crap, but at least he was awake.

Dean dumped the bags on the kitchen table. "Hey, Dad. How are you feelin'?"

John grimaced. "I'll live. Why aren't you in school?"

"I told Sammy to tell 'em I'm sick." Dean started unpacking the groceries he'd bought.

John sighed. He appreciated Dean taking the time to shop for the family, but cutting school was becoming a habit. "We don't need social services calling, Dean..." he began to object.

Dean slammed a tin of potatoes down on the table. "I'm skippin' a day of school so we'll have somethin' to eat tonight and electricity to cook it with. We were on a final demand from the power company, an' do you know you ain't paid the rent this month?"

Rent. Rent for this shithole. The only good thing you could say about this apartment was it was so cold even the rats stayed away. The place wasn't worth the rent. And, yeah, John knew he hadn't paid it.

"There was five hundred bucks in the tin. Don't tell me you spent all of it."

Dean met John's eyes defiantly. "I paid the red bills and bought food. There wasn't enough left to cover the rent." He pulled a handful of cash out of his pocket. "That's what's left."

John stared at the meagre pile of dollars and change. "Damn. Dean, I need ammo."

Dean's look passed from defiant to just plain angry. "Yeah? Well, you drank your ammo fund."

The boy had a point, but John reacted angrily. "Don't take that tone with me. What I do is important, dude."

"More important than feeding Sammy?" Dean challenged.

"No, but it's more important than the rent or paying bills on a place we won't be needing after school ends next week."

Dean looked down, instantly contrite. "Oh, hell. I'm sorry. You didn't tell me we were leaving."

"Maybe I didn't," John conceded. It was done now, anyway. The money was gone. He pulled one of the bags toward him and helped Dean put the groceries away.

They worked in silence, but as John stacked tins and packets in the cupboard he realised Dean was right: the cupboard was almost bare. John had been neglecting his sons. Shame, hot and heavy coiled in his gut. Dean shouldn't have to deal with this. It was one thing to ask Dean to take responsibility while John was hunting; some sacrifices were necessary, they all understood that. But John hadn't found a worthwhile hunt for weeks. He should be taking care of his boys.

John closed the cupboard. "Dean." He waited for Dean to look his way. "I'm sorry. You're right. Come and sit down." He gestured toward the living area and when Dean nodded, John led the way.

They sat down on the threadbare couch. "Money's been tight this year," John explained. "You know I can't take a regular job, and - "

Dean interrupted. "Dad, it's not the money. Last night..."

"I know, but let's deal with the money issue first, okay?"

Dean gave him a look John couldn't read, but he said, "Okay."

"How bad is it, Dean?" John nodded toward the kitchen. "We were low on food. What else do you boys need?"

Dean thought it over. "We're okay, I think. Sammy will need new shoes soon. His sneakers still fit, but the boots are too small for him now."

"And you, son?" John's gaze took in Dean's frayed jeans - maybe that was the fashion for kids this year, but the holes in Dean's shirt weren't for fashion's sake, and his sneakers were worn almost through.

But Dean only shrugged. "I'm good."

You're lying. "Dean, there are other ways I can get money. I've avoided breaking the law when I don't have to because...well, I don't think I'd be caught, but if I were, you and Sammy would be on your own." He looked right at Dean as he spoke, intentionally treating him as an adult, an equal. "Truth, Dean. Are things bad enough to take that risk?"

"No!" Dean said instantly.

"Dean. I said, truth."

Again, Dean's expression turned very serious. "Truth? We could use the money, Dad. But we're managing without it. We can survive a while longer."

John nodded. He wasn't convinced, but he would take Dean at his word for now. He had to pay closer attention in future. "Alright. I suppose there's no point telling you to go to school. Want to help me with the guns?"

Dean hesitated, which was odd. "Yeah, okay," he said without enthusiasm.

---

Dean's mood seemed to improve once the guns were laid out on the table.  His fingers smudged with oil, Dean stripped the Glock with professional skill. John, standing behind him, watched Dean's hands moving over the dark metal with an almost sensual grace. He felt mesmerised.

"Dad, where's the oil?" Dean asked without looking up.

John looked down at the jar of oil in his hand. "Right here." He leaned over Dean to set the jar on the table, coming close enough to feel the radiant heat of Dean's body.

Dean jerked at John's inadvertent touch, dropping the disassembled gun on the table. He moved away from John so fast it was like touching a demon with holy water. The comparison wasn't a pretty one.

John backed off quickly. "Dean, what's wrong?"

Dean stared up at him from the chair. He looked down. Then he stood up, meeting John's eyes with a determined expression that John recognised.

