Splintered Part I, Supernatural, NC-17

[phantisma]

Fandom:  Supernatural
Title:  Splintered, Part 1
Characters/Pairing:  John/Dean, Dean/Sam, John/Dean/Sam
Rating:  VERY NC-17
Word Count:  20,787
Summary:  Dean is always in the middle, struggling to hold his family together, to take care of his father and Sam...no matter what that means...no matter what that costs.

Warnings & A/Ns:  Written for johnsgillygirl who bought me in the Sweet Charity Auction.  Please read the Pairings and understand that this includes father/son incest as well as brother incest.  This is also dubious con/non-con (depending on how you read Dean's choices) and contains under age sex (Dean's 16 when it begins.  Sam is 15 when sexual interaction begins with him).  This is dark and scary and creepy and not a John I'd like to encounter. 

Big thanks to my betas and hand holders:  varkelton, ysbail, and shotofjack

It starts when you’re sixteen.  It isn’t your fault, it isn’t really his either, but you don’t know that then.  It isn’t even wrong exactly.  Not when it starts.  He’s hurt and you deal with it.  He’s bleeding and you stitch him up, just like he showed you.  It’s just one more thing he needs, another way to support him, to ease the pain of these hunts, these battles he runs headlong into, never looking back, except when he’s looking over his shoulder.  And he never apologizes, and you’re never sure what that means.

They were in some town in Massachusetts, in a rented house nestled back off the road in a wooded area that had hidden revolutionaries back in the day.  Sam was all about the history.  Dad was all about the ghosts.  Dean was just about getting through it all and out again before winter.

Their father was on a bender of sorts.  They had a small amount of cash, and Dean was working odd jobs for the summer, so John hunted.  Every night something new; ghosts…more ghosts than Dean could remember, werewolves, skinwalkers, a witch or three.  Two months in Dean stopped really remembering each individual hunt.

Dean stayed home and watched over Sam.  John went out hunting.  Sometimes he was home in time for supper.  Other times he’d be gone a few days.  The area was crawling with supernatural shit and Dean almost resented being left home.  Almost, because there was Sam, and Dean might give the boy a lot of shit, but he didn’t want Sam out there on the hunt and he sure as hell didn’t want him home alone, not after that werewolf thing the winter before.

So Dean stayed home, and patched his father up when he came home…and made sure Sam got to school and got food.  The boy was growing inches every two or three days and they could barely keep him fed.

John had been gone for three days when Dean heard the sound of the Impala rumbling up the long drive and crawled out of bed.  He headed toward the living room, grabbing the first aid kit from the bathroom on the way.  He was still rubbing at his eyes when he got to the living room, standing in the dull light of the dirty overhead fixture in his boxers and t-shirt.

His father was sitting on the couch, dully, staring at the floor.  He hadn’t moved to take off his coat or kick off his boots.  “Hey…you okay?”

Dean put the first aid kit on the coffee table and moved closer, flicking on the nearest lamp.  His father flinched from the light, but otherwise didn’t react.  There were scratches down the one side of his face, long and thin, bleeding.  Dean tilted his face to the light and sighed.  “They don’t need stitches.”

Still, his father didn’t move.  “Dad?  Anything else?”

Dean frowned.  His father wasn’t ever the most talkative man after a hunt, especially if it went bad…but this was…weird.  He reached for the coat and pulled it off.  The shirt was torn at the collar, but he didn’t see blood.  “Okay, let’s get you cleaned up.”

Dean tended the wounds on his face, cleaned them and bandaged them, then moved around in front of his father to get a better look at the torn shirt.  John hissed as Dean’s hand connected with his chest and Dean pulled apart the sides of his shirt.  “Damn.  Dad.”  The gash looked angry, red, but oddly wasn’t bleeding, and didn’t look as if it had.  In fact, it almost looked burned, like whatever cut him was hot and it cauterized the wound as it went.

