Chapter Text
John panted on top, the room dark, a neon sign across the street throwing the only light in. Blue. Faint blue outlines of John’s face, open mouth.
Dean, hands balled up in the front of his father’s shirt, was silent. The only noise came from John’s breathing, and from the rustle and scrape of clothes on the sheets, and the wet, shlucking noise between Dean’s legs where his father labored in and out.
If Dean looked down he could see his bare stomach in faint blue light, blue light that reached almost to the naked, liquid crevice between his thighs. He could catch glimpses of his father’s motion there. Thick. Wet. Reflecting flashes of neon blue light.
He didn’t look.
John let out a low, obscene groan.
He hefted suddenly forward, pushing Dean’s legs — already aching from the strain of spreading, wrapping around John’s larger body — higher up so he could come down closer, and then there was no spacer of blue light between their bodies.
There was just John, heavy on top of Dean, churning between his legs.
Dean began to whimper. He couldn’t stop it. In the closeness now there was a bumping, a rubbing against his rarely touched clit.
He tried to cover the stimulation with his hands.
John didn’t let him.
He put Dean’s hands away and moved more animatedly, stirred by his son’s response, unreadable in the dark but clearly excited.
Dean had no practiced defenses against the friction. He came with soft, self-muffled cries.
John let out another grunt, hefting his hips harder, his panting starting to escalate. The sounds of wet pussy fucking and thighs slapping ass grew faster. Louder.
Then John went rigid.
“Wait!” Dean shoved against his chest in sudden alarm. “Wait, don’t—”
But John was already emptying himself inside.
Shuddering. Groaning. Spasmodic twitches making his thighs flex against Dean, who had fallen silent.
John panted, went still, and stayed there shuddering.
Dean lay there quietly. He looked at the blue neon sign across the street.
After a few minutes, John sat back on his heels, dick slipping out of the messiness between Dean’s legs. There was another minute of silence. Then John reached out, his fingers slipping into Dean’s pussy. Curling.
John finger-fucked the opened space where his cock had been. Two fingers, three. Four. There was so much room now, and so much wet noise, Dean sticky and drooling between the legs with cum and with his own body’s eagerness.
John thumped his fingers into Dean until he climaxed again, clinging to the sheets and crying out once. Only once. Quietly.
Then John withdrew his fingers, sticky, and wiped them on the sheets. He got off the bed.
Dean listened to John pull his pants the rest of the way back up, zip them, and buckle the belt. Neither of them spoke.
After a minute, Dean began to look for his pants, too.
—
It was raining at the bus stop, and Dean hadn’t planned for rain.
He had planned for everything else. Not rain.
The roof of the bus shelter was cracked on one side, and water poured through. Dean watched the rain splatter continuously on the seat underneath, splattering over ancient carved-in graffiti and fossilized wads of gum.
The fuzzy feeling persisted.
He had been warned about the fuzziness and told not to drive; he hadn’t mentioned that driving was a moot point, that his license was fake. Not even a good fake, at that. It had been a rush job, and he hadn’t been able to get John’s help.
He shivered.
He hadn’t planned for rain, and so he’d had to make a run for the bus shelter, and he was drenched.
It felt appropriate.
The sky was punishing him.
Dean gratefully accepted the punishment of cold and wet over cramps, which stirred occasionally even through the haze of fading sedation. They would get worse — in three to five days, he’d been told. When the bleeding started.
He tried not to think about bleeding.
He tried to focus on the cold, on the water pouring through the cracked bus shelter roof, and to ignore every other feeling that threatened to rise up inside of him.
He lasted about as long as it took for Bobby’s truck to pull up.
“What are you doing, kid?” was Bobby’s immediate admonishment, stomping through the puddles with a coat over his head. He tossed the coat over Dean, wrapped it around him with a scowl, and busied him into the car. Dean heard his irate, concerned grumbling as the door shut, watched Bobby circle around to the driver’s side, and Bobby was still grumbling when he popped back in and gunned the engine on.
Bobby rummaged in the back, pulled out a scratchy old towel that looked like it had been used for cleaning guns at some point, and tossed it to Dean. “Here.”
Dean mutely began to towel his hair, squeezing out water, watching the windshield wipers work.
Bobby turned up the heat, which came out of the vents with a faint whoom.
“You gonna tell me what this is about?” he demanded.
His voice was not harsh, but scolding. His scowl was all the scowlier for seeing Dean now in one piece. He had probably expected to find Dean savaged by some monster, not sitting in the rain outside an abortion clinic.
“Sorry,” said Dean, small-voiced.
Something about his tone gave Bobby pause.
Bobby looked him over, the scowl puzzling into more of a frown, as he took in Dean’s hunched shape, dulled eyes. Dean was holding a little paper sack, the kind you get medications dispersed in, with a stapled sheet of instructions on it.
The instructions were folded, all the damning text hidden on the inside, Bobby wasn’t stupid.
His eyes ticked from Dean to the clinic.
Dean kept his gaze on the windshield wipers, so he didn’t have to see the transformation on Bobby’s face, the realization and whatever feelings came with it. Shock? Sympathy? Pity? Dean could guess, but he didn’t want to see any of it.
For a minute they sat in silence, Dean dully grateful of the heat but otherwise feeling little.
“Is it—” Bobby paused. The hesitation in his voice hurt; there was something strangled about it, about the fact that Bobby didn’t know what to say, or how to say it. “Is it… done? Or is that for…?”
Dean shook his head.
“These are antibiotics,” he said, holding up the bag. There was a faint rattle of pills shifting in a bottle.
Bobby paused again.
