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1992. Dean is 13.
Sam wakes up in the middle of the night dying of thirst. The glass Dean left him when he put him to bed is empty - he already chugged it before he fell asleep. It's so hot in Louisiana, an oppressive, sticky heat that makes Sam's pyjamas stick to him.
He stumbles out of bed, glass in hand.
They're staying in a motel, but this one is bigger than their usual, has a separate bedroom where he and Dean sleep and a room that functions as a living room, kitchen, and dining room where dad sleeps on the couch.
Dean isn't in the bed next to his. Come to think of it, Sam doesn't think he has seen Dean in the bed yet, and they've been there for three days.
He wonders if they fell asleep on the couch again. It happens a lot, both of them staying up later than Sam and watching TV. He's not allowed to stay up that late, which isn't fair because Dean's only thirteen.
He opens the door. The couch is across from him, the back of it facing the door. The TV is on but the volume way down. Dean and dad are awake.
Dean and dad are kissing.
Sam almost drops his glass.
Dad has Dean's face held between his large hands and he is kissing him like lovers do in movies Sam isn't supposed to watch. Or, not exactly like that, this looks... angry, almost. He doesn't know the right word. It looks like dad is devouring him, like Saturn and his son.
Dad pushes Dean back and they disappear from view, mostly, but Sam can see dad's broad back, the shift of muscles beneath his thin shirt.
He closes the door further, peeking through a gap, feeling sick but unable to look away. Dad's don't kiss their sons like that. He doesn't understand what he's seeing, thinks that maybe he will if he just watches. It doesn't make sense. Kissing is for grown-ups in love, and dad treats them more like child soldiers than people he loves. But there it is, solid evidence that dad loves Dean, enough to do that, and it almost makes sense to Sam; Dean was always his favourite.
He hears Dean gasping - dad has stopped kissing him, but then he hears wet sounds, the smack of lips on flesh, and think he's kissing him somewhere else. His neck, maybe. He saw that in a movie too.
"Dad..." Dean rasps, voice ragged, desperate. He's never heard Dean sound like that.
"Baby," dad responds, and Sam has definitely never heard his dad sound like that, voice deep and rumbling like distant thunder.
"Please," Dean begs, and Sam doesn't know what he's begging for. It must be for dad to stop. Sam knows this is wrong and he's only nine, so Dean has to know, too.
More movement and a tshirt is flung over the side of the couch. Dean's, a red Henley that was old and too small on him.
Dad does something that makes Dean cry out, and Sam is scared. Scared that dad is hurting him. Scared that this is happening. Their family, what's left of it, is fucked up, but this is a different kind of fucked up.
"Dad, don't-" Dean begs and his voice is cut off, the sound of kissing again.
"I love you so much, baby boy," dad says low and intimate.
Dean makes a sound like a sob choking on his tongue, dying in his throat.
Sam closes the door as quietly as he can and throws himself back into bed, hands over his ears, eyes squeezed shut.
1993. Dean is 14.
Bobby knows John loves his kids but he doesn't approve of the way he's raising them. It isn't right. They're just kids. They shouldn't have to live this way.
He's watching Dean patch John up after a hunt left him with a nasty bite mark on his wrist. The kid's so damn tender about it, his big green eyes full of concern and fear and love. So much love it makes Bobby feel a little uncomfortable. He never looked that way at his own father. It makes sense, he decides, or tries to make it make sense by reasoning that Dean had been through so much with his dad and is so familiar with the anxious, dread-filled days of waiting for him to come back from a hunt, always wondering if this is the last one, if he will come back at all.
It's no life for a kid.
Dean doesn't ever complain though. Sam's another matter entirely, all that kid does is complain, and Bobby can't blame him.
Bobby has long since given up on trying to make Dean have a reasonable bed time. Dean always puts Sam to bed, mothering him in a way no teenage boy should ever have to. But then he stays awake, fighting sleep even when he clearly needs it, all so he can be awake when his dad gets back.
John had swept into the room and Dean had leapt from the couch and into his open arms. The way John hugged him so hard was sweet. He really loves that kid. He whispered words to Dean that Bobby couldn't hear, and they stayed like that, John holding him while Dean visibly trembled in relief. Poor kid.
