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10. Sometimes it was once a month, sometimes it was every day. The inconsistency was the worst part; he’d lie awake all night with his stomach tying itself in knots, just waiting, clenching his legs together tight like that would help. It didn’t matter if John fell asleep before him. He’d woken up wanting it before.
They never did it while Sammy was in the room, at least. It happened less often in motels but it was always worse, much less comfortable to half-kneel in the back of the Impala than to lie flat in bed. Back when it started he would cry every time, afterwards, and Dad would get angry if he saw, angry mixed with something else. He’d drag Dean back across the parking lot by his wrist and tell him to go clean up and tell him he better not be crying when he came back. If they weren’t all sharing a room he wouldn’t have to see it, and they both liked that better.
Dad had just gotten back from a hunt. Three days in Amarillo, a dead monster in his wake and a townful of lives saved. Everyone was in a good mood that night. Dad told Sammy that he and Dean were gonna go pick up some Taco Bell and he should stay behind and lock the door and not open it for anybody unless they knew the password, chalupa.
They pulled into a movie theater parking lot, huge and mostly empty. Rain poured. Dean was glad he wasn’t in his pajamas, he didn’t like wet pajamas. It wouldn’t take that long because they had to get back to Sammy.
---
13. Dean jerked awake. 1:42am, according to the motel alarm clock. Dad was crouching next to the bed, a finger over his mouth, shh.
“Let’s go. Got a long day tomorrow.”
Dean nodded and swung his legs out of bed, rubbing his eyes. The sooner they finished the sooner he could go back to sleep. He could tell by the way Dad gripped his arm on the way to the car that tonight wouldn’t be easy, but hopefully it would at least be fast. Dean was tired and still sore from yesterday’s training drills.
Dad drove them around to the back of the motel, by the dark and fenced-off pool. It was more misty than rainy, just wet air. His eyes were hungry as he circled around to the passenger side and dragged Dean out and into the backseat. Dean didn’t really need that kind of prompting, but if John wanted to do it he wouldn’t complain.
They crawled into the backseat and shut the doors. John pushed Dean onto his back and yanked his sweatpants down, batting away Dean’s hands when he tried to help. Dean went limp. Sometimes Dad liked to manhandle him, didn't want Dean to participate so much.
When his pants were on the floor Dad dug his fingers into Dean’s thighs. He spread his son’s skinny legs, roughly, and kneed his way in between them. He hadn’t undressed at all. He rarely did.
John hiked Dean’s shirt up and found his nipples. Dean bit his lip when he pinched, then twisted. His back arched up off the leather.
“You like that?”
Dad knew he didn’t. Dean clenched his jaw tight to keep from crying out.
“Mmhm.”
Dad’s face was dark, shadowed. He was breathing hard.
“Yeah, you do.” He brought a hand up to Dean’s mouth, nudged two fingers against his bottom lip. “Suck.”
Dean opened his mouth and John shoved his fingers inside. He pushed them in and out while Dean licked and sucked and drooled; salt, metal, gun oil, rough and heavy against Dean’s tongue. He watched Dean’s face closely as he pushed deeper, deeper, and Dean couldn't help the small choking noises he made when John jabbed the back of his throat. He didn’t pull away, though. He couldn’t, there was nowhere to go.
John’s lips twisted up, satisfied. “There you go, boy. Suck on Daddy’s fingers, just like that.”
Dean sucked harder. He tried to puff out his lips a little, Dad said that made him look like a porn star and it was demeaning but so was all of this, and the more Dad liked it the sooner it’d end.
John withdrew his fingers. He bent one of Dean’s knees up to his chest with the other hand, then positioned his wet pointer finger at Dean’s hole.
He looked Dean in the eyes. “Tell me what you’re gonna do.”
“I’m gonna take Daddy’s cock, sir.” It was okay that his voice trembled, John liked that.
“What are you, Dean?”
Dean dug his fingers into the leather beneath him. “I’m a whore, sir.”
John grinned at him, teeth gleaming white in the dark. “Yeah, you are.”
He started to press a finger inside. Dean hissed but didn’t jerk away.
“Daddy’s whore, right?”
Dean nodded. He wanted so badly to look away but when Dad was in this kind of mood he wouldn’t accept that. “Yes, Daddy.”
John only thrust his finger in and out a few times before adding another. His nails were a little too long. Dean whimpered. He wanted to cry but he didn’t have permission.
Dad’s eyes were locked on his hole, swallowing up his fingers over and over.
“Yeah,” he breathed. “Yeah, just like that.”
He twisted a little, scissored. Dean clapped a hand over his mouth and Dad yanked it away again. He shoved his fingers in deep, and Dean gasped and then wailed, short and broken off.
