Work Text:
The rain had been falling for three days without stopping over the Midwest. A fine cold drizzle that seeped into everything soles of shoes, seams of jackets down to the bone. Motel room number 12 at the Pineview Motor Inn looked exactly like every other room they had stayed in over the years: worn brown carpet down to the threads, wallpaper peeling at the corners, a cathode-ray TV that crackled the second the heater came on and two twin beds separated by a cheap wooden nightstand that had seen too many spilled glasses of water and overflowing ashtrays.
Dean sat on the back bed, back against the headboard his legs stretched out. He had taken off his boots but kept his socks on. On the other bed Sam lay on his stomach with a book open in front of him not a schoolbook but one of the old local folklore collections John sometimes left them, stolen from some municipal library three states back. Sam read slowly tracing the words with his finger from time to time, brows furrowed in concentration. He had grown. At fourteen he was starting to have that long, skinny build of teenagers who shot up too fast. His hair fell into his eyes. Dean watched him sometimes without meaning to.
Outside the rain tapped against the dirty window. Inside, the room smelled musty like cold morning coffee and sheets that hadn’t been changed since they arrived. Dean had spent the day running their clothes through the motel’s tiny washing machine. He had even roughly ironed two of John’s shirts with the iron he borrowed from the front desk. Automatic gestures. Things he did because he was the one who took care of everything when Dad was gone.
Dad had been gone for four days.
Four days tracking something alone in the woods to the north. A spirit, probably. Or a werewolf that had gotten too close to the back roads. John never gave many details. He just said: “I’ll come back when it’s done. You stay here. Dean, you take care of everything.”
Dean took care of everything.
He had done the grocery run at the little supermarket on the corner with the money John left them. He paid for two extra nights when the first ones ran out. He made sure Sam ate properly, did his homework (even if the correspondence school was a joke) and didn’t go out alone. He cleaned the weapons still in the Impala’s trunk, took inventory of the salt, holy water, and iron rounds. He even took the time to show Sam how to properly sharpen a hunting knife, because “one day you’re gonna need it and I don’t want you cutting yourself like an amateur.”
And then last night there had been that noise.
A distant howl not quite human. Dean had gotten up without waking Sam, pulled on his worn brown leather jacket, grabbed the salt rifle and gone outside. He hadn’t gone far just to the edge of the parking lot where the streetlights faded. He’d seen tracks in the mud. Not normal animal tracks. He followed them a little just far enough to make sure whatever it was wasn’t heading toward the motel. He fired two salt rounds into the dark to scare it off. It worked. The howl moved away.
In the morning there had been dried blood on the sole of his sneaker. He cleaned it before Sam woke up.
He hadn’t said anything. Not to anyone. Dad was gone. He had to protect Sam. It was that simple.
The key turned in the lock.
Dean’s head snapped up. So did Sam’s. The door opened on John Winchester.
He was soaked. His canvas jacket was dark with rainwater his hair plastered to his forehead, his several-day beard thicker than usual. He looked exhausted. He carried his duffel on one shoulder and the sawed-off shotgun in his right hand the barrel pointed at the floor like always. His eyes swept the room in one second Sam on the bed, Dean on the other, weapons put away, room clean.
“Dad!” Sam sat up already smiling.
John nodded at him, a small tired smile on his lips then his gaze landed on Dean.
“Sam. Go to the bathroom. Close the door.”
Sam blinked. “Huh? Why?”
“Because I said so.”
The tone wasn’t mean but there was no room for argument. Sam grumbled, closed his book and went into the small bathroom. The door clicked shut.
John dropped his bag on the floor. Water dripped from his clothes onto the carpet. He smelled like wet earth, sweat and gunpowder. He looked at Dean for a long moment without speaking. Dean stood up slowly, hands at his sides the way he always did when Dad came back from a hunt.
“You have any trouble?” Dean asked.
John ignored the question.
“We’re going hunting. You and me. Right now.”
Dean blinked. “Now? It’s almost midnight. And Sam-”
“Sam stays here. He locks the door, doesn’t go out, doesn’t answer anyone. You’re coming with me.”
Dean felt his stomach tighten but he nodded.
That was how it worked.