“Move your knees a little.”  Dean pushed his father’s legs apart, and pulled the table closer so he could sit on it.  The cut started under his left arm and moved across, down onto his left hip.  “Okay, Dad…we’re going to have to get you out of these jeans okay?”

Dean reached for his belt and unbuckled him.  “Dad?”  He still didn’t move, just sat staring.  It made him uneasy.  “Dad, can you hear me?”  He snapped his fingers and John blinked.

“Dean?”  He sounded confused, uncertain.

Dean sighed and fumbled with unzipping him, freezing as his hand brushed against him accidentally.  John was hard inside his jeans.  Really hard.  Focus.  Take care of the immediate need.  That was his job.  He was good at his job.

“Okay, Dad, need your help.”   Dean ducked his head under his father’s right shoulder and hefted him up, tugging on the jeans until they gave and slipped over his ass and down.  “Yeah, helpful.”  John was dead weight as Dean settled him back onto the couch. 

He wasn’t sure what the wound needed.  It took him a minute to decide on treating it like a burn.  He cleaned it and put a burn salve into it.  His father sat passive, all but his dick, which just stuck up inside his underwear.  Dean kept bumping it as he worked on the bottom of the wound, and when he did his father would moan.  It was… disturbing… wrong.

Dean finished taping bandages over the gash and looked up at his father.  His eyes were dark, focused on the space between them.  “Dad.”

John moved…enough to bring his hand in to cradle his cock.  “Okay…I’ll leave you to it then.”  Dean moved to stand, but his father’s free hand clamped down on his wrist.  “Ow.”

His father was jacking off.  Right there in front of him.  Only, not really doing an effective job of it, from what Dean could tell.  Not that he was an expert, but…it generally took more than that for him.  John’s face lifted, his unfocused eyes looking in Dean’s direction.  “Hurts.” 

“Dad…come on.”  This was just…Dean looked away.

He panted and squeezed Dean’s wrist.  “Dad.  I can’t…”

“Please.”

His voice is more of a growl…nothing like his father…and his face looked pained…and after his grip tightened even more on Dean’s arm, Dean closed his eyes and went to his knees between the table and the couch, between his father’s knees, his free hand circling over the hand John’s stroking over his cock, still trapped in his underwear.  “Okay...easy.  You can do this.”

He wasn’t sure who he was reassuring, his father or himself, but as his hand tightened, John pulled his free until the only thing between Dean and his father’s cock was a layer of cotton.  Dean closed his eyes, didn’t want to see…couldn’t think about what it was he was doing.  John leaned forward, his head on Dean’s shoulder as Dean sped up, just wanting to get it over with.  His father grunted twice, then came inside his underwear and he let go of Dean.

Dean looked at his damp hand in disgust and stood up, wiping his hand against his boxers.  “You…should sleep Dad.”  John nodded absently, lying down on the couch, and Dean pulled the comforter from the chair where Sam had left it after his nap and laid it over his father.

He washed his hands and put the first aid kit away before he crawled back into bed.  It was nothing.  It was nothing more than bandaging a wound or scratching an itch.  It was nothing.  And it was over.  Just forget it and sleep.  Things would go back to normal in the morning.  He had a job digging a new pool with a bunch of other guys the next few days.

 

 

You’re not really sure if he doesn’t remember or is just embarrassed the next morning, when you’re up before dawn and he greets you with a smile and a cup of coffee and a story about the hunt.  But you figure it’s just as well.  You don’t want to talk about it either.  Things do go back to normal, or what passes for normal for Winchesters.  He’s gotten whatever it is out of his system and he’s ready to move on.  Something about a haunting in Philly and just like that you and Sam load up the car and you hit the road.  Good riddance to Massachusetts.

Philadelphia turned out to be a bust, but John settled them in to a rental in West Virginia for the start of the school year.  He took an honest job and made a go at the whole normal thing.  Dean thought it odd that there hadn’t been a hunt since that night, but he didn’t bring it up.  They stayed until Christmas, and then John dragged them West, following a trail Dean didn’t understand from clues that made no sense.  They were in some small town in north Texas in January when John went away for a few days, leaving Sam and Dean to their own devices with little more to do than go to school and try to charm cheerleaders out of their kick pants.

