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The phone wakes him. It’s the one only John has the number to (and Sam, but he doesn’t call, not anymore) so he's awake in heartbeat, picking it up.
“Dad, what is it?” Dean’s voice is gravelly, and he has to clear his throat.
“Dean, where are you? Still in Seneca?”
“Yeah. I finished the job yesterday, was planning on heading back upstate today.”
“So you’re still at the same motel?” John is driving why he talks, Dean can hear the sound of the motor.
“Yeah.”
“All right, I’ll be there in 20 minutes. “ The phone clicks off, and Dean blinks, staring at the ceiling above his bed. Nothing to do but get up then.
John would have said if they were leaving, so he doesn’t pack up. He doesn’t bother to get dressed either, only pulls on yesterday’s jeans. He does get the first-aid kit ready, just in case. John wouldn’t randomly drop by in the middle of the night if he didn’t need help with something. They meet up regularly, but mostly they do separate jobs and agree on roadhouses and motels to meet at. Things have been different since Sam left. Dean gets restless, John gets awkward, and things get weird. They don’t hang out just for the sake of hanging out anymore.
Dean absentmindedly fidgets with the needlecase.
Tries not to think about just how weird things have gotten a few times.
Fails.
The really strange thing is that Sam’s absence doesn’t feel like a hole they have to fill, it feels like a leash that’s been taken off. Not that Dean wouldn’t give anything for Sam to come back, he loves the kid. The restraint wasn't a bad thing, and it was easier to keep this thing down when his little brother’s eyes were watching him. The two of them alone…
And John feels it too. There’s no doubt about it, he knows the man too well.
There’s a knock on the door. Dean grabs his shotgun and walks over to open it, taking a moment to make sure it’s John through the peephole.
“Hey.” He steps aside to let the man in.
John pushes by him, dropping his bag on the floor by the door. His jacket hangs open enough for Dean to see the blood caked in his shirt, and he feels a pang of fear.
“Dad, are you alright?!”
John, who’s already at the minibar and tossing down miniature bottles of booze, nods shortly.
“Yeah, I’m good. It was just the were. It got a hit in before I killed it. I’m gonna need you to patch it up for me.” He groans, and sits down on the bed. It’s still crumbled from Dean sleeping in it, which he tries not to notice.
“Alright. I’m gonna get water.”
He has pre-heated some in the little boiler provided by the motel, so it doesn’t take long to pour it into the bowl. He kneels down in front of John, and starts carefully cutting off the shirt with a scissor. The blood has mostly dried, and is clotting the wounds, making the shirt stick to them. John is trying hard not to wince, but Dean knows exactly how uncomfortable that is. Nothing to do about it.
The silence is heavy. They’ve done this a million times, but the intimacy of it gets to Dean still. More than it has before probably. It’d sure be convenient if there was a better position to do this in than kneeling between John’s knees.
There’s quite a lot of blood, but he gets it washed off and gets a proper look at the wound. It isn’t pretty, but it isn’t the worst he’s fixed. John gives a small hiss of pain when he uses the antiseptic to clean the places the claws broke skin. Dean can’t help the small comforting sound he makes, but he isn’t going to comment.
“You're gonna need stitches two places, I think.”
John makes a noncommittal sound.
Getting the needle ready is routine. Sewing up his dad’s skin should be routine too by now, but he can’t help but match the intake of breath the man makes with a shattered one of his own. The wound is bleeding softly again now, and Dean has to swipe blood away twice. He can’t help watching the way the needle pierces the skin and flesh, new blood beading where it’s gone through. Can’t help slowing down.
Dean realizes he’s breathing hard. His fingers tremble when he knots the thread on the first wound. His jeans are uncomfortably tight, and he suddenly wishes he’d worn something under.They’re both sweating, though it’s not exactly hot in the room. John has an excuse, but Dean really hasn’t, and as he puts the needle to the second gash he wants it too much. He does what he has to though, sewing carefully. Meticulously. Like his dad taught him.
One of the beads gets too heavy and a small trickle of blood starts rolling down. It follows the line of John’s muscles, catching on an older scar. Dean realizes he’s staring, but can’t quite seem to stop. His face is too close to John’s chest.
Tying the second knot is very very hard.
After, he drops the needle in the bowl, but doesn’t get up to clean it up. He also doesn’t reach for the bandages. The hand not holding the needle stays on his dad’s chest, where it has been keeping the wound together. He can see it trembling, can feel the heat of John’s skin where his bloodcovered fingers press against it.
“Dean…”
John’s voice is rough when he speaks, even deeper than normal. He doesn’t move.
Dean leans in that little bit closer, and suddenly his tongue has got that little trickle of blood. He follows it up, but stops before he gets to the wound. That part needs to stay clean, he knows that. He can feel the muscles under his tongue, tightening, trembling.
The blood tastes like any other blood - salty, sweet and metallic. Slightly gross. But the fact that it’s his dad’s changes everything. His forehead is resting against John’s chest; his breath is fanning out across his stomach.
One of John’s hands is tangled in his hair.
Dean’s world is made of John. He can taste him. Smell him, the heavy smell of cold sweat, blood and gunpowder. And overlaying smell of booze. His hands are clutching at John’s sides, leaving smears of blood where he has already cleaned it off once.
The impasse lasts a lifetime.