Dad gave orders.
You obeyed.
“Ok.”
John nodded once, like the matter was settled. He walked over and knocked lightly on the bathroom door.
“Sam. You stay here. You don’t move. If someone knocks, you don’t answer. Understood?”
“Understood.” came Sam’s muffled reply.
John came back to Dean.
“Get ready. Twenty minutes. We’re leaving.”
He walked out without another word leaving the room door ajar. Dean heard him going down the outside stairs, probably to grab something from the Impala.
Dean stayed alone in the room for a moment, heart beating a little harder than he wanted. He didn’t like it when Dad came back like this without saying what he’d hunted or whether it was finished. But he never asked too many questions. He knew it annoyed John.
He went into the bathroom. Sam was sitting on the edge of the tub, knees pulled up to his chest.
“What’s going on?” Sam murmured.
“Nothing. Dad wants us to go hunt something. You’re staying here, that’s all.”
“It’s not fair. I could help.”
Dean put a hand on his brother’s shoulder a gesture he’d been doing for years.
“You’re still too young for that kind of thing. And… Dad has his reasons. You know how he is.”
Sam lowered his head. Dean ruffled his hair.
“I’ll be back soon. Watch some TV, eat the rest of the chips and sleep. Alright?”
Sam nodded without much conviction.
Dean closed the door behind him and stepped up to the sink. The mirror was cracked in one corner. He looked at himself for a second. Nineteen years old. Green eyes a little too bright for someone who had already seen as much as he had. Faint dark circles. He splashed water on his face and rubbed his cheeks. He needed to shave, but there was no time. He pulled on a clean t-shirt and his favorite jeans the ones already a little worn at the knees but that still fit right. He laced up his sneakers tight.
Then came the jacket.
The brown leather jacket. The one he wore almost all the time now. It had belonged to John before. Dean had “borrowed” it one day when Dad left it in the car and hadn’t complained when he saw it on him. It smelled like aged leather, cheap motel cigarette smoke and a trace of aftershave. When he put it on he felt taller. More like a hunter. Not just the big brother who kept the house together.
He packed his things into his duffel the colt he cleaned every night, the small flask of holy water, the bag of salt, the knife. He checked twice that he had everything. It had become a ritual. A tic.
In the room, he walked over to Sam’s bed.
“Sammy lock the door behind us. Don’t answer anyone. If we’re not back by tomorrow night call the emergency number we gave you. Understood?”
Sam nodded. Dean squeezed his shoulder harder than he meant to.
“I’ll be back. I promise.”
◜ ͡ ◝◟ ͜ ◞ ִ۫ ୨♡ৎ 𓈒 ׄ◟ ͜ ◞ ◜ ͡ ◝
He stepped out into the cold night.
The rain was still falling fine but penetrating. Mist rose from the damp ground blurring the streetlights of the parking lot into yellowish halos. The Impala was parked a little farther away than usual under a dripping tree. John was already behind the wheel, engine idling, wipers moving slowly.
Dean got in on the passenger side. The door slammed shut. The familiar smell of the car wrapped around him theleather seats, gasoline a hint of cold coffee in the cup holder.
He settled in and fastened his seatbelt out of habit. The leather jacket creaked softly when he moved. He put his duffel between his feet. The heater was barely on. It was cold inside the car. Rain drummed on the roof.
John didn’t say anything at first. He shifted into gear, pulled slowly out of the parking lot and took the main road that disappeared into the night. The wipers swept steadily. Outside there was only fog, black trees and white lines on the wet asphalt.
Dean stared out the window. He thought about Sam alone in the room. He thought about what they were going to hunt. He wondered if Dad had eaten. He wondered if he would have to drive on the way back because John would be too tired.
They drove in silence for almost twenty minutes. Just the sound of the engine, the rain and the occasional distant rumble of thunder.
Then John spoke with a voice low and almost detached:
“While I was gone… what did you do exactly?”
Dean shrugged, eyes still on the road.
“Nothing special. We stayed at the motel. I did the grocery, Sam read, we watched TV. I cleaned the weapons. Same as usual.”
He was lying. Not completely. But he was lying about the important part.