When he came home, Dean had only been asleep for a few hours, and he could tell from the way his father’s footsteps dragged that something wasn’t quite right.  He blinked at the clock, checked Sam on the other bed and peeled back the sheet. 

There was blood on the floor, a trail of it from the door to the kitchen.  Dean stopped to grab the first aid kit and headed for the kitchen.  John was standing by the table.  “Dad?”

There was no response and Dean shook his head, reaching out to touch his shoulder.  His face was a vacant stare.  There was a cut on his left thigh, deep and bloody, which is what had made the trail, soaking into his jeans and dripping over his foot.  “Jesus Dad, sit down.” 

He pushed until John sat heavily in the chair behind him and Dean went to one knee immediately. His hands sought out the tear in the jeans, ripping it wider and looking for the wound.  It was only about six inches long, but it gaped and bled.  “Fuck, what did this?”  He looked up, but John’s face was pale and distant, his eyes glazed over and distracted.  “Okay.  I’m gonna have to stitch this.”

He fumbled with the needle and he didn’t have anything for the pain, but he got the thing closed off and the bleeding stopped.  His hands were still bloody when John caught his wrist.  His eyes were dark and unfocused and his cock was hard inside his jeans. 

“Dad.”

“Please.”

“No, Dad.  Just…no.”

His hand tightened around Dean’s wrist.

“Need.  Hurts.”  His voice was strained and not like his father, not like anything but that night. 

He pulled Dean closer, pulled Dean’s hand toward his groin, pressed it against him, groaning.  “Dad.  Stop.” He’d tried to forget it.  The need in his father’s face, the way he’d groaned and grunted and came. 

“Need.”

Dean closed his eyes and gave in, unzipping his father and reaching in to wrap his hand around him, around the white cotton of his briefs.  It took longer than the last time, his father panting and growling until he finally came and Dean backed away, left the kitchen to wash the blood from his hands.  He stumbled back to bed.  He didn’t sleep, couldn’t close his eyes without seeing the dark in his father’s face, without feeling his cock in his hands.

His father was chipper the next morning as he dragged Sam into the kitchen to eat breakfast. “Morning boys.”

Sam moped and slumped into his seat, waiting for Dean to bring the cereal.  “Did you get it?” Sam asked, more because it was expected than because he was interested.

“Sure did.”  John slid into a chair opposite Sam.  “Nasty sucker.  He threw me through two walls before I found the damn locket and melted it down.

Dean set the Lucky Charms on the table with a bowl and a spoon for Sam and went to get the milk.  Sam was in the chair, the one John had been sitting on.  The blood was gone.  There were no signs that anything had happened there the night before. 

Dean watched his father. He was happy.  He was fucking happy.  He huffed and poured himself a cup of coffee.  “How’s the leg?” Dean asked.

John looked up at him and frowned.  “Fine.”  His hand covered the spot on his leg where Dean had stitched him up.  “How did you know?”

Dean made a face and shook his head.  “I stitched you up last night.”

“You did?”  John looked confused.  “I don’t remember.”

How could he not remember?  Not that Dean was going to remind him of anything else that happened.  “Eat your breakfast Sammy.  Don’t want to be late.”

“Since when do you care about being late?”  John asked.

“Since Tammy Wilberton sat next to him in homeroom.”  Sam said.  Dean made a face at him.

“More for Sammy than me, Dad.  You know how’s grumpy for days if he thinks he’s missed anything.”

“Well, why don’t you take the car then?”  John said and both boys looked at him.

“What?”

John smiled, and for a moment Dean was more afraid of him than if he’d been yelling.  “You heard me.  It’s supposed to get cold today anyway.  I’m just going to hang around here, get some rest.”

“I’m not gonna argue.”  Dean said.

John put the keys on the table and sipped his coffee.  “Just be careful.  I want her back without a mark on her.”

