Work Text:
There’s nothing good on TV, and Sam’s contemplating killing his father again.
The thoughts are as routine these days as this setup itself. As regular an occurrence as Sam laid out on a couch that smells like balls and stale tobacco, face illuminated by the glow from the screen, the same glow casting shadows over the walls; it's the only light source in the room, because Sam’s known instinctively for a long time that he’s not to turn any on. Not when Dad's just got back from a job; not when Dean's actually combed his hair, when he's wearing his best shirt over a body he's doused in dollar store cologne. Which in itself is easily a bigger effort than he's ever made for any girl.
No - when this happens, Sam is supposed to be invisible. Or maybe just blind, deaf and stupid to what's going on behind the couch. Behind the divider.
It always starts with Dean’s mouth. Sloppy, slick, better at not gagging than he used to be; Dad’s rumbling sighs, falling from a height of content only present in a man getting his dick sucked. And those low, sick murmurs; “good boy, Dean. Just like that.”
And with what’s happening, with what Sam's Dad is doing to his brother right now, Sam isn’t entirely sure anyone could blame him for the kinds of things going through his head. Things like, would it be easy? Could Sam actually execute the whole thing without much of a plan at all, needing nothing but a knife tucked at the small of his back and his years of training in attack smarts? Maybe, if Sam were to catch Dad as drunk as he is now, sweaty-fumbly-piss drunk, he always comes back off a hunt so drunk these days - if Sam were to sneak up on him in this state, with his reflexes shot to hell and his defences muted, well then, screw the knife. Sam could probably do it with his bare hands. Kneel on Dad’s chest with all his weight, shove the heels of his palms deep into Dad's windpipe, grin for those last moments of abject terror before the light snuffs out in Dad's eyes -
Sam's breaths quicken for the thought. He wouldn’t do it. But Sam’s always had little in life to comfort him, and he’s learned that you’ve got to get it where you can. Even when it’s the worst thing you can imagine.
“Jesus, boy,” Dad rumbles, distant, low-slur, but Sam translates it easy. “Stop. You’re gonna make me come.”
Yeah, Sam’s no stranger to the worst things he can imagine.
He keeps channel hopping. He's got a sheet of toilet paper over the remote control to avoid direct contact with the greasy buttons on his fingers. He keeps the volume low. He passes a rerun of The Golden Girls. A documentary about the arctic. He lands on a rolling news channel. There’s been some kind of plane crash. There's aerial footage of debris and crushed fuselage scattered around a mountain, a voiceover gravely pointing out that there were no survivors. Well, no shit. Sam feels nothing.
And as Sam lays in front of the TV in all of his passive pretending, he resents how perfectly he’s playing his role in this whole mess right now. Not moving, not making a sound, not intervening - letting Dad keep on deluding himself that Sam’s distracted, that Sam’s just hypnotized by basic cable, because the rickety divider, an ancient splintered thing with these criss-cross wooden slats that Sam could easily see through if he just craned his neck, basically makes for a different room anyway, right?
And as for Dean - Sam hasn’t thought a lot about what Dean tells himself about it. But Sam can’t imagine it makes much difference to Dean anyway. Things like shame and dignity are concepts that don’t seem to particularly interest him.
If they did, Dean would at least try to keep it down back there. He wouldn’t pull off of Dad’s cock with such an obnoxious pop; such a deliberate little moan. Sam can picture it; Dean sitting back on his haunches and blinking up at Dad through flutter-slut lashes, tongue flicking out to catch the filth and throat slime on his lips. He knows he’s on the money when Dad sucks in a breath; when there’s a rumble of “c’mere,” a squeal of 1970s mattress springs for Dean’s quick obedience. Dean and his obedience.
Sam sighs. Loudly.