“Is there anything you need?” he asked finally, his voice coming out slightly gruff. Trying to be gentle but struggling to hold back a stronger response. “Anything I can stop, pick up on the way?”
Dean shook his head.
Then he paused.
“Maybe… something to eat?” His stomach hurt; he made himself believe it was hunger, and that was it. “Drive-through?”
“Oh hell, kid,” said Bobby said, and this time he was unable to keep the pity out of his voice. “We can do better than that.”
—
Bobby’s place would not have been soothing to most people, full of books stacked ceiling-high and dusty occult relics, but to Dean it was as close to home as a place could feel.
He sat at Bobby’s kitchen table with a hot water bottle on his stomach and a plateful of pancakes. The skillet sizzled in the background. Bobby was mumbling something about crispy bacon, was asking how crispy Dean preferred it, sounding altogether agitated and like he was making conversation because the alternative was doing something violent.
Dean ate his pancakes and read his aftercare instructions without taking anything in.
The sedation had worn off entirely, and the ibuprofen he’d taken helped with cramps but not the worse pain. The wound that he kept trying to pull a blanket of numbness over. He held the hot water bottle more tightly to him, as if he could absorb the warmth into the very center of his body. Down to where it really hurt.
Bobby turned from the stove. “Make some room,” he said.
Dean dutifully forked aside some pancakes, and Bobby filled the empty space with eggs and bacon, then sat down with his own plate.
Bobby made motions with his fork like he was planning on eating, poking at the food, but seemed about as interested in it as if it were a pile of wet sawdust.
Dean supposed they were both going to sit there in silence, pretending to eat. He had already stuffed himself with as much pancake as could fit in his body. He thought he might be able to manage a few bites of egg, a few of bacon, and that would be it.
Finally Bobby sighed, stopped poking around with his fork, and put it down.
“Dean,” he said.
Dean’s stomach churned. He wished there wasn’t so much food in it.
Bobby looked about as miserable as Dean felt, but leaned forward, folding his fingers over the table probably to keep them from fidgeting.
“I’d give anything not to have to ask you this,” he said. “God knows this is tough enough already. But—”
“You want to know who,” said Dean, ripping off the bandaid. “So you can go get your shotgun.”
“Kid—” Bobby looked pained, exasperated. He leaned back in his chair, took his hat off and ran his fingers through it, making a mess. “Listen.” He leaned forward again, excruciatingly empathetic. “I know— I know you’re not a ‘kid,’ Dean, God knows you’re tougher and more capable than I was at your age. I’m not trying to talk down to you. But you are a kid — in the eyes of the law. And in my eyes, when it comes to this sort of thing. You are— you are too young to be going through this.”
Was he?
Dean thought this was a strange and arbitrary place to draw the line. He wasn’t too young for shotguns, trip wires, grave-digging. He was old enough that bones, grisly things, blood and guts didn’t bother him. Honestly, had they ever?
This imaginary wound didn’t hurt as much as getting thrown up against a wall by a ghoul, breaking his collarbone and half his ribs. He’d been old enough to endure that. He’d been stoic on the drive to the hospital, had skimped on the pain meds and was back to hunting as soon as his aching body allowed.
Bobby must have read the skepticism on his face, and tried a different angle.
“Dean,” he said. “Whoever he is— if he is older than you, then what he did to you was a crime. Doesn’t matter how you felt about it, feel about it. Or about him.”
“He’s not a bad person.” The words escaped Dean’s mouth before he could stop them, a defense that came automatically. “It was just… a mistake.”
The pain on Bobby’s face seemed to worsen. Again, he leaned back in his chair, and he turned his head and seemed to contemplate the sink. Holding something in. Thinking.
Dean gnawed on his lower lip.
His eyes smarted.
It would have been easier, he thought, if he had just said ‘a stranger. A stranger did it. I didn’t know him. I didn’t see his face.’
Finally Bobby said, “Dean… I’m not your father.”
Dean’s throat squeezed convulsively.
“I’m not here to judge you,” continued Bobby. “I’m not going to go grab my shotgun, take matters into my own hands. But this is serious.”
Why had he eaten so much?
Dean felt like he was about three more minutes of this conversation away from puking.
He could only repeat, “It was a mistake,” hearing his voice hollow, and try pathetically to insist, “He’s a good person, Bobby. Really. It wasn’t… like that.”
He couldn’t bear the look on Bobby’s face. He dropped his gaze to his plate and let his eyes blur.
“Dean,” said Bobby gently. “If he’s such a great guy, why were you there by yourself? Why did you need me to pick you up?”
It was Dean’s turn to fidget with his fork.
They sat in his silence for a while, until Bobby eventually concluded that Dean would say no more and got up to clear the plates.
Dean sat there, looking at the empty spot on the table in front of him, the plate-sized gap encircled by Bobby’s books and knicknacks.
The image clung to his eyes. It stuck to him.
The empty circle.
He was empty now, too.
Knocking uneaten eggs into the trash, Bobby said, “I’ll go call your daddy, tell him you’re alive.”
Dean jerked so hard he dropped the hot water bottle. It went rolling on the floor.
Bobby looked at him, startled, and began to say, “Don’t worry, I’m not going to tell him anything — not now, at least—” and then stopped.
He stared at Dean.
Dean didn’t know what expression was on his face, but he felt tears finally running down his cheeks. Once they started, they wouldn’t stop.
He knew the truth was naked on his face, and he couldn’t hold back anything — not the truth, not the tears, not his own brokenness — he could only wipe his eyes fruitlessly, and weep, and croak, “Don’t call him, Bobby. Don’t.”