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The first time John did it, Dean told himself it didn't happen. He wouldn't— Dad wouldn't do that. It was just a bad dream. A realistic, terrible dream. The previously unimaginable pain in his lower half told him otherwise. Sure, it could be psychosomatic, but the dried.. substances layered on his skin weren't phantom pain. They were— Dean threw up a lot that morning. After he was done expelling what would come out, he showered with the water so hot it left his skin raw, red, and burning. He needed those sensations on other parts of his body, not just—
He needed it. He needed to scrub the skin off, as much as he could, to erase what didn't happen—
He was darkly mesmerized but tried his best to ignore what ran down his thighs, legs. It wasn't there, surely. Not really. This was still part of the nightmare. This was still part of the nightmare.
Dean didn't feel clean after the shower. Purified, maybe, and definitely better, but probably only because he's numb at that point. The shower washed it down the drain. The heat lit his skin up and burned everything anyway that wasn't even really there to begin with. It wasn't even there. Not there, not real.
The thought of probing himself rised and his stomach sank. He tried his very best to ignore it, repeating to himself over and over that it wasn't what he thought. It couldn't be. Sure, his dad was a drunk and an asshole, but he wasn't a bad person, not like that. Not like—
-
Dean fought against the grip of his father on top of him. He thrashed and hit, immediately felt bad about it but the adrenaline coursing through him didn't care that this was his father. His mind was reeling, his body reacting faster than he knew what to do with, like this was a hunt. Only this time, the monster was his dad, and he'd been blindsided. Dean couldn't get any good amount of leverage, so his thrashing resulted more in him squirming under his dad.
His dad was impervious, way too drunk to care about anything other than himself and his own needs, wants. He would let out a laugh-groan when Dean's frantic escape attempts resulted in him accidentally grinding his crotch against his dad. Dean looked mortified, like he'd rather be anywhere, anywhere else. John felt heat pool in his stomach, the low simmering arousal that had led him to touch Dean in the first place starting to bubble with more intensity.
God, Mary was already so hot, and her effective lookalike being under him like this? It did animalistic things to John. Meanwhile, Dean had fear lodged in his throat, his eyes wide and disbelieving, his mouth rapidly switching between shapes. Anything he wanted to say aside from futile protests and curses died on his tongue. After the unwilling contact with his dad, Dean went limp. He didn't want this. He didn't want to wriggle helplessly, especially if it meant he'd touch his father more.
He was eternally grateful Sam was at Bobby's. The thought of his little brother seeing this, seeing what their dad was doing to Dean, made him ill. It stirred something in his stomach, mixing with the whirlwind of emotions he was going through. He felt sick (and unfortunately, morbidly honored) at the thought that his dad probably planned it that way. On one hand, that means that this wasn't just some impulsive, rash decision. It was methodically planned out, premeditated. It meant John had thought about it and took steps towards his twisted goal.
It also meant that John could have anything, anyone he could've wanted, and he chose Dean. He wanted Dean. And while the way he wanted his son wasn't ideal, Dean felt pride bubble in his chest. This was disarming, which meant that Dad got more leverage. He slid his crotch against Dean's, groaning at the feeling. Dean whimpered in response. It felt— fuck. It felt good. It made Dean nauseous, he could feel bile nestling into his throat. That friction combined with the adrenaline from this attack made Dean pant.
Dean's open mouth gave John an opportunity to force his son's lips against his own, tongue invading his little boy's open warmth. For Dean, everything stopped for a second. Dad was kissing him, taking another first away from him— on top of what he was in the process of doing, he took something else intimate from Dean. He felt like they, some parts of him, belonged to Dad now. It wasn't his anymore, and maybe his dad never intended for them to be Dean's at all.
Dean meant to talk against his dad's mouth, but then he sucked and Dean let out a moan instead. Embarrassed, he again tried to squirm away. This time John had him locked in place under him, so he could barely move his body away from the attention. It resulted in Dean writhing under his Dad, making him groan. The sound was hot and disgusting against Dean's ear. It was something he'd remember forever— something he couldn't forget. Hearing his dad express pleasure, especially while he was pinned under him, made Dean's mind drift away from his body.