John didn’t answer right away. He kept his eyes on the road his hands steady on the wheel. The rain was falling harder now. The wipers moved faster.
Then without raising his voice or even turning his head, he said:
“You’re lying.”
Dean felt his blood run cold.
How the hell does he know?
He didn’t answer. He didn’t move. He kept his eyes fixed on the road ahead, on the drops sliding down the windshield, on the wipers going back and forth.
John didn’t add anything.
The car kept moving through the night and the rain toward the woods.
The silence that settled was heavy and thick. Dean could feel his heart beating too hard in his chest but he forced himself to breathe normally. He had lied. Dad knew. That was all. He was going to get punished, like always. Nothing new.
He glanced sideways at his father. John drove the way he did everything straight, focused, hands at ten and two on the wheel. His profile looked hard in the reddish glow of the dashboard.
Dean looked back at the road. He thought about Sam alone in the room. He hoped he had locked the door. He hoped he had eaten the chips before they got soggy. He hoped Dad wouldn’t stay angry for too long.
They drove for a long time. An hour? More? Dean had lost track. The rain didn’t let up. The wipers kept their steady rhythm. Every now and then John shifted gears or turned on the fog lights when the mist got too thick. Eventually Dean rested his head against the cold window. He closed his eyes for a moment. His long, thick lashes the ones Sam sometimes envied saying he had “girl eyes” rested against his cheeks. He was tired. He had spent the night before watching the motel, listening to the noises outside. He had barely slept.
John finally spoke again, voice low, almost gentle.
“You went out last night.”
Dean opened his eyes. He didn’t turn his head.
“I heard a noise. I just went to check. It was nothing.”
“Nothing…” John repeated. There was a bitter twist at the corner of his mouth. “You left your brother alone in the room to go play hero in the parking lot. You could’ve brought something back with you. You could’ve been spotted. You could’ve fucked everything up.”
Dean clenched his teeth. He didn’t answer. He knew arguing only made things worse.
John kept driving. The road grew narrower and darker. The trees closed in. They were far from everything now. Far from the motel. Far from Sam.
“You’re going to train.” John said suddenly. His voice was calm. Decided. “You’ve gotten soft. You take unnecessary risks. You disobey. We’re going to fix that.”
Dean felt his stomach knot tighter.
“Dad… Cmon.”
The car slowed then pulled onto the muddy shoulder. John cut the engine. The silence that followed was almost deafening. No more rain on the roof. No more wipers. Just the sound of rain outside and the blood pounding in Dean’s ears.
John turned slightly toward him. His gaze was dark in the dim light.
“You run until I tell you to stop. You run like your life depends on it. Because one day, it might. And if you stop before I say so… we start over from the beginning. Understood?”
Dean nodded. He knew this kind of training. He had done it before. Running through the forest at night, John behind him with a flashlight or nothing at all, just his voice carrying through the dark. He hated it. He hated the cold, the mud, not knowing how long it would last, being treated like a kid who still needed to be broken in.
But he obeyed. He always obeyed.
John got out of the car. Dean followed. The rain hit him immediately it’s cold and stinging. He pulled up the collar of his brown leather jacket, but water was already seeping into his sneakers. John pointed into the darkness between the trees.
“Run.”
◜ ͡ ◝◟ ͜ ◞ ִ۫ ୨♡ৎ 𓈒 ׄ◟ ͜ ◞ ◜ ͡ ◝
It didn’t matter how long he had been running.
His lungs burned. His legs shook with every step. The mud sucked at his feet making a wet disgusting sound with each stride. His socks had been soaked through for a long time, clinging to his skin. Water had soaked through his jeans all the way up to his thighs. His leather jacket was heavy with rain and dirt. He had already fallen twice once on a root, once on a slippery rock and gotten back up spitting mud, palms scraped raw with one knee bleeding through the torn fabric.
He didn’t know where he was going. He just followed John’s voice when it carried through the trees or the beam of the flashlight that appeared and disappeared between the trunks.
”faster.”
”You run like a girl.”
”If you stop, we start over.”
Dean didn’t stop.