He lays out on his side, cushions his ears between a hand and the arm of the couch; it does little to blot out the sound. Nothing at all to stop the liquid-lurch of his stomach as he hears Dad mutter, “did you grease up?”, the hum of approval in response to what can only be Dean’s eager nod; and then the wet sound of kissing. Dad’s kissing Dean, Dad’s tasting himself on Dean’s mouth and Dean’s grunting like a dog with a good piece of steak, and it’s so sick, it’s so -
On second thoughts, maybe choking Dad to death would be too kind. Maybe Sam wants bone fragment and blood spatter. Maybe he wants to rip and slice, maybe he wants to take it nice and slow, maybe he wants to spend hours washing Dad’s plasma and entrail juice off his body when he’s done -
- Sam shifts on the couch. Adjusts his belt; he's getting hard.
The kissing never lasts long. Behind the divider, there’s a rustle, a thud. Dad’s practical, Sam will give him that - and there’s rough breathing, slap and rustle of limbs as they get into place. He can almost feel Dean bracing himself. Sam finds himself doing the same.
“Easy,” Dad breathes, before his voice frays altogether; “Yeah, there we go.”
“Oh - ” And Dean, only Dean, can make a noise like that. Only Dean can sound like he’s being split open, and he’s absolutely delighted about it. Sam’s going to puke.
He pictures Dad’s eyes falling shut, the strip of bared teeth; disgusting, dirty old man cock, filling Dean up easy, Dean, slick and stretched and so so willing. Because Dean is so willing, and that’s what gets Sam, gets Sam in some deep spot that shouldn’t be got at in the first place - would this, all of this, be easier to stomach, live with, if Dean didn’t want it so badly?
“Fuck,” Dad sighs. Deep, satisfied; stuffed inside Dean to the hilt. “That’s it, boy. Open up that hole.”
How can Dean’s insides not warp for his own father saying such words to him - how can his fists not clench the way Sam’s do, that remote control digging into the tiny bones in his palm -
But Dean will be shaking with delight. Sam just knows it. Breathless, a broken whisper: “Daddy.”
Crack, flesh on flesh; Dad’s hand, Dean’s ass, blush handprint that Dean will smirk about for days.
“Yeah, that's my boy. Bein’ so good for Daddy.”
The news drags on, that boring plane crash and that boring carnage and that boring grief; Sam isn’t watching anyway. It's nowhere near as bad as what he's going through.
He watches the shadows flicker across the ceiling instead. He listens to his brother getting fucked. He listens to his father huff and grunt, all selfish pleasure, the bedsprings moaning in horror underneath, because they don’t have a choice but to witness this either. Flesh-slap, sweat-stink, yeast and earthiness, Dean’s knock-off cologne rising through all of it like heat off concrete; Sam breathes that polluted air, can’t not breathe it - he spreads his legs a little. Cups his crotch. Sucks in his lips for the little squeeze he can’t resist. Dean’s little moans and whimpers, rippling along his nerve endings. They always find their way in. Touch Sam in that same spot.
Because it was only going to be a matter of time, before Dad stopped being his sole focus. Before Dad, in all of his chaos, became too exhausting to contemplate. Until Sam couldn’t ignore Dean’s part in all of this anymore.
“Daddy, fuck,” Dean gasps.
Yeah - Dean’s part here is getting bigger in Sam’s mind, as Dad makes this low, pleased noise, somewhere between a chuckle and a moan; “yeah, missed this, didn’t you, boy? Missed havin’ your little pussy ruined.”
Low, long grunt; then Dad fucks him harder.
“My needy little boy. Saved it all up for Daddy, huh? It’s all for me?”
Dean chokes. “Yeah, Daddy. Always.” Like Dad really expected an earnest response to his sex talk, or something.
A sneer; an echo, “Always.”
Dean sighs. Bliss. It always seems to escape Dean’s notice, Sam thinks, that Dad sounds kind of - mean. Mocking. Angry. Dad has a lot of rage inside of him.
It doesn't escape Sam's notice. Because it’s just like Dad, to demand devotion, then treat it like trash. Sam often thinks that Dean doesn’t understand their father at all. And if he does, then well - that’s even worse.