He floated in his head for a little bit, but the sensations of his dad's crotch grinding against his would pull him right back down, forcing him to experience it. Dean would lose his fight then suddenly seem to regain it at random, forcing John to keep him pinned roughly on the bed. It hurt to be held down like that, especially with the tight grip his dad used. It could leave bruises. Dean would have to explain them away, all while he and his dad knew exactly what happened.
Every new touch was met with Dean doing his best to be still and quiet. Maybe that would make Dad stop, make it less enjoyable for him. Maybe it'd get Dad mad and Dean would pay for it. Maybe this was all Dad needed, to just satisfy that itch, and maybe Dean was just in the wrong place at the wrong time. But apparently that was wishful thinking, because of course. Dean startled at a new touch, his father's hands undoing his belt. He wanted to thrash around, to make it more difficult for his dad to access his zipper, but he didn't want to upset him, either, so he laid still.
He grit his teeth, fists clenching and unclenching. He hated his father for doing this. For forcing himself on Dean, for it feeling good. His mind was rapidly switching between extremes, unable to land on one and go with it. He was stuck, both under his Dad's weight and the weight of the implications of it all. Dad's hands worked hid pants off, to which Dean shuddered. He flushed, let out of choked whine, because fuck— this was so embarrassing. Humiliating. Wrong. All Dean wanted was to punch the fuck out of John, to beat him up so he never considers doing something like this again. At least to anyone else.
Dean doesn't know if he could handle anymore of this, more than what he's already been given. But he would, if that stopped John from doing it to anyone else. Dean knew that deep down, he deserved this. He also knew that he'd get more pleasure out of the assault than any normal person would. So maybe it was okay. Maybe it could be okay.
John's hands fondled Dean through his boxers, making him gasp and throw his head back so he didn't have to watch. John went about taking off his own belt, and that's when Dean's panic started to rise. God, of course Dad wanted more. He was going to use Dean. He was going to rape him. Dean felt tears build in his eyes, but he blinked them away as he stared at the ceiling. He would do anything to leave this situation, except for actually leave. Did Dean want this? No, not now, not like this. But if it was what he was offered, he would accept it.
Maybe Dad knew about what Dean wanted to do to Sam, and was punishing him for it. That would make sense. Dean spent so much time thinking about Sam that maybe their father got jealous. Maybe he could tell by the way Dean looks at his little brother that he wanted to do disgusting things with him. Dean deserves this. He thought about forcing Sammy down just like this, so yes, he deserves this.
That knowledge didn't make it any easier to bare when John shoved his fingers in between Dean's lips. "Suck. Or don't, if you're that much of a whore." John commanded. Dean whimpered at the name, feeling warm pleasure building in his abdomen. It caused the fingers in his mouth to vibrate, John sighing wantonly. Dean did as he was told, thoroughly coating his dad's fingers with his saliva. He knew what was coming next and could only hope it ended before— before it went too far. Dean knew that if John got inside of him, he wouldn't be able to keep fighting back, to keep pretending like he didn't know his place.
Almost as if reading his mind, which he had little doubt that his father actually could do, the fingers popped out of Dean's overly-wet mouth and started heading for Dean's lower half. He wanted to struggle. He wanted to run away. More than that, Dean wanted to be good. He wanted attention from his father, and maybe this was the only way to get it. He wanted to hear John praise him, way more than he wanted to escape.
Plus, if Dad didn't get this out of his system, he might go for Sammy. Dean would never, ever let Dad hurt Sam the way he was hurting him. He loved Sam more than anything else. He hated himself; he deserved this. Sam didn't. Sam was all puppy eyes and fancy shampoo, soft little noises that Dean wished would go on forever. This, this fiery-hot touch from his Dad, the rough fingers dipping into his hole. The stretch, minimal as it was, burned. Nothing too bad, and mostly just foreign-- but it was so tight around John's fingers. It had Dean biting at his lip to prevent any sound from escaping.
