SPN Fic: His Mother's Son
Title: His Mother's Son
Author: odd_for_sods
Pairings/Characters: John/Dean, with references to John/Mary and John/Ellen
Rating: NC-17
Category: slash, wincest
Word Count: 2260
Web Page: Currently under renovation.
Spoilers: Set during In My Time Of Dying. Tiny reference to Born Under a Bad Sign.
Summary: John's thoughts as he sits by his son's hospital bed.
Disclaimer: If only ...
Beta: With thanks to my sweetie aka TextICan.
Silently, John waited for a sign. A cipher. An omen. Anything to guide him in his darkest hour. His boy's broken body lay before him, nothing but an empty shell, testament to his folly. Dean wasn't here and neither was hope.
And his heart ached.
All his years of hunting the evil things that preyed on the world's indifference had led to this carnage. It was clear to him now that his choices had evolved a drive and purpose all their own, beyond conscious thought. Once committed to his cause his options had narrowed; he a sheep driven towards the trail head and the inevitable slaughter house. Had this very moment been seared into their lives by the splatter of Mary's blood across their skin? Was Dean's suffering unavoidable, the price for his father's hubris?
The needs of his young sons had been naught in the face of their father's rage when Mary had been ripped from his life. Desire for revenge on the vile creature that had slaughtered her had consumed him. In that respect, he supposed, the yellow eyed demon had defeated him before he'd even begun. It had been the sole focus of his every waking moment, and much of his nightmare ravaged sleep, for the last twenty years. Not even the unsullied love of his bereaved children, their vulnerable dependence, could deter him from pursuing it.
All his fixation had brought his sons was chaos, isolation and despair. A Gypsy life, without any sense of community, denied the sustaining embrace of hearth and home. They struggled in the shadows, fighting his battles. All to please a father who parceled out love and affection as rewards for a job well done or an order successfully executed. He'd drilled them relentlessly until Sam was so sick of it he'd been driven away.
How could he ever face Sam again if he appeared to abandon his brother to his fate? Dean who, even as a youth, had been the better parent, was the bulwark that Sam had needed to mature in the chaotic world John had bequeathed them. It was Dean who knew Sam's favourite school shirt and ensured it was carefully laundered each weekend, the time of the school bus, the girl who was Sam's sixth grade crush, the secret hiding places that shielded Sam from his father's reach. Normality was a cloak Dean hung about Sam's shoulders; a spell that protected Sam from a world they could not escape.
Perhaps, today, the lesser sin should be one of omission? Allow Dean to slip away, be at peace with his mother, liberated from his father's unending expectations and the demands that constrained his life. Permit Sam to reject his father utterly, grieve the fallen warrior, his protector, and live his long desired ordinary life.
But then how could the 'big, brave, John Winchester' continue without his oldest boy? Dean, the physical manifestation of Mary's enduring love, a devotion so pure and strong it had saved him from insanity. Marine horrors were banished in the sweated straining moments of completion, engulfed by her flesh as they fused, united as one. Afterwards, her fingertips stroking soothingly at his temple, he whispered his terrifying impulses into the darkness. Entwined, as light broke the night's hold, his mouth at her breast, stealing succor.
So each day he edged towards apparent contentment until he held his swaddled first born son. Innocent hope clutched him with tiny fingers.
Sam's birth completed his world. Anchored him to a renewed reality, embraced by his sons and their mother. His beloved, Mary.
John could still see the pain of his mother's loss in Dean's eyes though, and in some wretched way that comforted him. It reassured him that she'd been more than a memory of bleeding burning flesh and a faded snap shot tucked in his wallet.
John shifted uncomfortably in the wheelchair. He recognised he couldn't do this alone; he needed help. But who could he turn to? He'd kept his sons isolated from the hunter community for very good reasons and he wasn't about to expose them to it now.
His friends were few.
Pastor Jim and Caleb, who he would have turned to without a moment's hesitation, were dead because of their friendship with him.
Bobby was already on the road from South Dakota, prepared to assume responsibility for the recovery of the Impala. Clearly, he would help Sam deal with concealing the nature of their lives from prying eyes. But John's pride was always an obstacle and their last meeting at Bobby's place had being a disaster, which made it hard to ask for more than herbs and charms.