"What's wrong?" Dean repeated, in a voice that said clearly John ought to know. "You hurt me last night, Dad! And I don't mean my feelings!"

John felt the blood drain from his face. I hurt Dean? He'd come home drunk, he knew that, but...

He remembered tripping over something, falling over the couch with Dean beneath him.

John studied Dean, trying to do it unobtrusively. For the first time he noticed the bruise along Dean's jaw, and could tell Dean had tried to hide it by not shaving and smudging his cheek with dirt. Dean's shirt was long-sleeved and he had it buttoned up to the neck. Was he hiding more bruises? Had John hit Dean? Beat him? He looked at the way Dean was standing, his body tense, poised for flight, one fist tightly clenched. Dean's eyes watched John as closely as John was watching him.

"Son...?" John began, but his pride wouldn't let him admit that he was so wasted he couldn't remember.

Dean said nothing, but his eyes accused John without the need for words. John wanted to turn away from that clear gaze, but that would have been cowardice.

"Dean," he tried again, fumbling for the words, "last night I was very drunk..."

"You don't even remember, do you?" Dean demanded. "What were you drinkin'? Roofies? 'Cause that would explain a lot."

Angry words rose to John's lips but he stopped himself with an effort. If he hit Dean when he was drunk, getting angry with him now could only make it worse. John swallowed his pride and confessed the truth. "I was drinking to forget. I've been doing that too much lately. Seems I got what I wished for. Dude, whatever I did..." Words failed him. John shook his head. "Just tell me."

Dean turned away, leaning his hands on the table where the guns were laid out. "You came home soaking wet. I put you to bed. Undressed you so you wouldn't be sleepin' in wet clothes. But you didn't want me to leave." He hunched over the table, his shoulders tense. "Oh, god, Dad, please remember. Don't make me say it."

"Good, son, good," John murmured. He raised himself up a little, withdrawing slowly from the tightness of Dean's ass. He could feel the tension in Dean's body and some part of him knew Dean was hurting. But the greater part of him didn't care. It felt too damned good to stop.

"Dean..." John whispered and thrust again, hard.

John grabbed a chair and sat down before he could fall. He couldn't look at Dean. Oh, no, what have I done? My son.

He stared at the pieces of guns laid out on the table. He picked up an empty box of bullets. Maybe they shouldn't wait for the end of school. Maybe Jim would take the boys for a few weeks and John could... Could what? Find a way to undo it? Impossible.

Dean laid a hand on John's arm. "It's okay, Dad. Really."

John looked up, reluctantly meeting his son's eyes. He didn't want to know, but he had to ask. "How...how were you hurt? I mean, did I...?"

Dean avoided his eyes, but he did answer. "You...um...you didn't want to wait for...I wasn't...um...ready. I guess it was my fault."

And that, finally, reached John. "No," he protested. "Dean, no. Jesus." Oh, God forgive me... He ran a hand through his tousled hair. "Dean, I know I expect you to mind my orders, but...god, not...not about this." He buried his face in his hands. "Not this."

---

John's bedroom had no heater. The walls were cold and damp and the wallpaper was peeling away from the plaster near the ceiling. There was a faint smell of mildew. John sat on the bed. He'd been sitting there for a long time, staring at the crappy wallpaper. He didn't want to believe what he'd done to his son. But, though he didn't recall everything, the flashes he did remember were enough. Dean climbing into bed with him, nude and shivering. Dean coming with John's hand on his cock.

"Don't be scared, Dean."

You bastard. You sick fuck.

Had Dean come to John and told him any other man molested him, John would kill the son of a bitch with neither hesitation nor guilt.

John did worse than molest Dean. What a kind euphemism that was! John raped his own son.

Any man who would do that was as evil as the things John hunted.

He might have gone on like that for hours more, his thoughts spiralling ever darker, but Dean knocked on his door. He walked in, not waiting for an invitation. He was carrying a steaming mug.

"I made coffee," Dean said, offering the mug to John.

John accepted it. "Thanks," he said quietly.

Dean walked over to the window and sat down on the box under it. "Last night wasn't the first time," he said bluntly.

John's heart sank like lead. "Explain that," he ordered.

"You...uh...you'd come home wasted, sometimes, like last night, and you'd kiss me. A serious kiss, you know?"

"I hear you."

"That's all it ever was, until last night."

John nodded, relieved it wasn't worse. "It won't happen again, Dean." Why hadn't Dean said something sooner? Why didn't he stop John before...

Dean looked directly at him. "I wouldn't mind. I mean, I know you wouldn't have wanted...that...if you weren't drunk...but now we have..."