Dean snatched the keys and shoved them in his own pocket.  “You done yet, Sam?”

John chuckled and stood, putting his coffee cup in the sink.  “We’re out of butter and could use some hot dogs or something.  Pick up some groceries on your way home.”  He handed Dean a twenty and left the kitchen.

Dean stared at the money, then looked up at Sam.  “Come on slow poke, let’s get you to your class.”

 

It takes a while, happens a few more times, before you make your peace with it.  You keep telling yourself it’s nothing.  Just relief, just taking care of him.  And it isn’t like you’re fucking.  It isn’t like you’re even really touching him.  You’re touching the cotton of his underwear, you pull away before you can feel the heat and wet of his come on your skin.  It isn’t sex, so you can cope with it.  For him.

Dean’s begun to know the signs…he gets a feeling.  Sometimes he knows before John’s even left the house.  Sometimes it’s when he hears the rumble of the Impala.  It’s always after a hunt.  There’s blood.  There’s the empty stare, the dark eyes, the vacant expression.  And after…it’s like nothing happened.

Sam was thirteen.  Their father was gone, but had promised he’d come home for his birthday.  But the day was nearly over and Dean had a sick feeling in his gut.  “I’m sure he tried, Sammy.”  Dean said, but even he could tell he didn’t mean it.

“You should stop lying for him Dean.  It’s not like I believe you.”

“Cheer up Sammy, I’m here.  And I got you a present.”

Sam’s eyes lit up as Dean came back to the table.  “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“What is it?”

“I put it under your pillow.”  Dean watched him tear out of the kitchen and down the short hallway, chuckling.  The kid was a serious nerd…but then, their mother had had a streak of nerd too.  He waited, the dirty glasses hanging in his hands forgotten as Sam came back into the kitchen with the gift, wrapped in last Sunday’s funny pages that Dean stole off the porch of the old man who lived next to the school.

“A book?”  Sam looked up at him.

“Yeah, with words and everything, Sammy.”

He threw his exasperated look Dean’s way, then tore into the paper, his hands stilling and his face going completely still and reverent.  “Heinlein?”

“Mom loved that book.  I wanted to give you hers…but I lost it a few years ago.”  Dean looked away, turned to put the glasses in the sink.  Didn’t want Sam to see the tears.  “I saw it a couple months ago, at the flea market where you got that damn hat.”

It was probably a bit thick for a thirteen year old.  Hell, Dean had never even finished reading it.  Always stopped in the same place.  Where the bookmark was.  Couldn’t ever go past it.

“Mom read this?”

“To hear Dad tell it, Sam, she read it over and over again.  It was on her nightstand the night…fell under the bed.  The water damage was hardly noticeable.”  Dean cleared his throat and turned on the water to cover the emotion.  “You…you better get to bed though.  Early day tomorrow.”

He was suddenly engulfed in arms from behind.  “I love it Dean.”  Sam said fiercely before letting go and moving away.

“And don’t stay awake all night reading it.  You really do have to be up early.”

“I know.  Field trip.”

Dean sighed and let himself relax a little after he left the room.  He snuffled at the tear still threatening to fall and shook his head.  Stupid thing to give the kid.  He busied himself with the dishes, setting them to dry on the rack before sighing again.  He should probably crash too. 

But he had this feeling.

So he checked on Sam, took the book away and turned off the light.  He stood in the door for a while watching him sleep.  Thirteen.  It seemed so surreal.  Their whole lives, from the day Sam came home from the hospital, Sam had been his…his baby brother, his best friend…and Dean’s job had always been to keep him safe, to take care of him.  A surrogate mother, a stand-in father.

He heard the Impala make the corner at the end of the street, tensed and slipped out of the room pulling the door shut and stopping in the bathroom for the first aid kit.  He was waiting in the living room when his father came in, dark and quiet and it seemed like he was suddenly bigger than Dean remembered, filling up the space and Dean couldn’t look up to see his eyes. 