That left Ellen. Much to his surprise, four months ago he'd reached out to her but, so far, he hadn't worked up the nerve to return her calls. He listened to her messages when he had trouble sleeping at night. The husky lilt of her rough voice reminded him of stolen moments they'd shared. A bewildering time, years after Bill's death, when he discovered respite in the embrace of a woman's body again. The scent of the seamy world they inhabited caught in her long soft hair as it brushed his face. The weight of her breast in his hand as he thumbed her stiffening nipple. The clench of her cunt on his cock, forcing him over the edge into sensual overload and momentary nothingness.
Fear had wormed its way inside and infected every thought and deed when he was with her. He came to expect that he would betray himself, reveal to her the truth of that terrible night, when Bill's blood had stained his hands. The guilt had driven him to desert her. How could he trust himself with her then? How could he let his most precious son's life rest in her hands now?
There was no one else. And he ached with the loneliness.
It was his own fault really. Without exception, he alienated those he loved best. Relationships thrived under a tenderer touch than he was capable of. Mary had been the conduit of his love for his friends. Once she was gone the connections withered and died.
When he needed help it was Dean who he summoned. Dean, he ordered. His good little soldier ready to do what ever was asked of him, what ever was required of him, at a moment's notice.
John swallowed hard, sought words to voice his thoughts, to reassure his son, but they evaded him. Those that he could marshal sounded trite in his head, and he was not one to waste time on a thing once he recognised it was beyond him. He leaned forward and rested his bruised hand gently over Dean's and willed his strength and love through the connection. The monitors kept on with their relentless monotonous drone. No spark or evidence that Dean had sensed his presence. He sat back and withdrew his hand.
Dean had done everything his father had ever asked of him. Unconditionally. John now accepted that he had to find a way to honour that debt, repair the damage he'd inflicted on his son. Dean had always given more than was sought of him, met his father's needs without expectation of reward or gratitude. That was what a good son did. He'd learned his father's lessons well.
And John had taken everything that was on offer. He rubbed across his mouth with the palm of his hand. Even now, the memory of what Dean had sacrificed for him caused his cock to stir.
Their first coupling unfolded like an erotic fantasy in his head. A pit of a bar, sticky with beer and a haze of cigarette smoke. Blue-collared men harassed desperately easy women. They had toasted Dean's becoming legal, though it was not his son's first drink. That had been consumed years earlier at Dean's insistence. If he was old enough to hunt with his father, he was old enough to hold his liquor. John couldn't deny the logic. In the Winchester household male rites of passage were dispensed with as they naturally occurred, not when society gave its consent. Once Dean left the bar to rejoin his brother back at the motel there had been no need to restrain himself and, fleeing memories of Mary, he drank until the bartender refused to serve him and sent him on his way.
He'd returned to their motel room, disorientated, stumbling around as he stripped in the dark. He discarded his clothes thoughtlessly under his feet before climbing into bed. Discovered the comfort of body-warmed sheets. He'd thought of Mary, remembered the pleasure of her touch, the satisfaction he'd experienced in their coupling. His blood had surged, lust sparking for her touch. In the alcoholic haze, he'd reached for her, pressed his hand against her back, softly kissed the curve of her neck.
"Dad?" A deep, sleep drenched voice cracked his dream with its dissonance.
He swallowed hard, bile rose at the shock now that hadn't then.
Dean had turned to him, run his hand down his father's arm. John's length was pressed against his son. His erection surged against Dean's hip. Instinctively, he rocked against his son's body.
"It's okay, dad. I understand. I'll help you."
A sob escaped John's lips as Dean wrapped his hand around his father's cock and encouraged it harder.
"Quiet, dad, Sam'll hear you."
He froze, held his breath, waiting. Dean's head came to rest against his neck, lips whispering some secret protective incantation against his skin as Dean's hand had travelled back and forth across his cock. Dean denied him nothing. John's breath hitched and he surrendered to the inevitable. So desperate at the lack of human contact he came quickly, his brain whiting out momentarily before he slumped against his son, bewildered, and aching for a loss he couldn't quite name. Sleep claimed him swiftly, escaping reality for a longed for oblivion.
The second time, he had no excuses; he knew where the blame belonged. They'd been on a hunt, just the two of them. Sam was out of their lives in search of his own. John had felt abandoned to his fate. Dean had become everything to him. Son, conscript, comrade, partner. The hunt had lasted days, dragged them through hell and back, a blood drenched mire that sucked them under and threatened to suffocate all breath, and with it, life. When they returned to the cabin they'd been blanketed in muck and filth and gore. The stench pervaded them.