Unseen, Sam arches up into his hand. Because if you listen to Dean, killing Dad wouldn’t have to be bloody at all. It could be as easy as telling him the truth. Laying out, in gratifying detail, exactly what happens when he’s not around.
Because sometimes Dean stumbles through the door at 3, 4, 5am, reeking of sticky bar floor and old man sweat, sometimes he climbs into bed with Sam bringing that fucking stink with him, and Dean says, there in the dark, throat-fucked hoarse voice, "Sammy, you won't believe how much I fucked up tonight."
He says it like it's funny. Like it's all high drama, like Dean sees himself as some doe-eyed, sex-starved, cheating wife. Like he thinks, in being the wet dream come true of every trucker, drifter, barfly, in these grim one-horse towns, with their fat rosacea noses and their wedding rings in situ, old enough and then some to be Dean's father, his grandfather, even - Dean thinks he’s betraying Dad somehow. Cheating.
And for fuck's sake - why can Sam just imagine it? Why can he just imagine Dean in the dank corner of some neon-lit dive, in a truck carriage with fast food encrusted seats, straddling a worn-denim lap, hands clasped at the back of a sunburnt neck; why can Sam just imagine these men staring open-mouthed at this creature in their laps, unable to believe their luck, while Dean grins, trailing his fingertips down their sweaty chests, tilting his head and grinning all slutty-cocky, murmuring, "what do you say, big guy? Can you be my Daddy tonight?"
Sam won't say a word of this aloud. He'll let his silence speak for him.
After a while, Dean will sort of shift beside him. He'll laugh a little and say, “I guess it's okay. It’s not like it means anything.”
And if Sam is feeling that bitter, hurt flavor of cruel, maybe he'll speak up after all. Maybe he'll make it worse. Maybe Sam will say something like, “Sure. The same way I don’t mean anything, right?”
And Dean will click his tongue and say, all indignant, “Sam.” Just his name. Never a protest, a denial.
Behind the divider, Dad hisses, “fuckin’ slut.”
Dean whimpers; and Sam thinks of those waifs and strays that Dean’s been fucking, and he can't find it in himself to disagree.
Slap-thrust-spring-squeak; “yeah, my boy always gives it up so easy, hmm? Lets me do anything I fuckin’ want?”
“Daddy,” Dean sighs, like it’s a sweet nothing - and really, Sam thinks, Dean wants to stay faithful to that?
And as for the gloating edge to Dad's voice - as much as Sam can't bear it, he also, deep in some locked up compartment of his mind, can't begrudge it. Because it’s not like Sam has never felt the same way. Because Dean, Sam thinks - there's something inside of Dean that's warped. Something that corrupts, depraves. Sure, Dean is beautiful. And he’s aware of it; you’d have to be blind not to be. But Dean’s beauty, Sam thinks, is the least of it, must be the least of it; beauty on its own doesn't do this to people.
Although Dean really does look so fucking beautiful, on those quiet velvet mornings, lying in bed with Sam with that stink all over him. Sam gets to see it when he does finally roll over to face his brother; he sees it in Dean’s swollen plum mouth and the emerald eyes that always go a little wide, Sam sees it in the olivey skin of Dean’s throat and the freckles across his nose that look almost golden in the burgeoning light of dawn. And it’s intoxicating, sure. But that’s - just not entirely it.
No; what’s truly irresistible about Dean is that willingness. He may not ask Sam for it - he may become every married middle-aged deadbeat’s cumdumpster before he’d ever come to Sam of his own volition when he’s feeling lonely, and what do those men fucking have that Sam doesn’t - but oh, Dean won't stop him either. He'll be good, as good for Sam as he is for Dad; Dean will let Sam grab his wrist and move his hand to the wet patch forming in Sam's pajama bottoms, and Dean’s pupils will get big and he’ll lick those used whore lips so they’re nice and wet when Sam shoves them apart with his tongue, and Dean will be tugging at the elastic of his boxers the same time Sam does as Sam tastes the sour inside of his mouth, and god, Dean will let Sam unfold his legs and pin his wrists above his head and he’ll gasp and look up at Sam with lidded eyes when Sam pushes inside, through the sloppy-stickiness of dried spit and stranger’s come, and Sam will feel so sick-furious for having to feel that on his cock, for getting Dean second hand and already used, that he’ll fuck Dean as hard as he can, and Dean will swear and squirm and pant his way through it; but he’ll never tell Sam to stop. He doesn’t, Sam reminds himself, want Sam to stop.
