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If you asked Dean how he’d gotten himself into this situation, placating his father with sexual favours so his wrath never touched Sammy, he wouldn’t be able to tell you.
He didn’t remember how it started, what he’d done that first time. Had John initiated it? Had Dean? He didn’t know, the memories were fuzzy. Maybe he had blocked them out or maybe it had just been going on for so long he couldn’t remember anymore. He was seventeen now and it had been happening for years.
Dean was sitting at the table with Sammy, helping him through some homework when John stumbled in, clearly having been drinking.
“Go upstairs, Sam,” Dean murmured, gathering Sam’s papers and shoving them into his folder roughly, quickly. He didn’t have much time until John started getting aggressive.
“But Dean—” Sam started to protest, anger and disgust written across his face as he watched his father lazily light a cigarette, leaning against the counter before taking a drag.
“No buts,” Dean said firmly. “Go upstairs, Sammy. Close your door and put your headphones on.”
Sam sighed, throwing a hate filled look at John before stomping up the stairs with his homework.
“Good boy,” John purred, looking at Dean with dark eyes. “I’ve got you well trained.”
Dean wanted to scowl, he hated the fact that his father was right. He was well trained. He knew exactly what his father wanted right now and he was willing to give it to him. Their deal was that Dean would do whatever John wanted and John would leave Sam alone. It was a good deal, it had held steady for years now, but every day Dean worried what would happen when John finally got tired of him. What would happen to Sam? Would John go after him then?
“Stop thinking so much and get over here,” John huffed, rolling his eyes. “On your knees, boy.”
Dean sighed, glancing at the stairway to make sure Sam wasn’t loitering. It had happened before, Sam had this thought in his head that he could save Dean, that he could stop what their father was about to do, but Sam didn’t know John like Dean did. He didn’t know what John was capable of. Dean did. He knew.
And because he knew, he listened to John and approached, sinking to his knees in front of his father. Dean waited for John to nod, giving him permission, knowing by now that if he started without John’s okay he’d get a hard slap to the face.
“Go on then,” John said, giving him the nod he was waiting for.
Dean undid his father’s belt with practiced fingers and pulled his jeans and boxers down, just far enough to get access to his cock. He took a small breath before he leaned in and licked, the familiar taste of his dad settling on his tongue. Dean suckled the head, waiting for him to get hard— begging the universe to let it happen, as Dean did not want the beating that came when John couldn’t get it up, something that occurred sometimes when he drank too much.
John grunted when Dean sucked him properly, one hand settling in his hair and the other still holding his cigarette. Dean hated how John smoked inside the house, but the one time Dean had voiced his disgust, John had shoved him against a wall and fucked him brutally, growling that he owned this house, he owned Dean, and he could do whatever he fucking pleased with both.
It had taken a couple days for his limp to go away that time.
“Focus,” John grunted, tugging on Dean’s hair harshly.
Dean snapped to attention, the thoughts he’d been lost in floating away. He put all his concentration into pleasing his father, sucking him fast and hard the way he liked it. He gagged and his stomach rolled, but he fought through it, knowing that John liked fucking his throat.
“That’s it, boy,” John said, canting his hips forward and making Dean choke again. “Love hearing you gag on my cock. At least you’re good for something.”
Dean whimpered softly at his words, a confusing mess of feelings going through him. He felt proud that John thought he was good, but the implication that all he was good for was sucking cock fucking stung. He pushed the hurt away, just like he always did, and went back to focusing on his task.
However he guessed he wasn’t doing a good enough job because John made an annoyed, impatient sound and tugged Dean’s hair harshly, not caring that he caused the boy pain.
Dean pulled back and looked up at John in confusion. He’d never stopped Dean before.
“Stand up,” John ordered, watching as Dean rose on shaky legs. “Take your pants off and bend over the table.”
“W-What?” Dean couldn’t help but ask. It wasn’t that he hadn’t been expecting to get fucked sometime tonight, but usually John built up to it and they always, always started with a blowjob. Dean had never not been able to finish before and he found the newness of his situation was making him antsy.
“I’m not in the fucking mood for questions, Dean,” John snapped, glaring at his son. “Do as I said.”
“Yes, sir,” Dean muttered, before following orders, shoving his sweats down along with his boxers and kicking them to the side. Humiliation at having to do this in the fucking kitchen curled in his stomach. Not twenty minutes ago he was sitting at this table helping Sammy with his homework and now he was being pushed down, his legs kicked apart as his father lined up, spitting on his cock before thrusting forward.
A punched out groan left Dean’s lips. He’d never fully get used to John fucking him without lube, something that happened more often than not. Sometimes John was kind and used lube, sometimes he even warmed him up first when he was feeling really nice, but most often it was like this. Quick and dirty, with Dean letting out pained grunts while John fucked him from behind.
Dean closed his eyes and remembered why he was doing this. He had to protect Sam. As long as he lived Sam would never know what this felt like, he would never have to shoulder this pain.
It wasn’t long until John’s thrusts lost the rough rhythm and he let out groan as he came, filling Dean up.
Dean wanted to hate this part, wanted to feel disgust and horror at the fact his father’s come was deep inside him, but he hated that he liked it. There was pride at making him come, that his body had satisfied him enough. It meant that he’d be placated for now. John would probably have another couple of drinks and pass out, just like he always did on nights like these.
And then Dean would be left with the aftermath. The scalding hot shower, scrubbing his skin until he felt at least somewhat clean. He’d clean himself up and crawl into bed, lie on his side and stare at the picture on his nightstand of him and Sammy, repeating over and over to himself that it was worth it.
He could handle anything and everything John threw at him if it meant keeping Sam safe.
That was the only thing that mattered.