There were no words.  There never was.  There was no blood this time either.  Only a fresh bruise on his chin.  Dean sat and waited.  For a long moment he thought maybe he’d been wrong.  Then he was there.  Standing in front of Dean.  Waiting.  Breathing heavy.

Dean nodded and reached up, his hand shaking a little.  He didn’t look more than to get the zipper open.  It’s not like he needed to see.  Then his hand closed over heated flesh.  There was no soft cotton of worn underwear.  The heavy thickness of his father was in his hand.  Soft velvety skin, coarse, wiry hair.

He was sticky, like he’d already come and it had dried on him.  John moaned…an almost mournful sound that made Dean look up.  His father’s eyes were closed.  His teeth were bared…like an animal. 

Just do it.  Get it over with. 

Don’t look.  Don’t breathe.  Just do it and forget it, just like he does.

Dean kept his eyes averted, his head turned.  His breathing was shallow.  His hand stuttered over the flesh, each pull a little too hard without something to ease the drag.  His father swayed in front of him, and Dean just wanted him to come all ready.

John grunted and Dean knew he was hurting him.  He paused to pull his hand away, spitting into it to lube it a little bit.  John’s cock was red and angry looking when Dean wrapped his hand back around it.  Furious.  Like Dean should be.  Would be if it wasn’t clearly something…necessary.  His father wasn’t himself on nights like this.  There was something helpless in the way he simply stood there while Dean sped up the pace of his hand and finally felt John tense, then there was hot come on his hand, sticky, and Dean grimaced as he pulled his hand away, reaching for his t-shirt to wipe his hand clean.

He couldn’t say anything, just left John standing there in the living room with his cock hanging out and went to shower.  By the time he finished and went to bed, he could see his father had left a present by Sam’s bed.

Dean punched his lumpy pillow into submission and curled up under his blanket.  He didn’t want to think about it, didn’t want to admit to it, but he could still feel his father’s come on his hand, hot…burning into the lies he told himself. 

It’s nothing.  It’s just what he needs.  Nothing more.  What kind of son would he be if he couldn’t do that much?

Still, Dean rubbed his hand over the sheets.  It felt dirty.

 

You drive, ignore Kansas altogether.  Not one of you wants to deal with that.  You’re Winchesters, you don’t dwell on the past, you bury it and move on.  Go east instead, Alabama and a sticky summer.  You take care of the ghost of a slave and rent a guest house on the plantation from the little old lady who thinks Sam is the cutest thing she’s ever seen, or that he’s her granddaughter, depending on the day.  A month.  You don’t even realize you’re counting the days.  A month since the last time.  You don’t realize how you’ve started to come undone…unraveled…June.  It’s hot and sticky and he’s got you running and training.  Sam complains, but you don’t dare.  Something’s coming.  He knows it, and won’t say, but you say “Yes sir” and you do as you’re told.  Just like always.

Sam was sweating and doubled over and Dean pushed a bottle of water into his hands, panting himself as he opened his own bottle and poured some into his mouth.  “You okay, Sammy?”

“It’s Sam, and I’m fine.”  Sam stood and drank his water, his eyes scanning the obstacle course for their father.  “Where’d he go?”

Dean looked up and around, then spotted him down by the stream.  He pointed.  “Looks like he’s getting wet.”  He squinted.  Something wasn’t right.  His father was…stiff. Dean swallowed and stood up.  “Why don’t you head in and shower?”

Sam made a face at him like he was crazy.  “When I could swim?”  He put his bottle of water down on the Impala and headed toward their father before Dean could stop him.

“Damn.”  He wasn’t sure.  Wouldn’t be, not until he could see his father’s face.  He jogged after his brother, calling after him to wait up. 

It never came like this.  Always when he’d been away, when he’d been hunting.  Always at night, not in the bright light of day.

When they reached the stream, John was standing ankle deep in the shallows that led into a four-foot deep swimming hole.  He didn’t move as they approached.  Didn’t say anything as Sam dropped behind him and started pulling his shoes off.  Dean touched John’s shoulder and he didn’t move.  “Dad?  Everything okay?”