And sometimes Sam will apologize afterwards. More often he won’t. Because Dean won’t want him to; Dean’s never begrudged Sam anything he wants. Dean’s love is a lonely and dangerous thing; and afterwards, he always lets Sam press their foreheads together while he catches his breath, he always cards his fingers through Sam’s hair and smiles, kind of; and he doesn’t need to say "Sammy, Dad can not find out about this," like he spent the last of their money on beer or something, but he says it every time, like it's the first and only thing on his mind, and that’ll piss Sam off so much that he’ll slap Dean's hands away and peel himself out of bed. He won't speak to Dean all day after that.
Yeah, the way Dean gives it up - Sam bites back a sigh; cups his nuts. Full, aching. Too far gone now, always too far gone - and a shiver runs through him for that, too. His father is a lunatic, in the truest sense. Hell, the word "lunatic" was invented for men like him. He's reckless and unstable, he's as numb to danger as he is paranoid as shit, he's all complications and contradictions; but he's still, in some distant and messed up sense, a father.
The eldest is always just an experiment, right? The practice kid? The youngest - little Sammy, protect Sammy, look out for Sammy -
It occurs to Sam, sometimes, that killing Dad really could be as easy as holding up a mirror. Showing Dad what he's done to Dean. What Dean, in turn, has done to Sam.
The thought spurs Sam on. He sits up a little on the couch. Quiet, surreptitious. He wasn't going to look, he never plans to look. But Sam can't touch Dean right now. Sam won't get to lay a hand on Dean for as long as Dad's around, for as long as he'll be sitting on Dad's dick every night, carrying his scent and bruises on his body - but if watching is the closest Sam can get…
He hates Dad for that, too. Or Dean; he can't decide anymore. Sam hates it; that even watching from the outside, that even this, will do.
It's not that the divider even does much to keep Sam separate from the action. Although his view is obscured, the gaps between those old slats are wide enough that if Sam cranes his neck a certain way - he can actually see just fine.
They’re facing the wall. Dean’s on his knees, his elbows, the position Dad always fucks him in; and Dad’s head is slightly thrown back and his eyes are shut, the way they’re always shut. He’s got one hand on Dean’s hip, angling him all sloppy-awkward, and the other like a vice at the back of Dean’s neck. His pants are shrugged down, and Sam can see the jackhammer of bare hips, the shadow of his dick slamming in and out of Dean, he always fucks Dean so rough; but Dad’s clothes are otherwise still on.
Dean’s jeans are on the floor. That nice shirt of his is crumpled up by his head. Dean is always naked, just as Dad never is, and a part of Sam has to wonder what’s in that - if Dad does that to humiliate Dean, or something, because that sounds strangely right - and Sam’s breath snags for that, catches on his tongue in unison with the slow-quiet drag of his zipper. That stomach-lurch again, almost as an afterthought -
He wraps his hand around his dick, strips twice, careful; Dean’s head is bowed. Sam can see the little ripples, quivers in his arms. The perfect arch-curve of his back. The goosebumps like tiny crystals on his flesh. The bounce-sway of his cock, the only part of him that isn’t perfectly still; but worst of all, is the look on his face. Sam can’t see it perfectly, between the slats, with only Dean’s side profile visible. But he can see one half of Dean’s mouth curved up in bliss. Frozen there. His eyes half-shut, a crescent of white visible, like he’s tripping, like he’s ascended to another plane. Probably not too far from the truth.
Because Dean’s giving it up for Daddy. He’s a slut. He’s a good boy.