He doesn't recognise this Dean. The Dean he knows is a cocky little spitfire, all boyish arrogance and blustering bravado. Like this, he looks every inch the child he is, small in his dad's arms, vulnerable in his open weakness. Dean never shows weakness in front of John, knows he isn't allowed to, has to be strong, has to be a solider. It's a relief to know that there are moments like this that he himself is not privy to, moments where Dean is just a young boy who loves his dad and is loved in return.
John could've handled the patch up himself, but he let Dean do it, didn't say a word when Dean pulled him to the couch and got to work. Not a word, only an adoring gaze as he watched Dean work.
Bobby may as well not even be there. He's out of view, not meaning to spy, had expected to make himself known after John was done hugging the boy, but something makes him hang back. It feels wrong to spy on them like this, to be a fly on the wall for this rare moment of softness between father and son, but it's so unexpected he can't look away.
When Dean is done, John cups his face in his hands and presses a kiss to his forehead, and then one to each of his cheeks. It's... strange. He settles on strange. Dean is such a tough little hellraiser, but with John right now he's all soft.
"You look tired, baby," John says. Bobby doesn't think he's ever heard John call either of the boys that, even when they were knee-high.
"You know I can't sleep when you're gone," Dean replies, not sullenly, just matter of fact.
"I told you not to worry. I'll always come back to you. C'mon, let's get some sleep."
Bobby draws back into the shadows, watches them go into the room John uses when he visits. Both of them. Dean doesn't come out.
He's too old to be sleeping in the same bed as his dad, but he's glad to know that John still has enough of a heart to give comfort to his boy.
1994. Dean is 14.
Dean has bruises on his wrists and Sam knows damn well they're from their dad.
He has never confronted Dean about what he saw and he's never seen it happen again. He almost convinced himself it was a really fucked up dream, then when that didn't stick told himself it was just a one off drunken moment.
He had seen other things, though. From the backseat of the car he saw dad's hand on Dean's thigh, too high up. He saw dad holding Dean close and tight, more intimate than a hug, his lips against his forehead moving, saying something quiet and private. He saw Dean kiss dad's knuckles after he got in a bar fight, saw dad's hand grab his collar and pull him up, and looked away from whatever happened next.
The bruises are dark plum and ringing both of his wrists, like they had been trapped by larger, stronger hands. There's another bruise peaking out from the collar of Dean's shirt - a button down, something Dean rarely wears, but the only thing that can hide the bruise on his throat.
"He did that to you, didn't he?" Sam asks quietly. Dean startles, shoots Sam a look of pure panic.
"Who did what?" He asks, voice forcibly casual even as he tugs his sleeves down.
"Dad did that." Sam casts his gaze at Dean's wrists.
"Course he didn't."
"Then how did you get those bruises?"
"None of your damn business, Sammy. Do your homework."
"Is he hurting you?" He asks even though he knows the answer is yes.
"Of course not."
"You could tell me if he was."
"He would never hurt me," Dean says and Sam can tell from the fervour in his voice and the faithful fire in his eyes that he believes it. He doesn't know how to tell Dean that dad's already hurting him.
1994. Dean is 15.
Dad comes back drunk. Sam's in bed but he hears the door slam and the heavy thud of his boots. He hears Dean's voice, hushed and urgent, but not what he says. Dad's voice is louder, slurred. They seem to argue, like Dean's a chastising housewife and dad's his drunk husband, and Sam realises with a bolt of sick realisation that that isn't far from the truth.
Then the voices stop and there's noise, stumbling steps and a thud, the wall shaking. Sam sits up, ready to charge through, sick of pretending he doesn't know dad is hurting Dean, waiting for the sound of a slap. But it doesn’t come. What does come is the sound of Dean gasping, whining, then moaning, and dad groaning and grunting, and then the unmistakable sound of flesh slapping against flesh.
Sam has to be wrong. He knows what sex is, he's old enough.
He has to be wrong.
He has to know.