John almost dropped his untouched coffee. "Get out, Dean. I'm going to pretend you didn't say that."

Dean stood his ground. "I did say it, though. Dad, you told me I don't have to take your orders about this. Well, if it's okay for me to say no, I should be allowed to say yes. I'm sayin' it."

John was speechless. It was the kind of logical argument Sammy might have come up with, but this wasn't Sammy and Dean's choice defied all logic. Of all the responses John might have expected from Dean, this was the last. Dean accused John of hurting him. Why would he change his mind like this?

For a moment, John considered calling Dean's bluff. Only his memory...

"Good, son, good," John murmured. He raised himself up a little, withdrawing slowly from the tightness of Dean's ass. He could feel the tension in Dean's body and knew Dean was hurting. But he couldn't stop.

"Dean..." John whispered and thrust again.

Dean arched his back beneath him, a soft, "Oh!" escaping his lips. John felt Dean's body relax and, relinquishing all restraint, he pounded into his son's ass, thinking only of his own pleasure, his own need.

"Why?" John asked. He had to ask, even though he didn't expect a straight answer.

Dean took a breath to speak, but John was never to find out what he would have said.

At that moment, they both heard the apartment door open. Sammy called, "Dean! Dad?"

---

John did not go out that night. Dean helped John to cook, selecting, John noticed, most of Sammy's favourites. After they finished their meal and everything was cleared away, he took over the table for his work. He laid out a stack of newspapers and read through them for signs of supernatural activity, occasionally cross-referencing an article with something already in his journal.

Meanwhile, the boys took over the couch. With his belly full, Sammy skipped his usual evening ritual of complaining about their lack of a television. He had brought Dean's homework with him from school, but had none of his own. So Sammy curled up on one end of the couch with a library book while Dean alternated between searching for music on the radio and - after a token "Do I have to?" - doing his schoolwork.

By the time the boys finally got tired enough to go to bed, John badly wanted a drink. There was no liquor in the apartment. It was probably just as well; drinking was what got him into this impossible situation.

He had no idea what he could do to fix this, but he knew that whatever he did, his relationship with his boys could never be the same again. He had destroyed something precious.

No more drinking. Not even a beer, until he had it under control.

He was going to need a new source of income, too. Hustling pool and poker wasn't cutting it in this town. John did have other options. There were a few things he could sell if he had to: a couple of amulets that would be worth a lot to the right person. Caleb might help him find a buyer. Or there were less legal possibilities. They would get by. They always did.

But then his thoughts came back to Dean. Dean. Oh, son, what have I done to you?

It wasn't just the sex, though fucking his under-age son was pretty damn unforgivable. What concerned him most was Dean's apparent inability to refuse him. John had always been proud that Dean minded his orders. Whether they were training or in a real crisis John knew he could rely on Dean to do exactly what he was told, even if Dean disagreed with John's decisions. But he needed Dean to think for himself, too. For Dean's own sake, he had to be able to say no.

---

It was past midnight when John, still unpleasantly sober, headed for his own bedroom. The door to the boys' room stood open and John stopped in the doorway. He could hear the boys breathing and, as his eyes adjusted to the darkness, saw Sammy curled up on his side, clutching his blankets close around his neck while he slept. John smiled to himself and glanced toward Dean's bed.

Dean's voice, thick with sleep, came out of the dark. "Dad?"

"Go to sleep, son," John said gently and closed the door quietly as he left.

In his room, John undressed and slid into bed wearing only an old t-shirt. He tried to sleep, but sleep refused to come. In the end, John simply lay there, staring at the ceiling in the dark.

A sound outside the room had John grabbing for the gun under his pillow. He had the gun pointed at the door, safety off, before it swung open.

"It's me, Dad."

Fuck, Dean, I almost shot you! "Go back to bed, Dean."

"Please, Dad."

"Please what?" John put the gun away, shifting his legs to make room for Dean to sit on the bed.

Dean shrugged, as if that were an answer, but sat down where John indicated.

With a chill, John recalled Dean's words earlier:

If it's okay for me to say no, I should be allowed to say yes. I'm sayin' it.

Dean was watching him, but his face was in shadow, preventing John from reading his expression.

It was neither the setting nor the time John would have chosen for this talk. But it was clear he couldn't put it off any longer. He tried to keep his tone neutral when he asked, "Dean, do you...like men?"

Dean's eyes went a little wide. He turned away from John, just a little, but enough that the light from the window illuminated his face. He looked disbelieving. "You asking if I'm queer?"

"I think it's a fair question."

Dean frowned. "Are you?" he asked pointedly.