Sounds of both pain— and pleasure. The arousal in his stomach at the fact that it was his Dad doing this, how wrong it felt and how that made it better. His cheeks flushed with the embarrassment of it all. How dirty, disgusting it was. How, because of that, his cock was beginning to swell. It wasn't aided by the immense guilt and hatred he felt towards himself, but it wasn't as hindered as it should've been. His mouth dropped open of its own accord, resulting in gasps. Dean just— it was good, knowing it was bad, wrong, sinful. The fact that it was his father of all people to strip away that consent from him, to forcefully take what he wants with no regard for Dean at all.. it was one of the hottest moments of Dean's life, while also being one of the worst.
Two additional fingers were shoved into Dean's hole, all four of them pumping in and out of Dean. Predictably, tragically, Dean's self-control (and really, all coherent thought at all) slipped away under his Dad's fingers. All he could think was Dad. Whether Dean wanted him here or not, it was Dad. Dad, doing this to him. He couldn't express this with words, so he gathered some sliver of composure and frowned, blown-wide eyes on display to John while he whined. It was everything, really, because what else could he do? Dean didn't want this to stop, not really. It felt good. It was horrific. Dean didn't know which side of his mind to trust, especially since he'd usually pick the one Dad told him to.
He just wanted Daddy. Thankfully, seemingly hearing Dean loud and clear, John pressed in deeper and with more force. Dean yelped before his mind could register the feeling as good or bad. Dean wanted to say Dad, but his last shred of dignity wouldn't let him vocalize it. Instead, it settled on a broken moan. It was better; sounds could be involuntary. Words— words have meaning, Words mean consent. Dean doesn't know if he consents, but he fucking loves it, and that alone makes him sick.
Dean whimpered at the sudden gathering of spit in his mouth. He felt the hell-heat of bile as it crept up his throat. He swallowed it down like a good boy. He wasn't going to— couldn't, let Dad see how much this affected him. It didn't mean anything, didn't change anything. Dean and John's roles were unchanged. Dean was submitting, whether he liked it or not. John was commanding; in control.
Just then, warm but callused hands made contact with his dick. He writhed— away, he thinks. Hopes. It made him shudder, disrupted his breathing. It was good. It was filthy. He really shouldn't be liking it at all, much less making such sounds on his Dad's fingers. He should be completely quiet, unmoving. Then he didn't say yes to his Dad raping him, didn't want it.
He brokenly gasps as John wrapped his much bigger, much rougher hand around his prepubescent cock. His head leans back suddenly, harshly landing against his Dad's other hand, which was previously petting at Dean's hair while simultaneously supporting him. It was so affectionate, so unlike Dad. Especially drunk Dad. It doesn't matter— it doesn't even matter that Dean knows what, why it is.
It was only when Dad pulled his fingers out did Dean notice the blood. The blood coating Dad's fingers, blood that meant he was torn, ripped apart. John didn't spare a second thought before he wiped his hands on the sheets beneath them. Dean kept replaying the image of the glistening blood dropping from his father's hand. It was morbidly fascinating, and painfully arousing. Dean just saw the red and it clicked something in him. The heat boiled; overflowed and expressed itself through the forward motion of Dean's hips.
It didn't even hurt— not really, not compared to hunting injuries or John's fists. It was just uncomfortable at first, but then it got so good that he couldn't help thrusting back down on those fingers. His mouth was open and he was drooling, which made him feel like the biggest whore. It lit up his insides even more, highlighting the worsening need to have more, more inside of him.
Dean blinked a few times before his gaze landed back on John. He was embarrassingly out-of-it, previously untouched body not knowing how to handle it all. Dean could've sworn there was a fire in Dad's eyes, a hunger that Dean knew all too well. He stared down Sammy with that same look. He'd never actually done anything, he was too much of a coward, a pussy, about it. He couldn't— couldn't hurt Sam like that. Didn't want to really, permanently ruin his perfect little Sammy. Dean just wanted Sam, wanted him so bad it gave Dean a headache if he thought too much about it.
John, meanwhile, was on cloud nine. It was intoxicating, having his son under him. To hold his baby boy's throbbing, helplessly full cock and to know that he was the one making his boy let out his pretty sounds. The squeal Dean had made at the touch to his prostate wasn't dissimilar from Mary's noises when John had hit her good spot. It was an unbelievable gift for him to be able to know what his little boy sounded like when he was pleasured, stretched open on fingers like this.