He had been running for… an hour? Two? He had lost all sense of time. The forest was dense, branches whipping across his face and tearing small pieces of skin. He had a cut above his eyebrow that kept bleeding into his eye. Another on his cheek. His breath came out in white clouds in the freezing air. His lips were cold, almost numb. He could taste blood and dirt in his mouth.
He stumbled again and dropped to his knees in a puddle. Icy water soaked up his sleeves. He stayed there for a second on all fours, panting his head hanging low. His lashes were weighed down with rain and mud stuck together. He blinked hard, trying to see. He heard John approaching behind him not out of breath, not in any hurry.
“Start over.”
The voice was calm. Almost neutral? He couldn’t tell.
Dean pushed himself back up. His legs screamed in protest. He started running again, slower now but still moving.
He didn’t know how much longer. He didn’t even know what direction he was going anymore. The forest seemed endless. The rain never stopped. The cold was brutal sinking into his bones into his chest, until his teeth chattered despite himself.
Then finally he saw the cabin.
Small. Low. Built from dark logs almost invisible between the trees. A weak light filtered through a dirty window. John was already there waiting in front of the door.
Dean stopped a few meters away, bent over with his hands on his knees breathing hard and ragged. He spat out a mouthful of mud and saliva. His hair was plastered to his forehead. His jacket hung heavy and wet. His sneakers were unrecognizable completely caked in mud and dead leaves. Everything hurt his ribs, his thighs, his palms. Warm blood ran down his left leg where he had cut himself on a branch.
John opened the cabin door without a word and stepped inside.
Dean followed dragging his feet.
Inside, it was almost as cold as outside. An old dead fireplace. A simple bed in one corner. A wobbly table. A kerosene lamp burning low casting shifting shadows across the raw wooden walls. The air smelled like damp wood, old smoke, and must.
John closed the door behind them. The latch clicked shut like a gunshot in the silence.
Dean stayed near the door shivering violently. His lips were dark, almost blue at the edges. His hands trembled. He tried to rub them together but his fingers were too numb.
John looked at him for a long moment.
Dean lowered his eyes. He knew what was coming. The punishment. He had earned it. He had disobeyed. He had put Sam at risk. He was ready.
John stepped closer. He shrugged off his own soaked jacket and tossed it over the back of a chair. He was left in just a black t-shirt and canvas pants. He looked even bigger in the small space.
“Take off your shoes.” he ordered.
Dean obeyed. He bent down struggling with the wet laces and pulled off his sneakers. Water poured out onto the floorboards. He took off his soaked socks too. His feet were white and wrinkled covered in mud. He stayed standing barefoot on the cold wood.
John jerked his chin toward the center of the room.
“On your knees.”
Dean stayed standing a second too long. His body tensed muscles in his thighs tight. He shook his head once short and sharp.
“What?”
John didn’t repeat himself. He stepped forward grabbed Dean by the front of his soaked t-shirt, and forced him down with a rough yank. Dean resisted for a moment his hands coming up to grip John’s forearms but damn Dad was heavier, stronger. Dean ended up on his knees the cold hard floor pressing against his skin. He kept his head down, hands clenched on his thighs breathing fast.
John walked a slow circle around him.
“You ran like a coward. You stumbled. You stopped. You thought about giving up.”
Dean didn’t answer. He knew it was true. But when John’s hand came down on the back of his neck, firm, fingers digging into the tense muscle Dean lifted his head on his own.
“Dad stop. I get it, ok? I disobeyed. I’ll fix it. But this… this isn’t necessary.”
John ignored him. His hand slid under Dean’s t-shirt callused palm against the cold skin of his stomach. Dean flinched hard and tried to pull back on his knees. John held him in place with a firm grip on his shoulder. When his fingers found a nipple hardened by the cold and pinched it without any gentleness, Dean let out a strangled sound. He reached up with a shaking hand and wrapped his fingers weakly around John’s wrist not really to push him away with any real strength but just to try and hold him back.
“Dad…” he whispered voice breaking. “Stop. This… this isn’t right.”
John yanked the t-shirt up roughly, exposing Dean’s torso to the freezing air. Pale skin contracted immediately. Dean gasped when the other nipple was pinched harder. He tried to pull back again but John kept him there. His face twisted, jaw clenched, eyes squeezed shut against the tears of pain and confusion already forming.