He creeps out of bed and opens the door, peering around it. Across the room, next to the front door, is the huge bulk of their dad, back to Sam. He's moving, hips bucking forwards, into Dean, who is held up by dad's hands under his ass, Dean's arms and legs wrapped around dad. He's gasping and choking on moans, trying to stay quiet. Trying to stay quiet because their dad is fucking him against the wall.
Dean's head is thrown back, knocking harshly into the wall with each brutal thrust, and dad has his face buried into the crook of Dean's neck.
"Feel so good, baby, so fucking good - shit - so fucking tight," dad grunts, filthy and shameless. Dean pulls a hand from where he's clutching his back and slaps it over his mouth, the muffled moan still loud. "Feel good, baby boy? Tell me, tell daddy how much you love his cock."
"Daddy, I -" he gasps behind his hand.
Dad pulls his hand away, supporting Dean's weight with one arm, and kisses him passionately, pressed as close to him as possible, pressed as deep into him as he is able. When they part, Dean is breathing hard, wild eyes locked with dad's.
"I love it," he says, raw and honest and Sam feels sick, feels his whole world shatter.
"I love you so much, so fucking much," dad groans, punctuating the last three words with violent thrusts that make the wall shake and Dean cry out, the sound either ecstasy or agony or both. "Say you love me," he demands.
"I love you," Dean chokes out, voice hoarse, then high as he squeals daddy as dad backs away from the wall and to the couch where he drops Dean on his back.
Sam sees dad's cock then, protruding huge and terrifying from his open jeans. He grabs Dean's waist and hauls him up so his hips are in the air, his back arched and his shoulder just barely touching the couch, and then thrusts back inside of him and Dean wails so loudly he probably woke up the people in the next room. He jostles like a rag doll, legs wrapped around dad's back, a hand slapped over his mouth as dad pounds into him so hard it has to hurt. Sam doesn't know anything but basic sex ed but there is no way he isn't hurting Dean. He's proven right because Dean sobs, and Sam is about to risk breaking the fragile illusion that they're any kind of real family to charge in and demand dad let him go, but then Dean speaks and he's frozen again.
"Please, daddy, fuck, I'm so close, fuck me, I-" he babbles and then he cries out and the image and sound of him coming is burned into Sam's mind.
Dad bends over him, hips grinding against him, and he kisses him as he groans.
Sam shuts the door and doesn't bother trying to sleep.
1996. Dean is 15.
How unlike John Winchester to be taken unawares, the demon thinks.
The man, the myth, the terrifying legend; the infamous hunter himself, too distracted to notice the demon watching him as he opens the back door of his car to let his kid inside. What a treat - a two for one Winchester special. She thinks she will kill the boy first, make is slow and painful, make John watch. She expects John to get into the driver's seat but curiously, he follows his son into the backseat.
Now just what are they up to?
She chances a closer look, crouching low behind the bushes.
Oh. Oh. Now that is interesting.
John has the boy - his pretty little son - in his lap and his hands are all over him, desperately clutching at every part of him they can reach. They're kissing, deep and sloppy, frantic with lust.
Tut tut, John. Even a demon knows that this is the lowest taboo. Now that's how you fall from God's graces. She wonders if somebody so tainted could even bless water to make it holy. Does he even know how badly he has damaged his soul, how filthy it is, how easy it will be for her? The boy, too. He doesn’t seem to be struggling. She wonders if he ever did, or if this was always some kind of fucked up mutual desire. Perhaps not. It's not unheard for for fathers to behave this way, but children, especially sons, less so. Has he just gotten used to it? Does he know fighting won't help?
He is not fighting now. He is eager, hips rapidly rising and falling in his father's lap. She'd like a better view but can't risk it. How beautiful his little hole must look, stretched around his father's cock. She shouldn't be wasting the perfect opportunity like this. Surely no demon has ever had a more exquisite chance to end the life of their worst enemy. She thrills at the idea of leaving them dead, the boy with his jeans off and the man with his cock hanging out, no mistaking what they had been up to. His reputation forever tainted by what he has done, his shameful secret.
She crouches down and watches the show. She's still a demon, after all, and this is the most delicious sin to feast her black eyes upon.