He made the cutest little sounds that expressed just how conflicted and unsure Dean was. John thought the presence of distress in his son, especially when he's helpless to do anything about it, was extremely hot. His moans were choked, bitten off, muffled or mumbled— it wasn't a bad thing, though, because all it did was encourage John to go further, to draw those noises forcefully from his mouth.
When Dad tightened the fist around Dean's cock, he couldn't help the desperate gasp he let out. It felt so good, the pressure and how encompassing it was. Dean's back arched into it, accidentally moving the fingers in him to a previously unexplored angle. Suddenly, words didn't seem hard at all as he whined "Dad!". Dad, Daddy, please— John needed to get out of his jeans and into his son's tight hole immediately. He could feel the heat radiating off himself, leaned into Dean as he stripped down his pants as to force Dean to be just as hot, at least to feel that blasting heat and know it was there and not leaving.
John relished unbelievably in the way his son looked at him, making himself seem so small and innocent and pure and perfect. Reminded him so much of Mary, the woman he loved. The love of his life. Until Dean, that is. Dean was just.. stunningly beautiful. The most beautiful young man John's ever seen. Dean brought something out in John that he had never experienced before. Feelings, desires, actions— things he'd never consider doing to anyone but his first-born. Dean was just perfect, like a gift for John from God himself. He wasn't perfect attitude-wise, but John could tame him, could put that anger and tension somewhere else.
He pressed his fingers in again, aiming for the spot that made Dean arch his back and push back against them. Dean gasped, mouth open and panting. Maybe in pleasure, maybe distress— and really, it didn't matter to John. Sure, he did want his boy to feel good, but this? This was something John did very selfishly. He needed this. He didn't particularly care what his son felt about it, although his participation was an added bonus. He liked Dean pushing him away, resisting and fighting back with all the strength he could muster. He equally enjoyed this side of Dean— reluctant but so, so needy. Desperate. Helpless, all the same.
It was incredible what a couple of fingers could do to his son. He'd probably, hopefully, never been touched this way before. John so badly wanted to be the one to take this from him, part of the reason he'd had to act tonight. He'd seen it, the way his boys are with each other. He needed to get his hands on Dean, to mark his claim, before Sam could. Or anyone else, for that matter, but John knew Dean only had eyes for Sam. Focusing his vision back on Dean, he nearly groaned at the disorientated, out-of-his-mind look in his eyes. The way those gorgeous green eyes got lost behind glaze; a wetness and distance in them comparable to the sea. His pupils were wide and he looked intoxicated with it. It was Heaven to John.
A loud moan was pulled out of Dean when his father suddenly shoved another finger in. He wanted to protest, but it died on his tongue as his mind got ever fuzzier with pleasure. He wanted to ask him to hurry, and he couldn't decide if that was because he wanted to get it over with, or because he was looking forward to it. The very idea of him liking this disgusted and repulsed him. This wasn't- wasn't right. He wasn't even a fag, and this was his Dad, for fucks sake. There's no reason Dean should like it, at all. It's— wrong. The way his hips twitched in response to that thought was only met with more shame, and unfortunately, more arousal. Dean tried his very best to look at his dad, tried to convey his confusion with his eyes. Wanted to ask, why does it feel so good? It wasn't— supposed to. Feel good.
John's eyes were locked onto his eldest as he tried his hardest to catalog this moment, to save it away forever. The lost, pitiful, questioning and stupid gaze was so much better than any alcohol John's ever had. It made him regret not doing this sooner. If he'd known his son would look like this, he doesn't know how long it would've taken for him to break like this. How long he could've stopped himself from the inevitable. It made him eager to get Dean on his cock, John excitedly anticipating his boy's reactions to something bigger than his fingers. With that thought, he pulled said fingers out from his son— the high pitched whine at the loss was revealed in, then met with "Hush. I'm getting there."