It was, perhaps, a more complex question than Dean knew, but John answered it simply. "No."

"Me either. I like girls, Dad. But I..." he hesitated, then shrugged. "It's different. It just is."

John sighed. Dean was so very young. A boy his age shouldn't have to grapple with issues like this. "Dude, you're smarter than this. You know we can never - "

"Fuck?" Dean supplied the word defiantly. "We already did."

"I'm sorry."

"No. I don't wanna hear 'sorry'." Dean turned back to John. "Dad...you don't get it, do you?"

John wished he could see Dean's eyes now. As he couldn't, his gaze was drawn to his son's clothing. Dean wore pyjama pants which he'd cut off at the knees to make shorts and a t-shirt that was stretched tight across his shoulders and chest. The t-shirt was old, and too small for Dean now. It made John realise how Dean was growing. His shoulders were broadening and the hard training John demanded of both his boys had given Dean an athletic body that would make many grown men envious. Though his face was still a boy's face, his body was a preview of the man he would soon become. A man John couldn't deny he wanted.

This time he could not blame the whiskey for the rush of blood to his dick. But neither was his judgement compromised by liquor. John would not give in to lust again.

"There's nothing to 'get', Dean." John answered the question after a long silence. "If anyone else did to you what I did last night, I'd kill him. Slowly."

Dean shook his head. "Dad, I ain't gonna let you guilt-trip your way out of this." He patted the blankets beside him. "I was in this bed last night because I chose to be. You..." Dean's voice hitched, just a little, "you needed me, and I..."

Oh, Dean. John moved without thought, drawing Dean into his arms as he had when Dean was a small boy grieving for his mother. Dean made a sound at John's touch and looked up, meeting John's eyes. John saw need in Dean's face. Need and fear of rejection. And love. Oh, god...

John kissed him.

Dean moaned as his lips parted and John forgot all his caution. He forgot everything except the mouth beneath his: the heat of Dean's tongue, teasing, the faint taste of toothpaste. The position they were in: John sitting up in bed, Dean sitting at right-angles to him, his body twisted toward John's, wasn't comfortable for either of them but John couldn't stop. Dean's warm hands slid beneath his t-shirt, and John felt his son's reaction when he realised the t-shirt was all John wore. Dean shifted without breaking the kiss, climbing onto the bed. John lay back, drawing Dean with him so Dean lay half on top of his body, the blankets bunched between their lower bodies, only their clothing keeping their chests apart. Dean tried to push John's t-shirt up with one hand.

Gently, John moved Dean's hand away from his body, finally ending the kiss. "No, Dean," he said firmly.

Dean whispered against his cheek. "Don't say no. Not now." He tried to kiss John again.

John laid his hands on Dean's shoulders and pushed him back. He looked into his son's eyes and said the only thing he could say, the one thing that might make this disaster right again:

"I love you, son." John touched Dean's lips with his fingers to keep him silent. "I love you," he said again. "I can't deny I love you in ways no father should. But Dean, even if I weren't your father, this is wrong."

"So is a lot of what we do," Dean protested.

"Don't split hairs with me. This is different. If you were a few years older, then maybe...but you really don't understand what this would do to us. To all of us, Dean. For Sammy's sake, if nothing else, we must not do this."

Dean sighed and John knew he'd said the right thing. Maybe it was a dirty trick, to use Dean's love for Sammy against him, but John hadn't lied. An incestuous relationship in the family would destroy them all.

Dean moved away from John. "Shit. Dad, Sammy ain't gonna know."

John chuckled softly. "Your brother is curiosity incarnate. You couldn't hide this from him for long. I'm not sure I could."

"You don't play fair," Dean pouted.

"Damn right I don't. Dean, this is the last time I want to discuss this with you. Understand?"

Dean nodded, then sat up once more. He wouldn't look at John as he rolled off the bed and the hunch of his shoulders betrayed his pain, but John did not dare offer comfort. They had reached an understanding, but it was a fragile détente. Time would make it stronger, but until then, no matter how much Dean might be hurting, John had to leave it alone.

"Goodnight, Dean." John softened his voice just enough to make it a suggestion, not an order.

"'Night, Dad."

Without another word, Dean left the room, closing the door quietly.

John lay back on the bed and closed his eyes.

After a few minutes he groaned and pushed the blankets back. He rose and headed for the bathroom where he took a very cold shower.

He couldn't bear the icy water for more than a couple of minutes. The shower relieved John's aching hard-on, but it couldn't dull the memory of Dean's mouth on his. It couldn't take away the sensation of Dean's young, willing body against John's.

John could see a lot of cold showers in his future.

The End (for now)