Word Count: 3534
Summary: John can't keep his hands off Dean's cock. Just because Dean doesn't resist or fight back, doesn't mean he likes John's obsession.
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Warnings: underage (Dean is 15); dub-con; masturbation of a minor; multiple forced orgasms; fondling; conditioning
Notes: 1/ Written for this prompt at the spn_kinkmeme[Unknown LJ tag] :
John loves to fondle Dean's cock. Like he's always thinking about it and if its at all feasible for him to do it...he does it. If he can get away with touching Dean's cock, his hand(s) are all over it. In the car, during a hunt, the library, and of course the motel room. He's always done it. Dean is conditioned to not resist and to respond like a good little boy.
How/if Sammy factors in is up to anon. I would prefer Dean to be older as fic takes place, 15-17. There's no other sexual activity, no kissing, sex or penetration. John just loves to fondle Dean's cock and gets off on getting the boy off.
Would love a scenario where they're in the middle of a hunt and John just has to rub and tug until Dean comes either in his jeans or John's hand. Then they just continue on with the hunt. But really, any scenario will do!
WAIT FOR ME
Sam has too many memories of Dean's 'special times' with Dad. Any time Dad feels the urge, which for years now seems to be whenever he's awake and not actively killing something, he's got his hand on Dean's cock. Most of the time he's jerking him off, slow and gentle or hard and fast depending on his mood and how quick he wants Dean to come. Other times, he seems perfectly content to just hold Dean's cock in his hand, fingers wrapped loosely around the shaft, thumb just touching the head or stroking the ultra sensitive underside.
It's just after dark when they arrive at their third no-name diner for the day. Dad leads them straight for the nearest empty booth. As usual, Dean is by his side, leaning on him actually, feet shuffling along the tiled floor as if he doesn't have the energy to lift them even an inch. Sam is amazed that Dean's even able to stand, let alone walk more than a couple of steps without collapsing.
Summoned to Dad's room at the crack of dawn, Dean hasn't been more than a foot or so away from Dad all day which of course means Dad's been constantly touching his cock and fondling his cock and masturbating him all day as well.
Riding half naked in the middle of the front seat of the Impala with his feet resting on the dash and Dad's hand in his crotch, coaxing orgasm after orgasm out of him. Dad didn't stop even though Dean had been shooting blanks for at least the last hour, his spent cock limp as a piece of over-cooked spaghetti and barely twitching.
Silently following Dad into every gas station bathroom and coming out trembling and sore and even more exhausted.
Standing in the historical records section of the large library they visited that afternoon, Dad had no second thoughts about shoving his hand into Dean's oversized jeans and jerking him off right there, despite the close and constant presence of librarians and other patrons. Many saw what was happening, a few even stopped briefly to watch but no one raised so much as an eyebrow. Maybe it was the arsenal on Dad's belt - his pearl-handled Taurus on one side, sheathed hunting knife on the other - or maybe people just don't give a shit about the abuse taking place right in front of them.
Suddenly Dean stumbles and stops, knees almost giving away. Dad quickly wraps his arm around Dean's shoulders, keeping him upright and moving, as Sam looks around to see what has just scared the crap out of his big brother.
'Oh fuck!' Sam thinks. It turns out this diner isn't as no-name as Sam had first thought. Unlike most of the one-star greasy spoons they visit, this one has proper cloth napkins and shiny metal cutlery and glass tables. Glass tables that look like they are kept as sparkling clean as the Impala's windscreen. Shit! Shit! Shit! Well that explains the ten mile trip Dad took from the interstate, driving straight past and ignoring a dozen or more McDonald's and Biggersons and Denny's. He knew about this place and has come here specifically for the potential extra perve factor. Just when Sam thinks he can't despise the bastard any more, he discovers a whole new level of disgust and hatred.
Dad guides Dean over to the bench seat and slides in, pulling Dean up close beside him. He's not in the least bit worried that Dean might try to bolt. He's far too well trained for that level of defiance, especially in public. Sam doubts it would even occur to Dean to try.
This has been going on as long as Sam can remember and he can't ever recall seeing Dean resist or struggle to get away from Dad's touch or even just refuse Dad's frequent gruff, 'Come here, boy.' He always responds immediately whenever Dad calls, lets Dad do what he wants without complaint and lets Dad push him away like he's nothing when he's finished. Dad shows him no affection. There's no kissing or cuddling or sweet words of praise and encouragement. It's as if the only part of Dean that matters to Dad is his dick and what he can do with it that ends with Dean coming as many times as Dad can make him.
A waitress has spotted them and before she can even pick up menus off the counter, Sam can see that Dad had already freed Dean's cock and is fisting him, slow and gentle. Dean has slumped against Dad's side, exhaustion finally taking it's toll. His eyes fill with tears and they roll down his flushed cheeks to drip off his jaw.