He tugged a little and John’s face turned, his eyes dark, vacant.  “Shit.  Not here. Not now.”  Dean was in the water, soaking his shoes and sweats.  Sam was nearly naked, stripped down to his briefs and wading in to the deeper water.  John’s face turned, following the long line of Sam’s back.

“No.”  Dean had to stop this before it went somewhere it shouldn’t.  “Dad…let’s go inside…okay?”  He didn’t have to look to know his father would be hard.  Hard and looking at Sam.  No.  Dean had let this go too far already.  He wasn’t about to let Sam get dragged into it.  Sam couldn’t ever know.

Dean tugged on his father’s arm, urging him up out of the water.  John came hesitantly, his eyes eventually coming back to Dean, all dark and dangerous.  “Sam, you okay alone?  Dad needs…I think those stitches busted loose, I’m going to take him in…fix…it.”

Sam just waved, dropping backwards into the water.  Dean nodded to himself and tugged on his father’s arm.  “Fuck…this is just…fuck!”

He got them as far as the house, around the corner toward the side door and John stopped.  Just stopped.  Refused to take another step.

“Dad?”  Dean turned to face him, thought he saw something flicker in his eyes.

John inhaled sharply, pulled himself upright.  He blinked, and the darkness retreated.  His eyes flicked over Dean, then away.  He frowned.  Turned away and adjusted himself as if Dean wouldn’t know he was hard.

“Got a hunt tonight.  Won’t be home,” he grunted.  “You and Sammy be okay?”

Dean swallowed and nodded.  “You sure you want to hunt tonight?  You don’t look so good.”

“Make sure he trains tomorrow.  He’ll try to get out of it if I’m not here.”

“We’re running tomorrow.” Dean said automatically, though his forehead crinkled up as he watched his father.  “You sure you’re okay?”

John opened his mouth like he was going to say something, then closed it again. “I’m fine Dean.  Go get your fool brother out of the water and fix dinner.  I’m going to shower.”

Dean watched him go.  He was even more confused.  He was beginning to wonder if his father was possessed…and if he was, then he had to wonder what he was hunting…and Dean didn’t know for sure how to go about figuring it all out.  He couldn’t just walk up to him and “Christo” him.  

Not when he didn’t seem to know…and if he wasn’t…well, Dean wasn’t sure how his father would react.  It was pretty clear that John didn’t know, didn’t remember…but how can you not remember that? 

And Dean certainly wasn’t going to be the one to tell John Winchester that every few weeks for the last 10 months, his son had been jacking him off.

 

It sits heavy, the not knowing.  Casts doubt on your conviction that helping him was the right thing.  Breaks you just a little more…splinters your heart.  You dig through his journal when he’s sleeping, tracing it back, to that first night, to the hunt.  You don’t know why you can’t find it; don’t know why you can’t remember what he’d gone out after.  Don’t know how to stop it.  Don’t know what it is.  You stand over his bed and whisper the word, but he sleeps and no demon comes screaming out of his face.  You crawl into bed and watch your brother sleep and wait, wondering how long before it happens again.

They had planned to leave Alabama before the end of June, but John got word of an incubus that needed dealing with, and they were close.  Dean helped him pack up for the hunt, arguing that John should take him along.  Dean hadn’t ever had a chance to go after an incubus.

Sam cleared his throat and both John and Dean looked up expectantly.  “Hunt?”

Dean grinned.  “Incubus, in Montgomery.”

“Cool.”  Sam shuffled his feet.  “You going too, Dean?”

“Dean’s staying here and taking care of you, Sam.”  John said in that tone of voice, the one Dean never questioned, but made Sam crazy with his need to push the issue.

“I don’t need a babysitter, Dad. Besides, I was going to ask if I could spend the weekend at Jeremy Warren’s.  His parents invited some of us over to camp in the back yard.”

John stopped and stared at Sam.  “The whole weekend?”

