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There’s a thin-stretched tension in the air every time it happens. Dean can always feel it, even before Dad heads out the door to find the nearest bar.
It only takes a few teaspoons of cough medicine to put Sammy out for the night. The grape stuff disappears easily in soda, even if Sam makes faces and complains about it being flat. It’s only really a problem when Sam decides to be difficult and demand milk or water, and honestly – what kind of ten-year-old turns down soda for dinner? Even then, Dean mixes small bits into his mac ‘n cheese or ice cream or whatever they’re having that night.
He hates the way Sam breathes when he’s drugged – deep and heavy. The labored sound of it grates at Dean’s ears. He has this recurring nightmare of being attacked, killed in his sleep and Sam too groggy to run. Even so, he can’t risk Sam waking up in the middle of it.
It’s better when they’re squatting or renting an apartment. At least there are bedrooms. Usually it’s like this, though – two queen beds in a tiny motel room, Sam deep asleep in one and Dean waiting in the other, arms curled under the pillow and trying to breathe through the knife-edge tension.
Sometimes Dad only stays out a few hours, and sometimes he’s gone until grey light begins to edge into the room. Either way, Dean always hears him coming. The uncoordinated thump at the door, the loud slide of the key – and every ounce of Dean’s training winces, because seriously, alcohol is no excuse to make a target of yourself – and Dean’s fully awake by the time he stumbles through the door.
Light from the motel parking lot seeps briefly into the room, strong enough that - jesus, don’t wake Sam – it floods through Dean’s closed eyelids. One boot hits the floor, then the other, and then everything is dark again. Two sets of heavy breathing in the room now – Sam’s and Dad’s – and Dean’s lungs are almost bursting holding his own.
He feels the mattress sink as Dad sits. Dean’s not making any noise, but he’s awake and Dad knows he’s awake and Dean knows he knows. One big palm lands on the flat of his back, right below his shoulder blades. He’s only wearing boxers and a t-shirt, but his dad’s touch sends a trembling sort of heat twisting through him.
Dad stays like that for a long while, just scratching lightly through the thin cotton of Dean’s t-shirt. Dean’s already half-hard against the mattress, because Rebecca Johnson crossed and uncrossed her long legs all through English class that day and Dean hasn’t had a chance to jerk off yet. It’s whisper soft, barely more than a suggestion, when the hand disappears from Dean’s back and touches down again on the back of his thigh, hot and callused. He doesn’t mean to, but he lets out a shaky breath into the pillow.
It goes faster after that. There are blunt fingers sliding under his boxers and one forearm braced by Dean’s nose and teeth on the back of Dean’s neck, nipping. Dean slides his legs apart without being asked, lifts his hips at the barest pressure on his side, doesn’t open his eyes when Dad moans Mary into his ear.
There’s always lube rolled up in a pair of socks in his duffel. He used to keep it in the corner pocket, but Sam found it once, fished it out and stared at it like it was some form of alien life. Dean had given him a bloody nose for being a snoop and then moved the little tube the next day.
He hears Dad rifling through the bag on the floor, searching. Dad’s weight settles fully onto Dean without both arms to hold himself up, but Dean doesn’t mind. He lets himself be pressed into the mattress, warm and breathing evenly. He wants to drag his hard-on against the bedspread a little, but he can’t budge and maybe that’s okay. He tries not to move. It always makes Dad freeze up, and that sends a dread through Dean that he can’t shake for days. There’s the metallic snick of a zipper lowering, then cloth hitting the floor.
The first touch of lube is freezing, cold and slimy between his ass cheeks, and he inhales sharply. None of this is new anymore, but it still takes him by surprise, the sharp pain and strange pressure of Dad knuckling into him. Dean swallows and clenches his jaw and takes it. One finger and then two, and he can’t help it. He bucks up a little, into the pressure. Dad’s hand forces him back to mattress, and Dean swallows his moan.
It goes on forever, Dad stretching him out, slick and burning, breath heavy with alcohol by Dean’s face. He finally feels it, his dad’s cock nudging at him, and he tucks his chin down and braces.
It’s been almost a month, and it hurts at first. There’s lube dripping in the crease of his ass and Dad’s fingers are painfully tight on the back of his neck. Dad makes noises – short grunts, hoarse and low, and they’re almost like orders. Don’t move. Like that. Good boy. Dean keeps quiet, traps the sounds in his throat.
Dad lasts a long time, longer than Dean ever makes it when he’s doing it himself. The longest he lasted was seven minutes, once, and that’s only because it was the second time he’d jerked himself that day. He thinks it goes on for ten minutes this time, maybe, but he could be wrong. He’s so hard that his head is spinning. Every time a thrust shoves him into the mattress sparks shoot straight from his dick, up his spine, and explode behind his eyes.
Dad scrapes teeth around the shell of his ear, whispering Mary, Mary, Mary and Dean bites down on his tongue to keep the sob locked in. Dad’s hands are clammy around his wrists, legs sweaty against Dean’s skin. Dad loses his rhythm and starts jerking his hips desperately, and then Dean feels it – the flood of warmth inside him.
Dean shudders as hot, ragged pants wash over the side of his face. His wrists are aching, and Dean’s pretty sure there will be bruises that he’ll have to explain to Sam. He’s never looked at Dad for this, never even opened his eyes, but right now he wants to. He can feel the tension all along his father's body, and he needs to explain that it’s okay. Fuck, it’s better than okay. There’s no reason to be sorry, because Dean’s so hard he’s about to go off like a bottle rocket and isn’t this Dean’s job anyway?
He’s about to do it, about to open his eyes and say something, but then Dad’s pushing off him and leaving him cold. Footsteps pad toward the bathroom, and then a door opens and closes.
Dean gets to his hands and knees, shivering. His legs are rubbery under him, but he makes it to the other bed as water splashes in the bathroom. He shoves Sam over, curls onto his side, and jerks off furiously. Just a few strokes and he’s coming, spilling onto his side of the bed. He’s still sticky and cold, but post-orgasm lethargy seeps into him immediately, powerful and insidious. The sky outside the window is still black, deep and empty above the uneven lines of salt. He closes his eyes.
He hears the bathroom door open again, the soft steps of his father. Usually this is when Dad opens another bottle, or just sits and stares out the window for a few hours while Dean pretends to sleep. This time, though, he feels the soft brush of air as his dad sinks down by the bed.
A rough palm slides against his cheek, barely skimming. The thumb glides over his chin.
“Shit,” he hears, a choked whisper. He risks opening his eyes, and then Dad is lifting his face and kissing him, deep and lingering. Dean shivers at the curl of Dad’s tongue against his own, whiskey and beer mixed together, tart sex on his fingers. Dean opens his mouth and lets the taste in, warm like a command and devastating like the sting of blood.
He breaks away for breath, and then Dad is backing up, hand dropping to his side.
“Get some sleep,” he says. His voice sounds heavy and ruined. “Tomorrow we have to move again.”