1997. Dean is 17.
Dean wakes him in the morning, singing loudly in the shower. Sam won't ever tell him but he has a good voice, but Sam's pissed off to be woken so abruptly. Clearly, Dean is in a good mood. Sam is not, for the same reason that Dean is.
He wonders if they really think they're being subtle about their fucked up relationship. They're not quiet, even if they try to be, but Sam learned the hard way when he came back from school early that when he's not there, they are much, much louder. He'd backtracked and hung out at the local diner until he thought it might be safe to go back, hating both of them for making him have to do the mental math of how long will it take his dad to finish fucking his brother.
Try as he might, he can't really hate Dean. He'd thought for a while that he was a victim, forced into it by their beast of a father, but Dean doesn't behave like a victim. He loves their dad, in ways he shouldn't. John loves him right back, and Sam can and does hate him.
He has no doubt in his mind that dad was the one to instigate, but he tries not to wonder how long it was going on for before Sam knew. There's a word for what dad is, and that makes him wonder if this fucked up nightmare has an expiry date. Dean's growing up, still not as tall or broad as dad is, still young and pretty, but one day he'll be older and maybe the masculinity of age will temper that prettiness into handsome and dad won't want him.
He hopes for it and dreads it all at the same time. Dean will be heartbroken. Sam wants to believe he will be relieved but he's not stupid.
That side of their relationship has been bleeding through to the rest, the part that Sam inhabits. Dad is slipping up. The way he looks at Dean makes bile rise in his throat. Hungry, greedy eyes. Eyes like a predator. Possessive, starving hands on his body, clamping on his shoulder, the back of his neck, his thigh. He has called Dean 'baby' in front of Sam on more than one occasion - hand me that knife, baby - run to the store, baby - can't wait to get you alone, baby.
"Fucking Christ. So good for me, baby," hissed through his teeth.
Dean is kneeling between dad's parted thighs where he sits on the sofa, one arm draped across the back of it, his other hand clenching Dean's hair as his head bobs up and down.
Sam is supposed to be asleep but he has become an insomniac. He would rather wait for them to be done to try to sleep than to be shocked awake by their carnal sins. He doesn't know if it's normal, just how long it can take them to finally be satisfied, but he resents them for his exhaustion and the impact it's having on his education. His teacher had commented on how tired he looked and he just laughed. What was he supposed to say? That when he wasn't learning about different vengeful spirits and filling shotgun shells with rock salt he was tormented by the sound of his dad fucking his brother senseless in the shower?
Dean comes into the room, still singing below his breath, and shakes Sam's ankle. He has his face pressed into the pillow.
"You're a helluva deep sleeper, Sam," Dean says with a grin.
"I'm not actually, kinda the opposite," Sam corrects after flopping over onto his back. It's the closest he's come to acknowledging out loud that he knows.
There's a flicker of recognition in Dean's eyes, like a movie reel churning in his mind. His smile falls and he looks away, clearing his throat.
"Time to get up. I'll walk you to school," Dean says, pulling a shirt on. There's a smudge of bruising on either side of his hips, peaking out above the towel. The shape of their dad's hands.
That's what makes it even worse. Dean is always hurt. Bruises and bite marks and a limp, but he never seems to mind, quite the opposite. He hates that he knows their dad is a violent, beastly 'lover' (he refuses to believe there is love there, can't accept it, even if they so often say it to each other), hates that he knows what Dean sounds like when he asks for more, for harder, for deeper. In trying to understand this vile situation, Sam had turned to books that he couldn't check out from the library but could huddle in a quiet corner and read. Sadism and masochism were a new and unwanted area of knowledge for him.
1999. Dean is 21.
Dean is already familiar with alcohol. He and dad shared beers after hunts or on hot summer nights. Regardless, there was a surprising amount of fanfare for Dean's twenty-first birthday. Dean was a man now, their dad proclaimed proudly, as if Dean hadn't been a man for three years already, as if legally being able to buy a drink was a big deal when Dean's various fake IDs claimed increasingly unrealistic ages.
Yes, Dean was a man. Tall and broad and strong, but not as much as their father, and still three inches shorter than Sam. Dean was still pretty, even if he tried to hide it behind stubble and dad's old leather jacket, several sizes too big on him, like a kid playing dress up. He bristled when drunk men called him pretty boy but keened when dad did the same.