Sam nodded.  “Tonight and tomorrow night.”

Dean watched his father process the information.  “Dean could use the experience.  You trust these people?”

“Jeremy’s Dad is the vice-principal at the high school.  His mom’s a nurse at the hospital.”

“Pack a bag Dean.”  John said it gruffly, like it wasn’t a big deal.  “We’ll drop you off Sam.”

They packed into the Impala and headed out, Dean practically bouncing in his spot, Sam rolling his eyes at his brother’s excitement.  Sam scarcely said goodbye as he got out of the car, but Dean ignored him.  His kid brother was strange, and he had a hunt to concentrate on.

“We’ll do preliminary work tonight.  Tomorrow we hunt.”  John said as they got on the road.

Dean nodded.  Research was something he’d gotten accustomed to.  “So what do we know?”

John was quiet for a long time, then glanced aside at his son.  “There’s been a rash of sexual assault, all by men who are good, honest folk.  All of them say they don’t remember what happened.  All of them say they were in the same part of town in the afternoon, and the last thing they remember is getting in a taxi.”

“Any similarity in the victims?”  Dean asked, scribbling notes in a small notebook.

John shook his head.  “Men.  They were all men.”

“Dude.”  Dean looked up.  His father shifted uncomfortably.

“I’ve been up against one like this before.  Not easy to kill.”

“When?”

“Last year.  Boston.”

Something about the way he said that made Dean uneasy.  He glanced aside, but his father’s eyes were on the road.   Boston.  He licked his lips.  “Did you kill it?”  He held his breath.

John shook his head lightly.  “No.  Nicked it.  But it got away.”

Dean chewed the inside of his cheek.  “So…how do we kill it?”

“Cut its head off.”

Dean nodded.  “Machetes then.”

 

It’s hot and sticky in Montgomery and Dean never was a big fan of hot and sticky.  The motel had no air, just a creaking overhead fan that sounded like it was ready to fall off the ceiling.  They weren’t in the room ten minutes and John was finding a reason to run.  Food, and information.

The tension was high when he came back and Dean half expected his father to realize…to remember…to say something.  Sleep was elusive, stretched out on top of the sheets beside his father. 

Incubus.  Sexual predator.  This wasn’t the usual scenario.  Somehow, rather than affecting people directly, this one was using other people to get its rocks off.  It was infecting them somehow…of the five men picked up so far, four of them were straight, three of them married.  Their victims had all been young men.

Young men.

Dean shook it off.  If his father had been infected by this thing, hand jobs wouldn’t have been enough.  It would have gotten a lot uglier a lot faster.  It would have already been over. It was something else.

The taxi company was the likely place to start, and it only took a little convincing to get the dispatcher’s phone number and the name of the driver who consistently worked the part of town where the attacks took place.  Dean grinned as he got back into the car, holding up the prize.  “Steve Allwood.”

John growled, unhappy with something.  Dean frowned.  “What?”

“Nothing.  Just keep your dick in your pants and your head in the game.”

 

“An incubus that can’t get it up?  That’s rich.”  Dean said, trying not to squirm as the thing moved in closer, sniffing at him. 

“You’re a pretty one.”

“Hey, Steve…not that you aren’t attractive and all…”  Dean was pressed against the wall in an alley barely big enough to be called an alley.  It had his hands pinned behind him.  Where the hell was his father?

“Want to watch someone make you suck his cock.” Its voice was thick, sickening as it slithered around him.

“Not my thing, but thanks for the offer.”  Dean bucked back, got one foot against the wall and pushed.  For an old dude, Steve was strong. 

“He’ll do,” it said and Dean turned, his father’s silhouette filled the alley.

“Not a chance.”  It let go of Dean and launched itself at John.  Dean lunged, grabbing his dropped machete and chasing after it.  John stood numbly as it reached him, jumping, grabbing…kissing.  He was too late.

“Dad…get out of the way, let me kill it.”  Steve scrambled behind John, then shoved him toward Dean.