Dean, despite his head feeling underwater, registered the words and his heart beat increased exponentially. He wanted— needed— instead of any coherent thought, out tumbled a whimper. He hoped it conveyed enough. He kind of hoped his Dad didn't care, that he'd do it anyway, touch him all over and never let go. Dean wished, absently, that it was someone else— but he was in no position to choose. He didn't deserve to choose. He let himself indulge on the idea that it was Sammy who had him like this; all loose, fumbling over himself and unable to form much of a thought that didn't pertain to what was happening to him. He imagined it was Sam's hands on him, in him. Sam's cock pressing against his entrance, but— but Dean knew who it was, really.
John had forgone any lube, partially because he felt his son received enough prep, and partially because he wanted to see Dean hurt, bleeding. John wasn't exactly fixated on being a "good father", especially not now, now that he had his son under him, pliant and adorable. So sue him, he wanted to see Dean honest-to-God sob, wanted Dean's cherry to pop and wanted to see it on his dick. Needed to see it. Needed to hear his boy scream and wail and fight against his much larger body. He had to make Dean see that power imbalance, needed Dean to know that John was in charge here. Only him. Dean was at his mercy, and he needed his son to understand that. Hoped it would spark fear, resentment, resignment.
Despite all his time spent opening his son's hole, he was still met with delicious, overwhelming resistance on his cock. John had to take Dean's ass cheeks and spread them apart, just so he could coax that tight hole into opening enough to force his cock inside. The touch, the groping of his ass, made Dean shudder and exhale shakily. John's cock hardened inexplicably when he felt Dean's body shaking against him. Fuck. His son was so perfect, so much better than Mary. He was a scared little boy, his body reacting without his mind's input. The thought made John's cock twitch against Dean's hole. Dean whimpered loudly and arched his back, silently but clearly pleading for more.
John was hard-pressed to give his little boy what he wanted, but he had to admire how Dean looked, how precious this moment was. He had to take his time, had to savour it. Had to draw it out, make it last as long as possible before it was over and he'd have to deal with everything that could happen in the aftermath. He wasn't scared of what could happen; he knew he had Dean under control, but there was nothing wrong with.. playing with your food. In a way. He also liked how it made Dean more needy, more demanding for something he didn't even want in the beginning of all this.
"Dad.." Dean whined, long and drawn-out and airy. He felt hot all over, the arousal mixing with the shame and embarrassment and the hatred and it was so— exhilarating. It felt like nothing Dean had ever felt before. The best, and worst, this world had to offer. It was Dean. He knew, now, that this was where he was supposed to be. Helpless, eager, to his Dad's ministrations. He wanted— it was so bad that he couldn't allow himself to even think it. Not yet, not when he still has some grasp on his mental state. John finally, finally lined up the head of his cock with Dean's puckered hole, hands still planted within the soft flesh of Dean's ass cheeks. He pulled them impossibly further apart, making his hole flutter, allowing John to finally force the tip inside of Dean.
The gasping moan sounded like Heaven. It was raw, turning into a grunt as he bared his teeth in pain. It hurt. Split him wide open despite being so little of the whole cock he was gonna be forced to take. It made Dean's stomach swirl. Dean hissed in pain, his eyes darting back and forth helplessly. Trying to look for a way out— a path that he'd never take even if given the chance. Shamefully, Dean wouldn't get out of this moment if he could. It was all encompassing, the feeling of his Dad's cock breaking him open.
His hands clenched and unclenched a few times before they gathered the strength to meet his father's hips, tried to rest his hands there so he could push them back, away from him. He ended up just gripping at the skin, his knuckles turning white and his jaw going slack when his attempt at resistance was met with his father unexpectedly bottoming out in Dean. He screamed, to which his Dad slapped him across the face. The hit was met with a moan, loud and unashamed. Dean's cock twitched in his fathers hand, immediately got wetter. It made tears of humiliation well up and spill over onto his deep red cheeks.
This was so— his mind was blank. He couldn't even think about that, about anything, except for how full he felt. Dean's hole burned, and it was all so hot— he wanted more, wanted everything. His arousal responded heavily to the punishment for his disobedience. He wanted to push back more, fight more, so Dad would maybe hit him again. Would restrain him again. Dean wanted to feel those big, rough hands against his soft skin. He whined, hoping that would convey his message.