Dean loves it. Being all those things.
Sam’s blood is on fire. His cock is leaking.
Sam can see Dean wincing. Dad’s fingers digging mean into his hip, his thrusts getting faster, erratic. He’s close: “Yeah, take that fuckin’ cock, boy.”
Dean gasps; Sam fists his dick. It's no good substitute for what Dad will be feeling right now. But if this is all Sam can get, if this as close as he can get -
“This is what you’re good for,” Dad says, through a ragged moan. “Fuckin’ made for this.”
Sam should want to blow Dad's brains out for saying something like that, he should, he should - his hips arch, head tilts back -
“Fucktoy,” Dad spits.
He pushes down on the back of Dean's neck. Dean banks to the right, then his arms give way. His head crashes to the pillow. Facing the divider. Facing Sam.
Dad's hand is mean, presses Dean's cheek into the pillow, distorting his magenta-flushed face. His eyes flutter shut all the way.
“Gonna come inside you,” Dad mutters. “Just like you deserve. Just like you fuckin’ beg me for.”
“Yeah, Daddy, do it,” Dean breathes. "Fill me up, c'mon, please…”
“Ssh.”
It's hissed, and Dean's posture slumps a little for that - and is it really so awful if a little part of Sam thinks Dean deserves it? If he will treat a monster like a god -
“Fuck,” Dad grunts.
Fuck, Sam thinks.
Dean’s lips are parted, quivering around those slutty moans Dad's thrusts punch out of him. And his eyes; well, barely a moment passes before they open. Before those hazy emeralds find Sam's in the screen-glow darkness.
Sam holds Dean’s gaze. Dean doesn’t flinch.
Sam tries not to either. But in his periphery, Sam sees it. Dean's knuckles going bone-white around the sheets he’s got two fistfuls of.
Dad says, “You ask for this, boy.”
Boy. Like Dean's a dog.
Roll over. Lay down. Beg.
And while Dean doesn't respond much to Dad, he's got a lot to say to Sam. It's in those eyes, glittering in TV screen glow; they say, you don't understand, Sammy.
Sam grits his teeth; watches Dean run his tongue over those lips. Is Sam imagining it, that it looks forced?
Dad loves me, Dean insists. He wouldn't do this if he didn't.
Sam pretends to be oblivious. He knows he himself isn't a pretty sight right now. He knows his tongue’s halfway out and his eyes are fluttery and unfocused and his face is screwing up all ugly with pleasure. But Sam doesn't fix himself. He lets Dean see it. Because Dean brings out the worst in Sam, brings this all this on himself.
Five days ago, when Dad hadn’t so much as sent a text in 72 hours and Dean had come back in those twilight hours after being some greasy redneck’s drunken mistake, Sam had two fingers in Dean’s mouth and three in his sticky hole. In the dark, Dean was panting, and he was pliant and still; and something made Sam mutter, like an intrusive thought come alive, “What if I did tell him?”
Dean’s hand on his chest; a grunt. The shut up he couldn’t vocalize.
Sam dragged his fingers out of Dean’s mouth, let him feel the trails of saliva down his chin; “But what if I did?”
A snort. “Yeah. Like you would.”
He sounded a little hoarse, a little uncertain; shuddered for the drag of Sam’s fingernails over his Adam’s apple. “Are you sure about that?”
Curl of his fingers inside Dean, just to watch his hips arch for it, plum-mouth quiver. “Sam -”
“I hate the way he treats you.”
Sam was gritting his teeth; or baring them, maybe, because Dean’s voice sounded a little off as he shot back, “Sammy, it's way too early in the morning for family therapy. Are you gonna fuck me or not?”
Sam watched his brother’s lashes flutter in the near-darkness. “Alright. I won’t tell him.”