“Have fun boys…I’ll be seeing you.”

“Dad?”  John was stalking toward him.  Dean shook his head, backing up.  “No…I don’t think so.”  There was something familiar in the slack look on his face, in the blank stare.  Dean ran out of alley before he’d figured out what to do.  None of the research said how to deal with someone once they were affected.

He had the machete, but he wasn’t going to hurt his father.  John stopped, reached out for him.  Dean was still shaking his head when his father’s hands closed on his face, dragging him close and pressing his lips against Dean’s, pushing his tongue past Dean’s lips.

He tasted like coffee and cigarettes.  He shouldn’t ever know what his father’s mouth tasted like.  He pulled away as hard as he could, and one of his father’s hands fisted in his hair, keeping him firmly in place.

Dean put his hands on his father’s chest and pushed as hard as he could.  John moved a little, but his fist pulled Dean’s head back.  Dean staggered and went down on one knee before he could regain his footing.

“Dad…I know you’re in there.  You gotta snap out of it.”  Dean was nearing panic.  This wasn’t the same as jacking him off in the kitchen.  This was something different.  John’s free hand was unzipping his jeans.  “Fuck.” Dean tried to pull free, felt his hair ripping from his scalp as he jerked forward.  His hand slapped John’s arm away and he tried to stand, but that same hand came crashing down on his cheek and Dean fell back to his knees. 

He got a good look as John moved in again, his hand on Dean’s neck, tilting his head.  His eyes were dark, rimmed in red.  He didn’t look all that different from the times when he came home and needed him…needed it…

“Hurts.  Need.”  John growled.  Dean struggled right up until his father’s hand pushed on his chin to open his mouth.  As his cock slid into his mouth, Dean went slack.  Need.  The only way to get past the infection was to relieve the need.  All the other victims woke up when it was over…didn’t remember anything.  His father would never know. 

Dean could do that…it was just another injury, one more way to help.

Dean closed his eyes though.  He could do it if he didn’t have to see.   He closed his eyes and concentrated on breathing…on not thinking about it…about the way his father’s cock was hard and shoved into his mouth….about the gagging sounds coming from him as John’s thrusts invaded his throat.  He tried to stay passive, usually when his father had needs, he left the work to Dean….this time John’s hips moved at a quick pace.

John grunted.  Dean thought maybe he shouldn’t know the meaning of that sound…that it came shortly before his father came.  He really shouldn’t know what his father’s dick tasted like…or how salty his come was…but he did.

The grip on his head eased up and Dean pulled free, wiping his mouth on his jacket sleeve and climbing to his feet.  His father stood there numbly.  Dean took two steps and doubled over, throwing up in a pile of trash.  When he stood upright again, his father hadn’t moved.  Dean sighed heavily and went to tuck his father back into his pants and turn him toward the end of the alley.  The truck was a few blocks away.  Dean fished his father’s keys out of his pocket and got them into the truck.  He knew from the victims’ statements that he had about a half an hour before his father was back to himself.  Time enough to get him back to the motel and go after Steve fucking Allwood.

John sat beside him dully all the way back to the motel and it took work to get him up and out and into the room.  “Okay.  I’m going after the son of a bitch Dad.  You…you…rest…or something…and don’t remember.”  Dean muttered as his father sat heavily on the bed. 

Don’t remember.  He closed the bathroom door behind him and stared at himself in the mirror for a minute, wondering if he looked like a guy who had just sucked his father’s dick in an alley. 

The bile rose and before he could react, he was throwing up again, turning and grabbing for the toilet.  When he was done, he brushed his teeth, praying the cheap mint toothpaste would be enough to get the taste of his father out of his mouth.

It was nothing. 

He could handle it.

It was nothing.

And he was going to kill the son of a bitch.  Dean went back to the car, left his father sleeping sprawled across the bed and went to the address they had for Steve Allwood…not surprised to find it was empty.

Dean buried his machete into the wall and cursed the empty air.  Somewhere the bastard was laughing. 

Second Part Here