Thankfully, it appeared to, as John brought the very same hand back down to the cheek he'd marked and brushed against it. Dean whimpered at the feeling, lips downturning comically. He was pouting. He really, really liked this, and it was so bad. Filthy, deplorable. Nobody should ever enjoy this. Fuck, Dean was sick. He was just as disgusting as his dad was for doing this to him. He was ruined, tainted, impure— the train of thought led to him abruptly gripping his cock, stroking up and down frantically. "Dad.. hhh—" Dean moaned, his voice still managing to sound reluctant. That sparked more pleasure, and with the feeling of his own hand on his cock treating it the way Dean likes, he knew he wouldn't last much longer.
"Daddy—" he was able to force out from in between his teeth. This sparked John to action, the passionate fire in his eyes only deepening. He slowly pulled out, just to force himself right back in. Dean was able to muffle his scream this time, but he almost didn't want to; maybe Dad would hit him again. More. His mind latched onto the word, and suddenly spewed out rushed, desperate repeatations of it. "More, more, more," Dean pleaded, brokenly. "'M close, Dad, 'm gonna—" Dean was cut off with a teeth-clashing, violent, hungry kiss. His Dad's tongue immediately found its way into Dean's mouth, exploring, licking, violating him.
At the same time his breathe was being taken away, Dad decided to start thrusting his cock in and out of Dean's hole, starting slowly. It pulled pitiful, hurt little noises from Dean. He closed his eyes tightly, not because he didn't want to see, but because it was just too much. The visual, the stimulation of it, Dean's brain couldn't process it. He felt so full, so overwhelmed. "Dad!" Dean shouted through his teeth. He wanted more, wanted Daddy to fuck him good, not just slow thrusts. He wanted to be ravished. Needed to be bit up, hit and scratched and— and right this second, he needed his hair pulled. He tried to express that through tiny whimpers and wanton moans. John could see the frustration in Dean's eyes, signaling that there was something he wanted to ask for. John knew his son well.
He snaked his hand into Dean's hair and yanked downwards. Immediately, it was rewarded with Dean letting out a shameless moan. "Mm, Dad, Daddy, please—" Dean practically wailed. Tears were slowly making their way down Dean's beautiful face. The shine added to how incredible Dean looked; was. John relished in how he was able to turn his feisty boy into something so sweet, so delicate. He started ramming his cock into Dean with earnest, as his son started sobbing. His boy was flushed, sweaty, needy and perfect. He was reduced to a babbling mess. Dean, who had an excellent poker face, who obeyed John so well, was crying and thrashing under him. "Good boy," John grunted out. "So good for me, Dean."
And once he started talking, he couldn't stop. "Such a pretty boy, look just like Mommy, huh? You're— fuck, Dean, I can't believe how good you are for me, boy." This seemed to spur Dean on as well, Dean now hiccuping and nodding frantically. "Uh-huh, yeah, mhm, Dad," was all Dean could manage. His poor little boy, so helpless to his own body and what was being done to him. The mention of Dean's mother had him stop stroking, instead firmly holding under the head of his cock, desperately trying not to cum. "Can't— Dad, please—" John knew what Dean was trying to convey and he was in a similar boat himself. His baby boy, writhing and begging for it, for Dad, did sinful things to John.
"So wet for me, boy. Gonna cum? Gonna be a good boy and cum for Daddy?" and that seemed to be it, the final straw, because then Dean's body was wracked with immense, unmeasurable pleasure. It was so fucking good that it hurt. It was— entirely too much. Dean sobbed and screamed and moaned and panted his way through it, Dad never stopping his movements, causing Dean to cry out and plead with his father to please, please stop. Dean wasn't sure if those words made their way out of his throat or not. He couldn't think. It was all white-hot pleasure, burning pain and nothing behind his eyes. Once his orgasm mostly subsided, he started to flail in his Dad's grip. "Nonono Dad please— hnngh, Dad, Daddy, please stop, Dad, hurts!" was the best Dean could do to express himself.