“You know better,” John warned. “You let me hear you.”
“Yes sir,” Dean choked.
John pulled his fingers out. When he unzipped his jeans his dick sprung loose, ready for action, huge and hard and angry. John stroked it a few times, up on his knees, looking down at his son’s wide eyes, his red lips.
“You know what’s gonna happen now?”
Dean hated when he talked this much. But he hated all of it.
“You’re gonna fuck me, sir.”
John spit into his hand. “That’s right.” He lubed himself up, then repeated the motion, spit, stroke. He was feeling generous tonight. “I’m gonna fuck you and you’re gonna take it.”
He lined himself up, folding Dean in half as he did it.
“Ankles on my shoulders.” An order. Dean obeyed.
John closed his eyes as he started to push inside. Slow at first, then one hard thrust and half his cock disappeared. Dean’s mouth opened but no sound came out.
“Fuck,” John grunted. He pulled out a little, then shoved back in, deeper. “Fuck, you’re still so tight.”
Dean breathed fast through his nose and stared at the roof of the car.
John squeezed his ankles in his big hands. He took a breath, then dropped his full weight down on Dean’s ass, pushing forward with everything he had.
Dean couldn’t help the sob that burst out of him. “No—”
“No?” John stopped, all the way inside.
“I mean—I mean—I’m sorry,” Dean gasped. There was too much pain for him to think straight. How could it still hurt so bad, after all this time? “I didn’t—”
John watched him. A slow smile stretched across his face.
“That’s okay, bud.” He pulled out a little, then rocked back in, gentler. “It hurts, huh?”
“Yes.” Dean barely managed to get the word out.
John dropped his head down next to Dean’s ear. “You can cry, sweetheart. It’s okay.”
He pulled back again, looked down at Dean’s face as the tears started flowing from his eyes. He looked satisfied, a little triumphant as he thrust back in. He loved to be reminded of the power he had, Dean knew, the complete ownership.
Slowly, he built up a rhythm. Then not so slowly. Dean clung to his arms and cried, openly, trying not to get too loud but not restraining himself, either. Dad cooed at him as he pumped in and out. “It’ll be over soon, just give Daddy what he needs.”
Dean sniffled hard, mouth open and gasping. John wouldn’t last long, if his speed was anything to go by, or the way he was watching Dean, ravenous with lust.
“Come on, kiddo, take it, take it—”
He groaned and dropped back down, crushing Dean to the seat, blanketing him. Coarse beard-hair scratched Dean’s neck and bare shoulder, and John’s tongue licked a stripe up his artery. He opened his mouth against Dean’s ear and held it there, panting, his harsh breaths all Dean could hear.
A closed-mouth whine came from somewhere in Dean’s chest. His hips ached, bent as far back as they could go. One of John’s hands closed in his hair and yanked his head back. He stared into Dean’s eyes, inches away, breathing Dean’s air, almost smiling, before his eyes squeezed shut.
“Yeah,” he breathed. “Yeah, yeah, fuck—”
His dick throbbed. It burned a little with each pulse as Dad’s orgasm tore through him, and he groaned, loudly, his nose touching Dean’s now, his smell everywhere, his face the only thing in the world.
---
17. Dean was allowed on hunts now. Outside of their sessions he was being treated differently, more adult, more trustworthy.
He still didn’t complain, when they pulled into parking lots on dark nights.
John dug his fingers into Dean’s hips and jerked him back and forth. It had been a long, exhausting day; Dean didn’t know where a man his age got this kind of energy. As he moved faster and harder they began inching forward on the seat, until finally Dean felt his head banging against the door handle.
“Wait, Dad, stop,” he gasped. It was something he hadn’t asked since he was a child, and he was surprised to hear himself say it now. More surprising, though, was that John did stop.
“What is it?” he panted. “Am I hurting you?” Dean didn’t pause to dwell on the absurdity of the question, or the disbelief that John would care at all.
“No—it’s just—my head.”
“Sorry—right. Okay,” he felt John slide out of him and shuffle backwards, before taking hold of his hips again and pulling him back too.
“Better?” he asked, moving slower now.
Dean nodded at the seat cushion as Dad’s arm wrapped around his chest. He never expected anything from his father when they were together like this—he’d learned long ago that whatever humanity Dad saw in him dropped away almost entirely when they were alone—and so to be treated with any sort of kindness or mercy was a blessing. The moment almost felt like something that might transpire between two lovers. Though he didn’t know if he was attracted to men (it had never mattered before, and likely never would) he imagined now that he was in this car in a rain-slicked parking lot with an equal and a partner, that the hot breath against his neck belonged to someone who loved him.