Yet John was euphoric. He dumped his kit on his bed and prowled the room unable to keep still, unsure of what to do with the energy that sparked within. His skin hummed with sensation, his blood pounded in his ears and he wanted to do something. He leant back against the wood paneled wall, panting, unconsciously rubbing the heel of his hand against his engorged cock.
Suddenly hands were on him, opening his jeans, tugging them down his thighs, along with his briefs. He opened his eyes and stared down into Dean's upturned face as he knelt, penitent, before him. Dean grasped his father's cock at the base between the palms of his hands and directed it towards his lips. He rubbed the leaking head across his mouth and cheek leaving a glistening line in its wake, marking himself. His lips parted and he took the head of John's cock into his mouth and sucked.
All John could do was surrender, immediately and completely. He cupped the back of Dean's head with one hand and drove his cock deep into his son's mouth. God, he wanted this. The recognition was startling. He wanted to fuck his son. Anyway he could: in Dean's hand, in his ass, in his mouth, whatever it took to get that wonderful friction tight around his cock. His only thought was to get off on Dean.
John didn't give a damn about right and wrong, he just wanted to achieve the simple act of completion. Be freed from the weight of Mary's death. Be blinded to the misery of his eldest son's existence. Deny his youngest son's rejection. Sate his own desire for the demon's death, the destruction of the thing that had condemned him to this.
Dean took it. Didn't flinch. Let his father use him. John hated that. John wanted that. He didn't last long. As he came, he closed his eyes, unable to watch as his son swallowed his seed. Afterwards there had been no conversation. No apology. No explanation. He'd stolen a piece of his son's soul. What could he possibly say to make that right?
As the pain of the collision ached justly through every sinew of his body, John yearned again for that which should be forbidden him. As he looked upon the dying husk that once was his son, he admitted the choice he faced. He could sit there and watch Dean die. Or he could save him.
But at what cost?
Did it matter? Dean had already surrendered his eternal soul to save his father's sanity, to keep him in the fight, however wrong it had been. The question he ought to be facing was, what wouldn't he do to save his son?
There was no choice to be made in the here and now. His path had been carved for him all those years ago when Mary had been gutted and burned on the ceiling of Sam's nursery. He'd already made his bed. Now it was time to lie in it.
Author: odd_for_sods
Pairings/Characters: John/Dean, with references to John/Mary and John/Ellen
Rating: NC-17
Category: slash, wincest
Word Count: 2260
Web Page: Currently under renovation.
Spoilers: Set during In My Time Of Dying. Tiny reference to Born Under a Bad Sign.
Summary: John's thoughts as he sits by his son's hospital bed.
Disclaimer: If only ...
Beta: With thanks to my sweetie aka TextICan.
Silently, John waited for a sign. A cipher. An omen. Anything to guide him in his darkest hour. His boy's broken body lay before him, nothing but an empty shell, testament to his folly. Dean wasn't here and neither was hope.
And his heart ached.
All his years of hunting the evil things that preyed on the world's indifference had led to this carnage. It was clear to him now that his choices had evolved a drive and purpose all their own, beyond conscious thought. Once committed to his cause his options had narrowed; he a sheep driven towards the trail head and the inevitable slaughter house. Had this very moment been seared into their lives by the splatter of Mary's blood across their skin? Was Dean's suffering unavoidable, the price for his father's hubris?
The needs of his young sons had been naught in the face of their father's rage when Mary had been ripped from his life. Desire for revenge on the vile creature that had slaughtered her had consumed him. In that respect, he supposed, the yellow eyed demon had defeated him before he'd even begun. It had been the sole focus of his every waking moment, and much of his nightmare ravaged sleep, for the last twenty years. Not even the unsullied love of his bereaved children, their vulnerable dependence, could deter him from pursuing it.
All his fixation had brought his sons was chaos, isolation and despair. A Gypsy life, without any sense of community, denied the sustaining embrace of hearth and home. They struggled in the shadows, fighting his battles. All to please a father who parceled out love and affection as rewards for a job well done or an order successfully executed. He'd drilled them relentlessly until Sam was so sick of it he'd been driven away.
How could he ever face Sam again if he appeared to abandon his brother to his fate? Dean who, even as a youth, had been the better parent, was the bulwark that Sam had needed to mature in the chaotic world John had bequeathed them. It was Dean who knew Sam's favourite school shirt and ensured it was carefully laundered each weekend, the time of the school bus, the girl who was Sam's sixth grade crush, the secret hiding places that shielded Sam from his father's reach. Normality was a cloak Dean hung about Sam's shoulders; a spell that protected Sam from a world they could not escape.