John didn't care, he was chasing his own orgasm. His son should be grateful John let him cum in the first place, because this never was for Dean. John should've used his boy's body as he pleased without any regard for pleasing him. Alas, John was terribly weak to those gorgeous eyes and priceless sounds his son made. Dean had snot dripping down from his nostrils, mixing with an excessive amount of saliva. He looked like an A-Level whore. Tears streamed down his precious face, chest rising and falling too fast. He was hyperventilating. He was scared. The look on his face combined with the tightness of his ass squeezing John's cock was more than enough. A few more thrusts, deeper and purposefully angled, met with Dean crying out helplessly and biting his lip, making it bleed, and that was all John needed to see. His pretty boy with blood seeping from his lip, his face and body a complete wreck. With a litany of grunts and groans, John came into his son's ass.
After the equally as mind-shattering orgasm, he thrusted into Dean a couple more times, both to tease his boy and to pump his cum as deep into Dean as it would go. Pulling out, John could've came again at what he saw-- the tantalizing mixture of blood and cum on his cock, seeping out of Dean's used hole. John knew he should feel bad about what he just did to his son, but all he could do was bask in the afterglow. How great it was. He gathered Dean into his arms as he laid them both down on the bed. "Such a good boy, Dean, took my cock so well." John basically coo'd to his son as he began stroking his hair, firmly scratching at his scalp. He wasn't intending to turn Dean into further mush, but that's what ended up happening. Dean moaned softly at the touch, arched his head back so he'd get more.
Dean was fully pliant, dead-weight against John. His eyes were shut, he looked almost peaceful if John ignored the curl of his lips, clearly resulting from pain. Dean was hurting all over, despite not much really happening except to his hole. He was exhausted, even though again, he didn't even do anything. Dean relaxed into his father's hold and drifted off to sleep, without a thought in his mind. While waiting for sleep to take him, John pet and played with Dean some more— nothing sexual, just.. fatherly touches. Maybe there was some, okay, a lot of groping, but every time John did it, he was met with a contented little sound from his sleeping boy. Plus, what Dean doesn't know can't hurt him.
-
When Dean woke up, John was gone. That allowed Dean to breathe, and to spiral about what had happened. What had been done to him, what he had allowed to be done to him, what he'd asked for. Dean's never felt more disgusted and ashamed. He methodically cleaned himself in the shower, and so slowly, so reluctantly, dipped a finger inside himself. He slapped a hand over his mouth to stop the moan that wanted to come out. Fuck. His dad had raped him and Dean had gotten off to it. He'd cum. And a few hours later, discovering the prior events. Dean came again— in the shower, this time, to the feeling of his own fingers inside his burning, torn hole. The post-orgasm glow from last night didn't exist this time, instead, all he was met with was self-hatred. He was vile. He was impure, and he could never get back what his father took from him. He was worthless.
Not that he'd ever had a chance with Sam, but he definitely didn't now. Sam wouldn't want his father's leftovers. Sam despised Dad, and knowing that Dad was so far inside of Dean, physically? That hatred must now extend to Dean, as he's now property of John. The pleasure Dean received meant that Dean liked it. How could he ever look Sammy in the eyes again, knowing what he knows? Knowing that he loved the feeling of John's thick cock in his ass, that he loved being called those names by Dad, being treated like that. Dean never did get nauseous easily, but that day, he was practically attached to the trash can by the hip. It was so— bad. And he kept hopping back in the shower, hoping that maybe one more scrubbing session was all he needed to get rid of the feeling of Dad's hands, his cock.
Needless to say, it wasn't. Those weren't things Dean would ever forget, for as long as he lived. For better or for worse, whichever his brain landed on that particular moment, he wasn't Dean anymore. He was just one of Dad's toys. As much as Dean hated to admit it, maybe he'd always been. Sam wasn't, and Dean promised himself that he never would be— John could have Dean. If he dare touch his little brother, maybe Dean would actually build up the urge to hit him back. Dean was never much a crier, either, but that day— he cried. He cried silently, unlike the night before when he was unabashed. Nobody was around to hear this time, and maybe that made it worse— the contrast. It hurt, he hurt, all over. It was stupid. It made Dean feel weak. He was weak, he let this happen, he begged for it. He liked it, after all. As strongly as he wanted to blame his Dad, Dean knew he only had himself to blame. He knew that if anybody found out, they'd know it too.
Dean wasn't a stranger to secrets anyway.