He could hear his own breathing still fast. He could feel the blood slowly running down his leg from the cut.
John straightened up. He undid his belt with that same calm motion he always used before a punishment. The leather slid through the loops. Dean watched him, heart pounding against his bruised ribs. He understood then that this wasn’t a normal punishment. Not like running through the mud or getting slapped. This was something else. Something that wouldn’t stop just because he begged.
A memory surfaced without him wanting it him much younger, eight or nine years old in another dark motel room. John holding a rifle barrel to his forehead, calmly counting to five. The metal had been cold against his skin. Dean had known it was loaded with salt, not a real bullet but the fear had been stronger than reason. He had pissed himself in his too-big child’s pants tears running down his round cheeks while he stayed frozen and obedient until John finally lowered the gun and nodded. He had never told anyone. Not even Sam. The shame had followed him for days.
Now at nineteen, he was taller. But the same fear froze him in place. He should fight. He knew that. His fists were right there at his sides. He could stand up, grab John by the jacket shove him. Run. Protect whatever was left of himself. But he didn’t move.
Because it was Dad.
Because he had always obeyed.
Because Sam was waiting at the motel and someone had to come back.
John pulled out his cock already hard and thick. He held it in his hand, the head pointed at Dean’s face. He didn’t say a word. Just looked at him with that same cold, hard stare.
Dean shook his head harder this time.
“No. Dad I… I can’t.” His voice cracked. He swallowed. “I’m your son for fuck’s sake. This is disgusting.”
“You’re going to obey” John said, voice low and calm. “Like always.”
Dean felt tears burning behind his eyes. He should hit him. His fist was right there beside his thigh. He could stand up, shove him then run. He didn’t move..
John grabbed a fistful of Dean’s short wet hair and yanked his head back. Dean clenched his teeth, lips pressed tight. He turned his head to the side trying to pull away. John had to grab his chin with his other hand and press his knuckles against Dean’s cheeks until his mouth opened.
The warm heavy cock pushed inside in one thrust. Dean gagged violently around the flesh filling his throat. He immediately tried to pull back, hands coming up to shove at John’s hips. John held his head tightly with both hands and started moving slow, deep thrusts that forced Dean to take more each time.
Dean was choking. His throat spasmed around the intrusion. Thick saliva spilled from the corners of his stretched mouth dripping down his chin. He tried to breathe through his nose but the smell of sweat, dried rain, and sex turned his stomach. It was disgusting. He tried again to turn his head to pull away. John groaned and pushed deeper.
“Breathe through your nose,” John ordered slightly out of breath. “Like when you run.”
Dean tried. When John pushed all the way in until his balls pressed against Dean’s chin a wave of acidic bile rose. Hot liquid spurted from the corners of his mouth splashing onto the floor and John’s thighs. Dean coughed and choked, tears and mucus running from his nose. He tried to pull back on his knees but John held him in place. Of course he do.
John made a sound of annoyance. He yanked Dean’s hair pulling him off with a wet sound. Dean stayed on all fours, gasping, strings of vomit and saliva hanging from his swollen lips. John slapped him, not very hard just enough to make his head turn.
“Clean this mess up. You’re not going to puke on me and then stop. Open.”
Dean opened his mouth lips trembling. John forced him back down onto his cock, deeper this time holding his head firmly so he couldn’t pull away when the gag reflex hit again. Dean contracted but swallowed this time. John came without warning thick and hot, spilling down his throat. Dean swallowed what he could and spat the rest when John pulled out the white fluid mixing with the vomit already on the floor.
He stayed there on his knees head down, chin shining with spit and come. His bare chest rose and fell fast, skinny muscles twitching with every breath.
He thought it was over.
John let him catch his breath for a moment, then ordered:
“Get up. Take the rest off.”
No no no no no…
Dean stood up on shaking legs. They trembled so badly he thought they might give out. He undid his jeans and boxers and let them fall around his ankles. His cock was half-hard despite everything from the cold, from the unwanted stimulation earlier from the shame. He hated it. Hated how much shame he felt. His body, still young and lean, narrow hips, legs strong from running, torso marked with fresh bruises, was completely exposed and vulnerable. He turned when John pushed him toward the wobbly table and made him put his hands on it. The rough wood pressed against his palms. Rain still drummed outside.