Perhaps, today, the lesser sin should be one of omission? Allow Dean to slip away, be at peace with his mother, liberated from his father's unending expectations and the demands that constrained his life. Permit Sam to reject his father utterly, grieve the fallen warrior, his protector, and live his long desired ordinary life.
But then how could the 'big, brave, John Winchester' continue without his oldest boy? Dean, the physical manifestation of Mary's enduring love, a devotion so pure and strong it had saved him from insanity. Marine horrors were banished in the sweated straining moments of completion, engulfed by her flesh as they fused, united as one. Afterwards, her fingertips stroking soothingly at his temple, he whispered his terrifying impulses into the darkness. Entwined, as light broke the night's hold, his mouth at her breast, stealing succor.
So each day he edged towards apparent contentment until he held his swaddled first born son. Innocent hope clutched him with tiny fingers.
Sam's birth completed his world. Anchored him to a renewed reality, embraced by his sons and their mother. His beloved, Mary.
John could still see the pain of his mother's loss in Dean's eyes though, and in some wretched way that comforted him. It reassured him that she'd been more than a memory of bleeding burning flesh and a faded snap shot tucked in his wallet.
John shifted uncomfortably in the wheelchair. He recognised he couldn't do this alone; he needed help. But who could he turn to? He'd kept his sons isolated from the hunter community for very good reasons and he wasn't about to expose them to it now.
His friends were few.
Pastor Jim and Caleb, who he would have turned to without a moment's hesitation, were dead because of their friendship with him.
Bobby was already on the road from South Dakota, prepared to assume responsibility for the recovery of the Impala. Clearly, he would help Sam deal with concealing the nature of their lives from prying eyes. But John's pride was always an obstacle and their last meeting at Bobby's place had being a disaster, which made it hard to ask for more than herbs and charms.
That left Ellen. Much to his surprise, four months ago he'd reached out to her but, so far, he hadn't worked up the nerve to return her calls. He listened to her messages when he had trouble sleeping at night. The husky lilt of her rough voice reminded him of stolen moments they'd shared. A bewildering time, years after Bill's death, when he discovered respite in the embrace of a woman's body again. The scent of the seamy world they inhabited caught in her long soft hair as it brushed his face. The weight of her breast in his hand as he thumbed her stiffening nipple. The clench of her cunt on his cock, forcing him over the edge into sensual overload and momentary nothingness.
Fear had wormed its way inside and infected every thought and deed when he was with her. He came to expect that he would betray himself, reveal to her the truth of that terrible night, when Bill's blood had stained his hands. The guilt had driven him to desert her. How could he trust himself with her then? How could he let his most precious son's life rest in her hands now?
There was no one else. And he ached with the loneliness.
It was his own fault really. Without exception, he alienated those he loved best. Relationships thrived under a tenderer touch than he was capable of. Mary had been the conduit of his love for his friends. Once she was gone the connections withered and died.
When he needed help it was Dean who he summoned. Dean, he ordered. His good little soldier ready to do what ever was asked of him, what ever was required of him, at a moment's notice.
John swallowed hard, sought words to voice his thoughts, to reassure his son, but they evaded him. Those that he could marshal sounded trite in his head, and he was not one to waste time on a thing once he recognised it was beyond him. He leaned forward and rested his bruised hand gently over Dean's and willed his strength and love through the connection. The monitors kept on with their relentless monotonous drone. No spark or evidence that Dean had sensed his presence. He sat back and withdrew his hand.
Dean had done everything his father had ever asked of him. Unconditionally. John now accepted that he had to find a way to honour that debt, repair the damage he'd inflicted on his son. Dean had always given more than was sought of him, met his father's needs without expectation of reward or gratitude. That was what a good son did. He'd learned his father's lessons well.
And John had taken everything that was on offer. He rubbed across his mouth with the palm of his hand. Even now, the memory of what Dean had sacrificed for him caused his cock to stir.