Because, despite Sam's assumption, his fervent hopes, dad did not lose interest in Dean when he grew up. He doesn't think relief is quite the right word for it, but it's something close to it. Relief that dad wasn't only attracted to Dean as a child, but just Dean because he was Dean. Relief that his brother didn't have to go through the heartbreak of rejection after so many years groomed into acceptance. Even though it would have hurt Dean, Sam selfishly wished that dad had rejected him once he started filling out and growing facial hair, just so Dean could finally be normal.
Normal. As if any of them could ever be normal. Even without the hunting bullshit, this thing between his brother and dad had ruined any semblance of normal long ago.
But what if they had been normal? What if mom never died? Or what if she did but it was normal and mundane, an accident, a disease? Would dad have ever crossed that point of no return? Would he have only seen Dean as his eldest son, touched him only with paternal affection, loved him only as a father should? Or was there a dormant disease inside of him that would have woken up one day and taken what wasn't his to take anyway?
Maybe he would have. Maybe if mom was still around, she could have stopped them. Sam never stopped them, regrets that he never tried. He could try now. He's old enough, big enough - under no illusions that he could go toe-to-toe with his ex-marine, hunter, beast of a father, but he could make it known that he knows and he hates him, at last.
But what does it matter now? Dean's a grown man. He's not a child any more. It was the child that needed Sam, and he wishes more than anything that he was the big brother, that he hadn't been so small and weak when it started, that he could have protected Dean.
Dean doesn't want his protection now. The idea, as tempting as it is, to just walk up to his dad and punch some sense into him dies when he sees how happy Dean is. Dad is taking him to a bar, and no doubt by the end of the night they will both be drunk and all over each other.
He even knows that dad has a secret, second motel key in his pocket - would've been nice if he'd bothered with that all these years, given Sam the luxury of not knowing, but whatever. Tonight he has no intention of the pathetic attempt at secrecy.
"Don't wait up, Sammy," Dean calls out to him as they prepare to leave, dad's hand too low on his back.
His wedding ring is still on his finger and Sam wants to cut it off. It's always disgusted him that he keeps it on, that he forces them into this life under the pretense that it's all to avenge their poor mother. He keeps on the wedding ring his mom placed on his finger even when he fucks the son they made together.
*
The next afternoon, Dean is hungover and dozing in the front seat as they drive to a different city. Dad has his left hand on the steering wheel, the other possessively holding Dean's thigh.
There's no ring on his finger, just a pale, indented strip of naked skin.
December 31st 1999/January 1st 2000. Dean is 21.
Holidays never meant much to them. Christmases were depressing affairs of takeout and whatever festive movies were on TV. Years came and went.
To his surprise, dad had bundled them into the car and driven them to a high point overlooking the city. He and Dean are sitting on the hood of the car and Sam is sitting on a rock to the side. He's allowed to drink beer tonight. Weird that dad never cared so much about Dean drinking underage, but he's always been harder on Sam. No, that's not quite fair - he's always been more of a dad to Sam, as ridiculous as the notion is. There's nothing fatherly about how he is with Dean, hasn't been for years now. Most of the time, Dean is his backup, his best soldier, the only one of his sons who really takes the family business seriously. Dean obeys every order with a yes sir and never once questions dads leadership. Dean looked after Sam for his entire childhood, did everything their dad should have done - everything their mom would have done, if she was alive. Dad stole Dean's childhood even worse than he stole Sam's. He made them both soldiers, but it is with a sick revelation that he realises he made Dean his wife.
They're talking in low voices on the hood of the car. It almost looks normal - just a dad and his son enjoying a beer and a view. But they're connected all along their sides, legs and thighs and arms and shoulders, and dad puts his arm around him and Dean rests his head on his shoulder. Dad kisses the top of his head, almost paternal.
At midnight, fireworks explode in the sky, a cacophony of light, colour, and sound. Dad tilts Dean's face up and kisses him on the lips.
Jesus, he's the third wheel on his dad and brother's date.