John spat into his hand once and spread it over his already hard cock. No real preparation. No gentleness. He spat on his fingers again and pushed them between Dean’s cheeks.
The first finger shoved in without mercy. Dean cried out with a raw shocked sound that echoed off the wooden walls. The pain was immediate and burning like something tearing. His virgin hole produced no natural lubrication and the spit dried too fast. The callused finger forced the tight muscle open. Dean clenched hard around the intrusion which only made the burn worse. He moaned head dropping between his shoulders tears falling onto the table. His face twisted eyes squeezed shut in pain, lips parted around ragged breaths, high cheekbones flushed with effort and shame.
John added a second finger almost immediately spreading them roughly. Dean screamed again higher this time. It felt like something was slowly ripping inside him, fibers giving way painful heat radiating through his belly. He could feel every knuckle, every movement. His body fought back the muscles trying to push the intrusion out, which only caused stronger cramps. Tears flowed freely now wetting his lashes until they stuck together in dark clumps against his skin. His torso, bent over the table, shook as the muscles in his back moved under pale and bruised skin.
John crooked his fingers searching. When he found Dean’s prostate, Dean jerked hard a helpless moan escaping him high, almost feminine. He hated the sound. Hated the way his body reacted, his own cock hardening a little more against the edge of the table. The thought hit him brutal and disgusting:
I’m being opened like a girl. Fuck I look like a slut getting fucked.
The disgust made him shudder. He wasn’t that. He was Dean. Dean Winchester. He hunted. He protected Sam. Not this.
John pulled his fingers out. Dean heard the sound of spitting again. Then the thick head of John’s cock pressed against his sore, stretched hole.
“Dad…” he whispered voice breaking. “It hurts too much. Please stop.”
No answer.
Dean tensed. He tried to push up from the table, his arms straining. John planted a wide hand between his shoulder blades and slammed him back down hard. Dean still tried to crawl forward on the table, legs shaking. John yanked him back and thrust in with one brutal movement.
The pain was white-hot and tearing. Dean screamed a real raw almost animal sound that filled the cabin. He felt himself split open, filled too fast and too hard. The already irritated muscle tore further under the pressure. He clenched violently around the intrusion, which only made everything worse. He tried to close his legs, to twist away. John held him down, hands gripping his narrow hips.
John started moving. Deep, slow thrusts at first. Dean cried with dry sobs shaking his whole body. Every thrust tore another cry out of him. He could feel his own cock rubbing against the wood, hard despite the pain, despite the shame.
Dean tried one last time to fight. He pushed up on his forearms, left elbow swinging back toward John’s stomach. John easily avoided it and grabbed his wrist, slamming it down onto the table. Dean tried to crawl forward, nails scratching at the wood. John yanked him back hard and pinned him more firmly, one hand now on the back of his neck.
“Stay like that. Fuck...”
Dean let out a broken sound of frustration and pain but he stopped struggling. He had nothing left. He lowered his forehead to the cold wood of the table and gave in tears falling silently.
John picked up the pace. The sounds were obscene, skin slapping against skin Dean’s ragged breaths the wet noise of spit and tears. Every deep and brutal thrust sent a burning pressure rising in Dean’s lower belly. He could feel his bladder, full for hours, being jostled and squeezed with every movement. His prostate was being hit relentlessly sending waves of unwanted heat and an unbearable urge. He tried to hold it really, clenching as hard as he could but the more John pounded into him the worse the pressure became.
No… not now… please not like this…
He bit down on his lip until he tasted blood his nails digging into the wood of the table. But one particularly deep violent thrust tore a broken sound from his throat. The pressure exploded. He lost control.
The hot stream burst out of him without warning. It soaked the front of the table ran down his shaking thighs. The sharp acrid smell of ammonia rose immediately strong and humiliating in the cold air of the cabin. Dean let out a broken moan of shame his face burning, eyes squeezed shut. He felt filthy. Small. Exactly like the kid who had pissed himself in front of a rifle years ago…
John slowed for a second. He sniffed then let out a low and cold laugh with no humor in it. At all.