And Sam meant it; he wouldn’t tell Dad. But he wasn’t above holding Dean still with his elbows as he laid down over him to sink his teeth into that fragile spot between his neck and collarbone. He tasted beer-sweat and someone else’s fingers and Sam bit down hard, deep, and Dean was shoving at him and hissing “fuck you, get off me”, whining “Sam, cut it out, he’s gonna see”; but Dean’s breath was rushing and Sam could feel his cock fattening up between their bodies, and Sam shut his eyes and sucked around that little ring of flesh between his teeth; because, no, Sam’s always bluffing, Sam’s not going to tell. He barely even speaks to Dad these days, if he can avoid it. But he felt he could do one better, in proving a point to Dean.
That mark is still on Dean’s neck. Sam breaks their gaze to look; he can see it, sore lilac blush, a little crusty. Sam thinks it's beautiful.
Dean’s eyes follow Sam’s. He tenses, like he’d forgotten all about that mark altogether; like it's just hit him that Dad didn't see at all. That Dad hasn't said a word about it.
Sam watches that posture fold in even more. Dean doesn’t look back up at him.
But again, Sam understands Dad better. For all his lunacy, Dad finds comfort in details. He'll have seen that mark alright. But he'll never ask. Dad's smart; he knows that the answer has the potential to kill him, after all.
Sam's balls draw up. Inevitable coiling, heat-rush in his gut. He watches Dean’s body sway, fucktoy, resigned; watches his hand move to his cock too. Dad's not the reacharound type.
Dad’s growling. He collapses over Dean’s back.
Dean comes when Dad does; and whether it’s Sam's rage at Dean's being so pathetic that pushes him over the edge, or the Pavlovian sound of Dean’s cock-drunk whimpers, Sam can’t be sure. But on nights like these, Sam always comes so fucking hard. Silently, though; because for all intents and purposes, he isn’t even here. It’s enough to make him laugh.
But Sam doesn’t; when it's all over, Sam just keeps playing his stupid role.
He lays still with the rest of his family, in the weird, liminal quiet that always follows. That sweat-yeast-diluted-body-spray scent, thick in the air like fumes; their sets of racing breaths, synced up, like a three headed beast. And sometimes, it occurs to Sam that he could just douse this room in gasoline and light a match, and they could all burn like they deserve.
The thought comes half-assed. Sam isn't all that angry anymore. Not with Dad, anyway. It’s hard to truly want to kill someone, when your shame has the same scent. When you have the same disease.
And Sam keeps watching, in that understanding. Watches Dad give a cursory ruffle to Dean's hair, the closest he can get to whatever he wants to say, because what the fuck are you supposed to say - Sam watches Dad pull out of Dean and climb off the bed with his messy dick still hanging out, before half-staggering to the bathroom. He locks the door behind him. And Sam can't begrudge that either; when the plane goes down, you put on your own oxygen mask first.
It feels safe now for Sam to reach for that sheet of toilet paper wrapped around the remote. Clean himself up the best he can, the rest of the soiling will just have to fester in his clothes for a while. And through those slats, out of the corner of his eye, he watches Dean clumsily pull himself to his knees, moving like a puppet with severed strings. And before Dean can look around and catch Sam's eye again, Sam, just like his father, turns away. Because - honestly - what the fuck do you say?
From behind him, he hears Dean draw a breath. Then, rueful, quiet: “Hey. Sammy?”
Sam lets his eyes stay back to the TV. That news report is still rolling. “There's been a massive plane crash,” he finds himself telling Dean. “No survivors.”
After a few moments, Dean says, “Oh.”
Sam turns the volume up on the TV. A little desperately; because if Sam can hear Dad throwing up in the bathroom from his position, Dean must be able to hear it clear as a death knell.
Sam doesn't know what Dean does after that. Doesn't want to think about it, actually. He watches aerial footage of a trusted machine in ruins, crushed easy like a tin can, lying in oil slicks like spilled blood, and tunes out the newsreader's voice as the horror of those images hit him like a crowbar to the chest. And at that same moment, Sam finds himself terrified to think that maybe there's nothing good left inside of him, or Dad, at all; and that whatever's inside of Dean might just be worse.