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After Dean drops Sammy off at school, he drops to his knees in front of his father.
“Good boy,” John praises his eldest with a too-rough hand stroking his hair, then gripping it tight. “Open.”
Dean obediently lets his jaw fall open and his Dad push in. He only gags a little—sometimes, when they have got the time, John will keep Dean on his knees for hours, training his throat. With time, he says, they might be able to get rid of Dean’s gag reflex altogether. Dean knows John hopes they never will; he enjoys the sensation of Dean gagging and choking around him far too much, and to smear come and spit all over his son’s face as Dean hacks and retches, tears spilling down his tacky cheeks.
Dad always reminds Dean how beautiful he looks with his eyes rimmed red and all teary. Says it really makes them pop, brings out their green even better.
Dean is grateful Dad allows him to suck him off before he throws Dean over the table to shove his cock inside. He never opens Dean up with more than two of his fingers, pushed in too quick and dry and stretching him too briefly, and only ever allows Dean to touch his own asshole when he has him lay flat on his back and fist his own ass. Dean hates that so much, hates how much it hurts and how exposed he feels with his legs spread obscenely and absolutely everything on display, but Dad loves watching him. So Dean bites his tongue.
Dad doesn’t use lube, because he likes it when Dean is in pain. Pain makes Dean all squirmy, means he will clench tight around John’s dick as he writhes and futilely tries to get away.
John his holding Dean down by his nape, cheek pressed into rough wood, and Dean’s hips get slammed against the edge of the table with every one of Dad’s brutal thrusts. Dean knows there will be fresh bruises layered over those already there tomorrow.
That’s another thing Dad loves, leaving his marks on Dean: hickeys, bruises, bite marks, sometimes cuts. He only ever leaves them in places they won’t be seen, but he always makes sure Dean will feel them. And when he has got Dean all to himself he will press and prod at them, dig his nails in until Dean is bleeding.
And Dean wants this to be good for Dad. He lives to make his family happy—lets Sammy have the last of the Lucky Charms despite it being Sam’s second portion and Dean not having eaten anything yet, and doesn’t complain about Dad gripping him too roughly, spanking his ass, tearing him open.
One time, about two years ago, Dean had dared to ask John for a plug. John always made a point of coming inside, Dean was his, after all, and forbade Dean from cleaning himself up. Dean hated the way he’d feel Dad’s come leaking from his ass for hours, slicking the insides of his thighs and soaking his boxers and jeans. It was embarrassing and uncomfortable, so maybe…
John had beaten him black and blue for the suggestion. Called him an insatiable slut, asked if his dick wasn’t enough for Dean. Dean hadn’t fought when John had held him down and emptied a full beer bottle fresh out the fridge inside him, asking Dean if this was what he wanted as he ruthlessly worked the whole freezing bottle into Dean’s far too tight ass, if this was what Dean wanted or if it still wasn’t enough for a filthy whore like him. Dean hadn’t fought, but he had screamed until his voice was raw and he could only whimper anymore.
John had then told Dean not to dare move the bottle, “Wanted me to plug you up, didn’t you?” and Dean hadn’t dared move at all as John went back to cleaning his guns.
After leaving Dean like that for an hour, stuffed beyond capacity and cramping, John had rolled him over and fucked the beer right out of him. Dean had stopped begging for mercy somewhere between John going soft inside his burning channel and his massive fist pushing inside to really drive the point home.
When Dad comes inside him now, Dean knows to be grateful. He kisses Dad back as Dad bites his lips and licks into his mouth, and when John grips his jaw tight and spits on his tongue Dean licks his lips and swallows.
Dad heads out to a bar and Dean gingerly pulls the panties back over his smarting ass—Dad makes him wear them sometimes, and Dean has to admit he likes how they feel.
Dean didn’t get off, but that’s okay. He rarely does with Dad, but that’s beside the point anyway. His job is to make Dad feel good, to keep him happy, not to come.
Truth be told, Dean is simply grateful that Dad didn’t tell him to either come on his cock or don’t come at all. John loves that ultimatum.
Digging his current favorite skin mag out of the depths of his duffle, Dean pulls the panties down again, gets a hand around himself and starts stroking.
Pretty girls with beautiful curves, shiny hair falling over the soft swell of their supple breasts, wet pussies and dark, perky nipples that Dean would love to suck on.
He closes his eyes with a sigh, losing himself in his fantasy, but suddenly Dean is thinking about Dad again, how John once made him sit on his cock and suck and bite his nipples while he wormed one finger after the other inside Dean next to his dick.
When Dean comes, it is to the image of John burrowed inside him balls-deep, filling Dean’s ass with hot come that immediately starts oozing out between the additional three fingers forcing Dean wide. The feeling of shame stirring Dean’s guts makes his orgasm both better and worse.
Dean washes the bitter taste of father-precome and self-hatred off his tongue with one, two, maybe a few beers to many. He usually prefers something stronger, but they ran out the night before.
He takes a thorough shower to wash the smell of Dad off his skin, cooks lunch and takes their dirty laundry to the laundromat, gives the Impala a meticulous cleaning and goes through the local newspapers looking for new cases. Eventually, he can’t take sitting on the hard kitchen chair any longer, so he lies belly down on the smelly motel bed, clutches his pillow to his chest and watches Scooby Doo.
When Dean picks Sammy up in the afternoon, his kid tears him a new one for truly excessive underage drinking, drunk driving and drinking before dinner.
“Shuddup, bitch,” Dean snaps mildly, darkly amused at the irony—if anyone is a bitch it’s him—but he doesn’t defend himself. Sammy is right, after all. He shouldn’t be drinking this early in the day. Sammy is his responsibility, and he is being a terrible role model. Besides, no matter how good his control over his Baby even while drunk, he is endangering Sammy.
Sam crosses his arms and looks out the window, red-faced and mad.
“Jerk.”
Sam as he is now is all righteous teenage anger, despite only being thirteen years old. Dean hates how much more quarrelsome the kid has become, wishes Sam wouldn’t get in as many fights with Dad, because Dad always takes it out on Dean’s ass as soon as Sammy is out the door. Dean tries to be a mediator in their fights, but not even that he can do right. No matter what he does, he always fails at keeping them both happy.
Not smart like Sammy, not strong like Dad, all Dean is good for is mindless obedience. Little toy soldier for Daddy to play with and take on hunts, big brother-mom for Sammy. That’s something, he guesses. At least he is useful.
How Sammy is still looking up to him Dean doesn’t know, but he can tell baby brother is getting disillusioned.
Dean risks a glance over at his pink-cheeked little brother.
Lately, he worries. Sammy has grown awfully pretty, not that he wasn’t cute before. But Dean has noticed Dad looking, and he does not like it one bit.
He might bend over for Dad without hesitation and do his best to keep John happy and satisfied despite his own discomfort, but the day Dad tries to do to Sammy what he does to him, Dean will turn on John in an instant.
Dean’s loyalties have never been ambiguous. Bad-touching Sammy is not something he is ever going to let slide, even if he lets Dad do it to himself. He might be John’s son, but he is also Sam’s parent. John would be dead before dawn.
Nobody hurts Dean’s baby brother.
Dean grips the Impala’s steering wheel tighter, shifts in his seat because he is fucking leaking and his ass hurts, and Sam mutters something about provoking the wrong folks. So he did see Dean limping then; great.
Don’t matter. At lest Dad is almost guaranteed to be in a good mood when he returns, pleasantly buzzed and still spent. He’s gonna fall into bed and pass right out, and Sam will have his precious peace and quiet to study for the upcoming test.
Dean’s family is taken care of.