“Fuck Dean… you’re pissing yourself like a five-year-old kid, huh?” His voice was low, almost amused. “You smell like piss now. You’re really just a dirty little bastard who needs to be reminded of his place.”
He started thrusting harder immediately like he wanted to drive the shame in deeper. Dean sobbed the poor body shaking between the pain, the wet heat still running down his legs and his father’s voice in his ears whispering things.
He didn’t stop. He fucked his son harder his hands digging into Dean’s hips thrusts deep and steady. Dean dissociated more and more. His mind floated above his body watching it from somewhere else, this skinny, muscled torso bent over the table, these shaking legs, this painful, slightly bleeding hole stretched around the cock that kept forcing its way in without mercy. He wanted to throw up again. He to claw at his own skin until he bled. That was fucking gross. Such a pretty face wasted.
The pain became too much. The cramps, the tearing, the burning friction, the pressure on his prostate, the shame… Everything crashed together into a white wave. Dean felt his body give out. His green eyes rolled back. His lashes fluttered once more before closing. He collapsed onto the table unconscious, body still jerking with John’s final thrusts.
◜ ͡ ◝◟ ͜ ◞ ִ۫ ୨♡ৎ 𓈒 ׄ◟ ͜ ◞ ◜ ͡ ◝
The weak light from the motel filtered through the dirty curtains. The rain had finally stopped but the smell of mustiness and cold coffee still lingered in room number 12. Dean was lying on the back bed. His brown leather jacket was thrown over a chair.
He opened his eyes suddenly, heart pounding.
Sam was leaning over him.
His brother’s face still young at fourteen was very close to his. Brown hair fell into his eyes, forehead creased with worry as he looked at Dean with those big puppy eyes.
Dean jerked violently, the movement sending a dull deep pain radiating from his lower belly through his sore and torn ass, down into his thighs and stomach. A throbbing ache that pulsed with every heartbeat. He could also feel the stiffness in his whole body, the bruises on his ribs the exhaustion weighing down his bones.
He blinked several times. His eyes still heavy with sleep and exhaustion, slowly focused. His green eyes slightly glassy, locked onto his little brother. His face still carried the marks of the night, a small cut above his eyebrow that had dried, chapped lips and a thin layer of dirt that hadn’t completely washed away. But he smelled clean. Cheap motel soap mixed with the familiar scent of cheap aftershave that clung to his skin. He wasn’t in his clothes soaked with mud, piss and come anymore. Someone had changed him. A fresh black t-shirt a little too tight across the shoulders and dry jeans that didn’t stick to his skin. His short hair was almost dry, just slightly messy on the pillow.
He didn’t understand.
He must have blacked out in the cabin. He remembered the pain exploding as John’s cock tore into him, the hot rush of his own piss running down his thighs, his eyelashes heavy with tears and vomit. Then nothing. Total darkness. And now he was here clean, dressed in different clothes in the motel bed with Sam looking at him like he was afraid he might not wake up.
“Dean?” Sam murmured hisvoice low and tense. “You scared me. Dad brought you back late. He said you passed out after training, that you collapsed in the car. He cleaned you up a bit because you were covered in mud and blood. He changed your clothes. He said you needed to sleep.”
Dean swallowed. His throat was dry and sore. He could still feel the ghost of Dad’s cock at the back of his throat the taste of come and bile. He looked down at himself. The t-shirt was clean. No stains. No smell of cold sweat or sex. Just soap and that aftershave that reminded him of the brown leather jacket. He shifted his legs slightly under the blanket and the dull pain in his ass made him grimace again. He felt open raw, like something inside him had torn and hadn’t healed yet. Every small movement sent a wave of burning pressure through his lower belly.
He didn’t remember anything after blacking out. Not the drive. Not John carrying or dragging him to the Impala. Not someone wiping him down, washing him, dressing him like a kid who had made a mess. The thought of John doing that while he was unconscious made his stomach turn. It felt wrong.
Sam sat up a little but stayed on the edge of the bed. He looked tired too with dark circles under his eyes. He was holding something in his hand, a small crumpled paper bag the kind you get from a vending machine or the gas station on the corner.