Their first coupling unfolded like an erotic fantasy in his head. A pit of a bar, sticky with beer and a haze of cigarette smoke. Blue-collared men harassed desperately easy women. They had toasted Dean's becoming legal, though it was not his son's first drink. That had been consumed years earlier at Dean's insistence. If he was old enough to hunt with his father, he was old enough to hold his liquor. John couldn't deny the logic. In the Winchester household male rites of passage were dispensed with as they naturally occurred, not when society gave its consent. Once Dean left the bar to rejoin his brother back at the motel there had been no need to restrain himself and, fleeing memories of Mary, he drank until the bartender refused to serve him and sent him on his way.
He'd returned to their motel room, disorientated, stumbling around as he stripped in the dark. He discarded his clothes thoughtlessly under his feet before climbing into bed. Discovered the comfort of body-warmed sheets. He'd thought of Mary, remembered the pleasure of her touch, the satisfaction he'd experienced in their coupling. His blood had surged, lust sparking for her touch. In the alcoholic haze, he'd reached for her, pressed his hand against her back, softly kissed the curve of her neck.
"Dad?" A deep, sleep drenched voice cracked his dream with its dissonance.
He swallowed hard, bile rose at the shock now that hadn't then.
Dean had turned to him, run his hand down his father's arm. John's length was pressed against his son. His erection surged against Dean's hip. Instinctively, he rocked against his son's body.
"It's okay, dad. I understand. I'll help you."
A sob escaped John's lips as Dean wrapped his hand around his father's cock and encouraged it harder.
"Quiet, dad, Sam'll hear you."
He froze, held his breath, waiting. Dean's head came to rest against his neck, lips whispering some secret protective incantation against his skin as Dean's hand had travelled back and forth across his cock. Dean denied him nothing. John's breath hitched and he surrendered to the inevitable. So desperate at the lack of human contact he came quickly, his brain whiting out momentarily before he slumped against his son, bewildered, and aching for a loss he couldn't quite name. Sleep claimed him swiftly, escaping reality for a longed for oblivion.
The second time, he had no excuses; he knew where the blame belonged. They'd been on a hunt, just the two of them. Sam was out of their lives in search of his own. John had felt abandoned to his fate. Dean had become everything to him. Son, conscript, comrade, partner. The hunt had lasted days, dragged them through hell and back, a blood drenched mire that sucked them under and threatened to suffocate all breath, and with it, life. When they returned to the cabin they'd been blanketed in muck and filth and gore. The stench pervaded them.
Yet John was euphoric. He dumped his kit on his bed and prowled the room unable to keep still, unsure of what to do with the energy that sparked within. His skin hummed with sensation, his blood pounded in his ears and he wanted to do something. He leant back against the wood paneled wall, panting, unconsciously rubbing the heel of his hand against his engorged cock.
Suddenly hands were on him, opening his jeans, tugging them down his thighs, along with his briefs. He opened his eyes and stared down into Dean's upturned face as he knelt, penitent, before him. Dean grasped his father's cock at the base between the palms of his hands and directed it towards his lips. He rubbed the leaking head across his mouth and cheek leaving a glistening line in its wake, marking himself. His lips parted and he took the head of John's cock into his mouth and sucked.
All John could do was surrender, immediately and completely. He cupped the back of Dean's head with one hand and drove his cock deep into his son's mouth. God, he wanted this. The recognition was startling. He wanted to fuck his son. Anyway he could: in Dean's hand, in his ass, in his mouth, whatever it took to get that wonderful friction tight around his cock. His only thought was to get off on Dean.
John didn't give a damn about right and wrong, he just wanted to achieve the simple act of completion. Be freed from the weight of Mary's death. Be blinded to the misery of his eldest son's existence. Deny his youngest son's rejection. Sate his own desire for the demon's death, the destruction of the thing that had condemned him to this.
Dean took it. Didn't flinch. Let his father use him. John hated that. John wanted that. He didn't last long. As he came, he closed his eyes, unable to watch as his son swallowed his seed. Afterwards there had been no conversation. No apology. No explanation. He'd stolen a piece of his son's soul. What could he possibly say to make that right?
As the pain of the collision ached justly through every sinew of his body, John yearned again for that which should be forbidden him. As he looked upon the dying husk that once was his son, he admitted the choice he faced. He could sit there and watch Dean die. Or he could save him.
But at what cost?
Did it matter? Dean had already surrendered his eternal soul to save his father's sanity, to keep him in the fight, however wrong it had been. The question he ought to be facing was, what wouldn't he do to save his son?
There was no choice to be made in the here and now. His path had been carved for him all those years ago when Mary had been gutted and burned on the ceiling of Sam's nursery. He'd already made his bed. Now it was time to lie in it.