Sam sits opposite Dean and tries to catch his attention, to offer whatever little support and comfort that he can. But Dean turns his face into Dad's shoulder and closes his eyes, shutting out the world, shutting out Sam. He's only like this when Dad is doing "his thing", as Dean puts it. During the increasingly rare times when it's just him and Sam, he's focussed on Sam like a dog with a bone, equally dominant big brother and attentive best friend. He makes sure Sam does his homework and eats his veggies, brushes his teeth and washes behind his ears and between his toes. He drags Sam out of school early and they play hooky at the local arcade if they've got some spare change or the local park or the local creek, anywhere that isn't the motel. He spends valuable time Dad has scheduled for sparring and bow practice to play goalie so that Sam can improve his soccer skills.
As the waitress approaches, Sam puts one hand on the table, sliding it towards Dean's. Their fingertips brush and then Dean's holding on as if for dear life, squeezing Sam's fingers so hard it hurts. But he's not about to let go.
Dad glares at Sam and Sam glares right back and holds it, daring Dad to look away first. The stand-off continues through the waitress doing her spiel and Dad giving their order. Steak, eggs and Cajun-spiced wedges for himself, burgers and fries for Dean and Sam, a neat double scotch, pot of black coffee and two sodas. It lasts another five minutes til Dean breaks the silence.
"Dad, close... gonna... can't-," he sobs, his voice breaking on every word. And then he's jerking and shuddering and spurting long strings of ropey white fluid all over Dad's hand and across the underside of the table. And still Dad's stroking him and squeezing him, milking out every last drop of come from Dean's erection, every last moan and gasp from Dean's throat.
"Give it to me, boy," Dad says. "Give me everything you got. That's it. Oh yeah, feels good, feels so fucking good." Dad's breathing quickens and his hips shift, once then twice. The movement is so quick and subtle that Sam almost misses it. What he doesn't miss is the rapidly growing damp spot at Dad's groin. Dad has just come without his own cock even being touched. All it's taken is the pleasure of getting Dean off.
He holds Dean's cock in a loose, relaxed grip during dinner. He slowly works him to another orgasm as they wait for dessert, this time with Dean straddling his lap, his arms around Dad's neck. Dad's hard-on rubs against Dean's ass pushing the denim up his crack as Dad ruts himself to a second orgasm. "Come on, boy. Come for me. Come for me now!" he grits out between clenched teeth. And Dean obeys. He cries as he comes and then Dad pushes him off to eat his pie and drink his coffee.
They pay the bill and leave ten minutes later. Dad surprises them both when he lets Dean ride in the back with Sam. They curl up together and Dean falls asleep in Sam's arms before the Impala has left the parking lot.
Eight days later
Sam doesn't need to hear the distinctive rumble of the Impala's engine to know that Dad has just returned from his week long hunt. He just has to look at Dean. His older brother has turned shockingly pale. His eyes are distant and sort of glazed over and his breathing has quickened ever so slightly.
Sam is sitting on the battered sofa, three or four books spread out on the low coffee table in front of him and another on his lap. Dean is next to him, pressed close against his side in the cramped space. It's mid July and hotter than hell but Sam isn't about to complain.
Before the car has even come to a stop in front of the motel room, Dean stands up. He takes one shaky step then stops. Without turning around, he reaches down as Sam reaches up and their hands slip-slide together, fingers interlocking as naturally as the teeth on a zipper. Thirty blissful, terrifying seconds later, he starts to pull away which only makes Sam hold on even tighter.
"Dean," he says. "Don't. Please."
Dean sighs as he briefly squeezes their fingers closer together. "I gotta, Sammy. He's waiting."
"But, Dean," Sam starts.
"It's okay, I promise," Dean says even as his voice breaks on the last word. Sam can't see his face but he knows that Dean's eyes are getting moist and that one perfect tear will soon be rolling down his cheek.
"No, it's not. It never has been and it never will be."
When Dean speaks again, it's little more than a whisper. "It's Dad." As if just those two words explains and excuses everything.
"Exactly," Sam replies, not bothering to keep the disgust out his voice. They've had this conversation more times than Sam can count over the last couple of years and Sam loses each and every single time. He's long been resigned to the fact that Dean will always obey every one of Dad's orders without question or hesitation, no matter if it's "Clean the weapons" or "Watch out for Sammy" or "Strip and spread your legs." Doesn't mean Sam has to like it though.
He dreams of the day when he is big enough and strong enough to grab hold of Dean and physically stop him from going to Dad whenever the fucker wants to get his rocks off. But even more, he dreams instant when he has the courage and guts to stand up to their old man, to tell the bastard how much he hates him. He wants to stand face to face with him and swear that if he ever even thinks about laying his dirty hands on Dean again, it will be his last thought ever.
A sudden impatient rev of the engine shatters the uncomfortable silence that has filled the room. Dean takes a long deep breath and heads towards the door. Sam stands and follows, determined not to let go of Dean's hand until the last possible second. Sam lengthens his stride, placing himself between Dean and the doorway. Not to stop him leaving because that would be impossible but so that he can wrap his arms around him, press his cheek against the toned muscle of his chest so hard he can feel his heartbeat and just hold him. He would love to stretch up on to the tips of his toes and kiss him on the lips but he knows Dean won't let him. At least not before. Afterwards, when Dean is a shattered wreck, docile enough to submit to whatever Sam asks of him is a whole different story and it's about the only thing that makes any of this fucked up situation that is their life even slightly bearable.