Then John’s hand twitches as if he’s about to let go, and Dean is moving before it quite registers, leaning up as far as he can reach, clutching at John’s neck. The kiss is as inelegant as it gets, teeth clashing together too hard and Dean is desperately licking into John’s mouth. He doesn’t know if the open mouth is permission or just surprise, but he doesn’t really care either, too far gone.
John is frozen under his hands, until he isn’t, and there is a tongue answering his, a growl rolling into his mouth. The hand in his hair tightens enough that it hurts and Dean wouldn’t want it any other way. They are practically biting at each other’s mouths at this point, and Dean has a hard time not humping the air. The constriction of his pants is almost painful. His hands have long since let go of John’s sides and are travelling all over that battle-hardened muscle, scratching, clutching. It’s perfect.
John breaks the kiss, but doesn’t move more than an inch away. There’s a moment where they just breathe each other in, and then John is chuckling dryly, the sound scratchy as if he has trouble getting it out.
“You taste like blood, son. It’s disgusting.”
“Yeah.”
He feels like his voice is barely audible.
“I don’t mind.”
John catches his eyes, and Dean knows that he isn’t talking about the blood. Or maybe he’s talking about the blood. Who cares? There’s permission in his eyes. Acceptance.
The next kiss is gentler, not quite as desperate. It’s more like a promise and less like breaking the rules. By the time it’s over, he feels content in a way he hasn’t for a long while. The only thing that would make this moment better is an orgasm. His cock is still complaining loudly where it’s trapped, and a quick glance reveals that John isn’t faring any better.
He only hesitates a little when he reaches down to open John’s pants. The hitch of breath is as much a confirmation as he needs, and when John’s cock finally springs free, nothing in the world could stop him from touching it. He might be biased, but it’s the most goddamn gorgeous cock he has ever seen, and he’s seen a bigger sample than he cares to think about.
John groans appreciatively when Dean wraps his hand around it, and the hand still in his hair tightens and then lets go, gliding down to grip his neck. It makes Dean shiver, reminds him of too many fatherly embraces. Makes him whisper “Dad” into the silence.
John’s cock twitches in his grip, and Dean can’t help the wicked smirk or the flush of heat. He’d been worried they’d have to pretend, and he really didn’t want that. John was his dad, and that was part of the attraction. The admittedly rather sick attraction, but what can a man do with a dad as hot as John.
John’s cock in his right hand is throbbing, and John is shifting imperceptibly trying to resist the urge to thrust. Time to get this party going.
He starts a slow rhythm, swirling his thumb at the head to gather the precome there, using it as lube. His mouth gets to work at John’s chest and stomach. He has an unhealthy fascination with his old man’s scars, but he doesn’t really care as long as he gets to keep mapping them out with his mouth. His course is rather obvious though, getting closer and closer to where his hand is working. John isn’t exactly pressing his head down, but by the tension in the hand gripping his neck, he sure as hell wants to. Dean stops, his tongue teasing a hipbone.
“What do you want, Dad? Tell me.”
His words are slurred, his mouth not letting go of John’s skin. John groans, and his other hand finally makes an appearance, grabbing Dean’s face and tilting it up. A couple of fingers find their way into Dean’s mouth, and he can’t help sucking on them, moaning around them. “Your mouth, son. I want you mouth on my cock.” Dean tries to reply around the fingers, getting out a sloppy “Yessir”.
There’s force behind John’s grip now, and Dean loves it. His tongue finds John’s cock, the head. The taste is heady, and he doesn’t have the patience for teasing, he want to get it in his mouth. Swallowing it all down isn’t easy, but he’s got practice. It doesn’t seem like John minds him gagging either, if the hand still at his neck is any sign. He doesn’t relent till he can feel the curls of John’s pubes tickling his nose, the smell of musk and sweat even more intense here. Then he opens his eyes.
John is looking down at him. His eyes are almost completely black, his mouth hanging open, panting. The sight is almost enough to get Dean to blow his load, or at least it feels that way.
Dean starts a slow bobbing rhythm, sucking on his way in and letting his tongue play on the out. John is swearing and moaning above, and it’s just a matter of time before he gives in and thrusts, Dean can practically feel the tension vibrate from John’s thighs, where his hands have conveniently placed themselves. He sneaks one of them down to roll John’s balls lazily, and that’s it, the hand clutching at Deans head forces him down, and John is fucking his mouth like a man dying. Dean doesn’t have time to do anything but breathe when the opportunity presents itself, and try to remember that teeth are not allowed.
He’s aware that he’s moaning continuously now. He’s always enjoyed getting his throat fucked, likes it rough. But seeing his dad lose it like that, just taking what he wants. Feeling that cock ram into him. It’s the best sex he’s ever had, and his cock hasn’t even been touched.
It doesn’t take long after that. With a last swollen twitch and a few desperate uncoordinated thrusts, John starts coming down his throat. He pulls him back by the hair, so the last spurt get’s Dean on the chin. He licks up as much as he can, swallowing. His hands are fumbling at his jeans now, desperate to get to his cock, and it only takes two jerks and the taste of John on his tongue before he’s coming too.
He might have called him daddy while he did.
The silence after isn't tense at all. Dean rests his head on John's thigh, feeling exhausted, and suddenly remembering that he was woken in the middle of the night. But there's still things to do before he can collapse.
"I think we might have to clean the wounds again."
He yawns.