2001. Dean is 23.
The nerve of him, to act betrayed that Sam is leaving. He had refused to nurture the tiny scrap of hope that for once dad might actually be proud of him for getting into Stanford, no fucking thanks to him. Sam had worked diligently his entire life to get into a good school and got a full ride for his efforts. The amount of times he had fallen asleep in class because they'd kept him awake. The amount of times he had buried his head into his books bevause if he was awake he might as well be studying. The amount of pain that had driven him to succeed, and yet it meant nothing to their dad. He was furious.
"You're not going to college, Sam!" He shouts, and though Sam was taller than him now he still managed to seem to tower over him, so used to using his size and strength to strike fear into enemy and son alike.
"Yes I am! You can't stop me, I'm a grown man!" He shouts back.
"You're not a fucking scholar, Sam, you're a hunter!"
"I don't want to be a hunter! I never have! I want to have a normal life."
"You can't have a normal life, Sam!" Dad bellows. "Not with everything you know."
Sam scoffs, knows he looks as venemous as he feels.
"Yeah, talk about everything that I know, dad," he snaps.
It's beyond satisfying to see dads eyes widen with realisation and the words die on his tongue. He goes from rage red to pale in a few heartbeats. He opens and closes his mouth a few times, aborted sounds in his throat, before looking away, unable to maintain eye contact.
It's the first time in Sam's life he's ever won an argument with his dad. The first time he's ever seen him rendered speechless from something other than cheap whiskey.
"If you leave, don't you ever come back," dad says, always needing the upper hand, always needing control.
"I don't intend to. I get what I want for once - a real education, a real life - and you get what you want."
"I don't want you to leave, Sam."
"You don't need me, dad, you never did. You've got Dean."
He slams the door behind him. He's closing the door on the worst chapter of his life. It's finally over. It's finally behind him.
Dean had been out. He doesn't plan to leave without at least saying goodbye. No matter everything, Dean's his big brother and he practically - no, literally, raised him.
Sam waits for him in a park near the bus stop. Neutral ground.
Dean looks at his bag and then looks at the letter in his hands. He snatches it before saying hello and his eyes dart over it, mouth tightening, hand clenching until the letter is crumpled.
"No," he says, and it's devastating. He sounds heartbroken, like Sam has just ripped out his heart. He says it again, voice forced deeper, sterner: "No."
"I'm going, Dean."
"You can't leave, Sammy," he says, shaking his head, a tremble in his words. He still calls him Sammy sometimes, still sees him as just a kid even if Sam is so much bigger than him. Dad did a good job turning Dean into his wife. In so many ways, Dean's the closest thing to a parent he ever had.
"There's no place for me here, Dean. It's always been you and dad. He doesn't need me. He only wants you."
"That's not true-"
"Can we stop pretending, just for once? You know I know. I can't even say it, but I've had to know all this time and the knowing killed me, Dean. It ruined me. It ruined this family. I won't ever understand but I'm tired of having to pretend. I can't do it any more. So I'm leaving. You should leave too, Dean."
It takes a while for Dean to be able to talk again, his face devastated, anger giving way to shame. All he says is, "I can't leave, Sam."
"Yes, you can. You don't owe him anything, let alone that."
God, the tumultuous storm of emotions in Dean's eyes is soul crushing. Dean had to know even if he pretended not to, he had to know that Sam knew. He knew and yet he did it anyway, whether it was ever by force or not (bile, familiar and nauseating in his throat) he still continued, still played his part in destroying their family. Sam wants to hate him, but over the years his hatred has turned into marrow-deep sadness. Sam never had a childhood, but Dean...
He thinks he wants it. Maybe he does, as much as a child could ever want that. But the wanting was at the cost of everything.
"I don't want to leave," Dean admits. Wants. He only wants their dad. Sam never stood a chance.
Sam sighs. He knew it, even if he didn't want to believe it, even if he often imagined a world where Dean would finally come to his senses and leave dad and his festering sickness. He loves Dean, even if he hates him. He's his brother. But he's their dad's son first and foremost, and the rot is contagious.
"When you do, I'll be there," he says, picks up his duffle bag, and walks away.