Dean hugs him back with trembling arms and runs his fingers through Sam's hair. He cups Sam's face in his hands and tilts his head back and Sam thinks and hopes that maybe, just maybe this time Dean will break his own rule and kiss him long and slow and deep. But he doesn't. He presses his mouth against Sam's forehead and says the words that have become something of a mantra for both of them, "Won't be long, Sammy. Wait for me."
And then he's gone and for the first time in over a week Sam is alone. He slowly turns around and looks out the window just in time to see Dean open the passenger side door and slip inside. Dad doesn't say anything and neither does Dean. He's there for only one reason and it doesn't involve talking, at least not yet. Dad puts one arm around Dean's shoulder and pulls him closer. Conditioned from childhood not to resist, Dean goes willingly enough, though Sam can see the tension in his upper body and the way his head hangs down with shame and humiliation. His eyes are closed and he's taking shallow breaths, in, out, in, out, too fast and then too slow as he tries to calm himself. Dad doesn't care one bit about Dean's very visible distress. Hell, he probably gets off on seeing his eldest son so broken and helpless.
Once he has Dean positioned to his liking - today Dean is on his lap, knees either side of Dad's broad thighs, spreading him wide for easier access - Dad takes both of Dean's hands in one of his own and places them on the dashboard, crossed at the wrist as if bound by an invisible cord. Dean curls them into tight fists as soon as Dad releases his hold and Sam knows each palm will soon be marked with four small but identical crescent-shaped bruises. Some will become cuts as Dean digs his nails deeper and deeper into the tender flesh. Dad doesn't care about that either. Sam is the one who always wipes the blood away, cleans and bandages the wounds.
Dad slides his hands roughly up Dean's arms and down his sides to his hips. On an unspoken command, Dean lifts up a little so Dad can unbuckle his belt, pop the two buttons and lower the zipper. His thighs are quivering when Dad pushes Dean's jeans down over his ass to bunch around his knees. He's not wearing underwear - hasn't ever been allowed to - and his cock and balls are soon free. Dean flinches when the cold air from the Impala's vents hits his exposed, freshly shaven skin and tries to close his legs. Dad pinches him, not letting go until Dean settles on his lap once more like a good little boy and it takes all of Sam's self control not to go out there and beat the living daylights out of his father for hurting Dean.
Instead he says to himself, "Leave him alone, you bastard," and "I'm sorry, Dean. I'm so sorry." He wipes away a couple of tears, determined to stay strong for his brother as Dad gets down to business. The angle from the window is too low for Sam to see what is happening and for that he is strangely grateful. Just watching Dean's reactions tells him everything he doesn't really want to know. He knows when Dad wraps his hand around Dean's limp cock, sees every squeeze and pull and tug of Dad's fingers on Dean's face when he raises his head. It falls backwards, resting on Dad's shoulder and Dean is breathing fast and shallow now, his lips opening and closing as he moans and whimpers.
Dad says something into Dean's ear and Dean shakes his head, no, no and mouths 'please' and 'don't' and other things that break Sam's heart to witness. Dean is sobbing openly now and he lowers his head, leaning forward to rest his forehead on his hands. His hips are thrusting back and forwards. Sam guesses that Dad has stilled his hand, his fist a firm, tight tunnel around Dean's stiffening cock, and is making Dean do all the work, ordering Dean to fuck his hand, faster and faster, harder and harder.
He grabs a fistful of Dean's hair with his free hand, forcing his head up and back, not letting go even though Dean doesn't fight or struggle. A few minutes later and Dean's rhythm is faltering and Sam knows he's close, so fucking close that Dean's gotta be hurting like hell right now.
Dad shifts his gaze and locks straight onto Sam. Within seconds, Dean is up on his knees, his crotch now above the dash and in perfect view. Sam watches with a strange combination of horror and lust and jealousy as Dad brings him right to the edge of release then straight over it without missing a beat. He keeps stroking long after Dean has spent himself, long after Dean is begging him to stop. Dad finally takes his hand away, only to raise his fingers to Dean's mouth. They are covered with Dean's come, it drips and splatters over the steering wheel and gear stick and down Dean's chest. He pushes them one at a time between Dean's parted lips, pushes them deep and hard and Dean has no choice but to take them in. It's either submit or choke. Dean licks each one clean even as Dad starts jerking him off again with his other hand.
It's almost more that Sam can bare to watch but he won't look away, he can't look away. After Dad wrings another orgasm out of Dean, he nudges him aside. Dean, thinking Dad is done with him, reaches for the doorhandle, but Dad grabs his upper arm and pulls him back. Before Sam can even think to move towards the door and towards Dean, Dad has put the car into reverse, executed a smooth 180 and is driving away.
Sam keeps watching until Dad turns onto the highway and disappears. He turns to face the room and that's when it hits him. He stumbles back until he hits the wall between the door and window, his legs give way and he slides down into a crouch. Sam puts his head in his hands and cries.