“Dad left again this morning” Sam continued softly. “He said he had another case to handle. He might be back tonight or tomorrow. He gave me this for you. He said you did a good job during training and that you deserved something nice.”
He held out the small bag.
Dean took it slowly. Inside were two chocolate bars, a bag of barbecue chips the ones he liked a little too salty and a small orange plastic bottle with a white label. Painkillers. The strong kind. The ones that could knock out serious pain.
Dean stared at the bottle for a long moment. His lowered lashes hid the expression in his green eyes. He could feel the dull pain pulsing between his cheeks, deep and throbbing, a constant reminder that his body no longer felt entirely like his own. He could also feel how clean his skin was that clean smell that shouldn’t have been there. He should have smelled like mud and come and his own piss. Not this.
Dad had given him painkillers.
After what he had done to him in that cabin.
Dean’s fingers tightened slightly around the bag. The gesture was so twisted it almost made him laugh. Almost. John had fucked him raw made him piss himself and then handed him pills like he was doing him a favor? Like this was normal? Like this was care?
He reached into the bag and pulled out the small bottle. The label was generic but he recognized the type. Strong. The kind that could take the edge off even the worst pain.
Sam watched him quietly.
Dean didn’t say anything. He just put the bottle back in the bag and clutched the whole thing to his chest. His fingers trembled a little.
“Thanks” he murmured his voice hoarse.
Sam looked at him worried. “Are you sure you’re okay? You look rough. Dad said you ran for a long time in the forest. He said you held up well but that you were exhausted.”
Dean nodded once. He couldn’t talk about the cabin. He couldn’t tell Sam what Dad had done to him while he was on his knees on that cold wooden floor.
So he held the small paper bag tighter against his chest and closed his eyes for a second.
“I’m okay.” he lied. “Just tired.”
Sam stayed quiet for a moment, then stood up to get a glass of water from the small sink. Dean heard him moving around the soft footsteps, the water running. He opened his eyes again and stared at the stained ceiling. His body hurt everywhere. His ass burned dully with every breath. He could still feel the sensation of being stretched and torn. And yet he was clean. Dressed in different clothes. And Dad had left him chips, chocolate, and strong painkillers like it was a normal reward after a hard training session.
It was weird. But it was Dad.
Dean held the bag a little tighter and let his head fall back against the pillow. He closed his eyes. He didn’t know how long he had been unconscious. He didn’t know exactly what John had done to clean him up. He didn’t know why this small gesture, this bag of junk food and painkillers hurt more than the physical pain in his ass.
Sam came back with the glass of water. Dean took it, drank a sip and kept his eyes on the stained ceiling. The water was lukewarm and tasted like pipes but it felt good on his still-irritated throat. He felt Sam sit down again on the edge of the bed, the mattress dipping slightly under his weight. His brother didn’t say anything. He just stayed there the way he always had when he was little.
Dean blinked slowly. Twice. He turned his head slightly on the pillow. His green eyes met his brother’s for a moment.
Dean swallowed. He wasn’t going to say what he was really thinking. He wasn’t going to say “Thanks for being here. It helps that you didn’t leave.” He wasn’t built for that kind of thing.
So he muttered with a rough and a little broken voice:
“…Thanks Sammy. For staying. You could’ve just taken the chips and left me here to die alone. You’re annoying, but… you’re a good little brother.”
He added quickly to keep it from getting too serious, a crooked little smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes:
“And you didn’t eat everything. That’s really something.”
Sam didn’t answer right away. He looked down at the crumpled bag Dean was still holding against his chest, then lifted his head. A small smile passed across his face. He nodded once like he understood what Dean wasn’t saying.
“Yeah, well… someone’s gotta make sure you don’t wake up complaining that there’s no more food.”
Dean let out a small breath that was almost a laugh. He closed his eyes again, but this time he didn’t squeeze them shut. He just stayed there his head on the pillow, the bag of snacks and painkillers still clutched in his hand. The pain was still there of course dull and deep but it felt a little less alone.
Because Sam was there. Sam didn’t ask questions Dean couldn’t answer, Sam stayed.
And for now, that was enough.