Fic: No Regrets-![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
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beansideFic: No Regrets
Title: No Regrets
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: John/Dean
Warnings: See also "pairing."
Disclaimer: If I owned John Winchester, he wouldn't be able to walk for weeks. Alas, Kripke does instead. *sigh*
A/N: This is for![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
derryderrydown who requested "Dean and John hunting together during the Stanford years." OR "Dean and John training together... I have something of a weapons kink, especially for archery, and I love family dynamics." I kind of ended up doing a mishmash of both, hope it's okay!
Special thanks go out to the lovelyeloise_bright who stepped up and beta-ed for me even though daddycest isn't her thing. She is awesome and deserves much love and praise. All remaining mistakes are mine. *grin*
The door to the cabin burst open, letting a rush of wind and rain into the living room. John barely looked up from the gun he was reassembling, slapping the clip back in and pulling the slide to chamber a round. “Hey, boy. Anything at the PO box?”
“Nah,” Dean muttered, shaking the rain of his hair. “Unless you really want to put new shag carpeting in the Impala.”
John smiled tiredly. “I think I’ll pass.”
“I figured.” Dean hung his jacket up next to the door and walked over to his father, laying a hand on his shoulder. “How’s the leg?”
John grimaced, looking down at the offending limb, encased in a plaster cast and little walking boot. “It’s fine,” he muttered. His eyes lit on several large bags sitting by the door. “What’s all that?”
Dean grinned, dimples flashing. “The sporting goods store is closing down. They were selling off their stock at rock bottom prices.”
“Dean, you know we can’t really afford-“
“I know, but we’re okay for the time being. I got a new card, so we should be okay until you’re on your feet. Mr. Mason said we can use this cabin for as long as we need to, and honestly, it’s deer season. If it comes down to it, I’ll go bag one.”
“Okay, okay,” John held up his hands in surrender. “So, what did you get?”
The smile came back full force as Dean hurried over, scooping up two large bags. “These ran me about forty bucks a piece.”
John opened the bag, slowly at first, then faster as he realized what it was. Finally, it sat in his lap, gleaming a dark crimson, all hard lines and graceful curves. “Seriously? Forty dollars for a compound bow like this?”
“Yeah, I know. Aren’t they great? I got targets and some arrows, too. Figured we can practice once this rain clears up.” Dean pulled out his own bow, a deep blue that seemed to shimmer in the dim light.
“Sounds good. It’s supposed to move out tonight, according to the radio.” John laid the bow gently on the table and pushed himself to his feet, limping towards the kitchen. Dean moved in front of him quickly, and John grunted, trying to swerve around.
“What do you need?”
John sighed. “I was going to get a drink.”
“I’ll get it. Go sit. You’re supposed to use the crutches if you get up.” Dean hurried to the kitchen, coming back with a glass of water, and laid two white pills next to it.
“Won’t need those,” John muttered.
“Dad, you’re gray. It’s not a good color on you.” When John just glared at him, Dean rolled his eyes. “Jesus. It’s like living with a well-armed four year old. You do everything but stomp your foot and yell ‘I do it myself,’” Dean mocked.
John raised an eyebrow at Dean, and the boy took a step back. “Sorry. Just take the pills?”
After a long minute, John nodded, settling back into the chair, and scooped up the pills. “Am I being that bad?” he finally asked.
“Pretty much,” Dean smiled. “Without the throwing food phase Sam went through, though.”
John’s smile tightened. “If you want to go down, check on him, you can. I’ll be fine here for a few days.”
“Sam’s fine. We’ll run through in a few weeks, when you’re feeling better.” Dean shrugged, turning away to scoop up the bags of groceries he’d brought in. “I’ll get us something together for dinner,” he added.
“Thank you,” John said. “In the meantime, I think I’ll go put my leg up.”
“Good plan. I’ll call you when it’s ready.” Dean eyed him for a moment. “Use your crutches.”
“Yes sir,” John snapped a salute and picked up his crutches, swinging himself into the bedroom with a minimum of fuss.
For a while, he heard Dean banging around in the kitchen, then the pills took over, pulling him down into an uneasy sleep.
The moon had risen high in the sky by the time John woke, shaking off the lethargy of the narcotics. The cabin smelled delicious, and he wondered how he had slept through that aroma. He started to sit up and found a note on his stomach.
You were so out of it, I decided to let you sleep. When you wake up, yell, and I’ll bring dinner in.
John shook his head, levering himself upright. He could eat at the table.
And, he could get his own damn food. He had a broken leg, not a terminal disease.
As he swung past the couch, a soft noise caught his attention. John paused, looking down at Dean with a fond smile.
His oldest boy was stretched out on the small couch, head and feet hanging over the edges. He’d kicked the thin blanket off, chest bare in the chill of the cabin. The bed was big enough for both of them, especially with their…arrangement, but Dean was afraid of jostling his leg.
John wasn’t really sure when he’d started seeing his boy as less of a son, and more a fellow soldier, but sure as the sun rose, it had happened. And then, about six months ago, he’d seen Dean in an even different light.
Lover.
There weren’t enough words to say how wrong it was, but for them, it worked. Hunting was a lonely existence, and there weren’t many people that you could let your guard down around. Actually, there were exactly two people he trusted that much, and both of them were his sons.
Now, with Sam in college, he was down to one. His Dean.
It still hadn’t been easy for them. Even now, John wasn’t convinced that it didn’t make him worse than the things they hunted. Somehow, it didn’t matter all that much. It was comfort, and trust. Love.
Tugging the blanket back over Dean, John managed to get to the kitchen and ladle himself a bowl of stew. Then, he ate it standing up, leaning on the crutches for support, because he couldn’t figure out how to carry it to the table.
Him, stubborn? Surely you jest.
By the time he went back to bed, Dean had kicked the covers off again. Shaking his head, John stumbled back into the bedroom, and fell into a fitful sleep.
Morning dawned clear and cool, the rain giving way to the sunlight that slanted across John’s face when he finally opened his eyes, stretching slowly.
Dean was already up, fixing breakfast and coffee when John slowly made his way into the living room. “Hey, boy,” John murmured, smiling at Dean’s shower-damp hair. “You’re up early. Didn’t sleep well?”
“Nah, not too bad. The couch is more comfortable than it looks. You?”
John shrugged. “So-so.”
“Leg bothering you?” Dean pulled out a chair and John settled in, making a face as Dean pulled another chair close, propping his cast up on it.
“Nah,” John rumbled. “Looks nice out today. You still want to give those bows a try?”
Dean’s smile flashed as he thumped a mug of coffee down in front of John. “Already set up the targets on some straw bales I picked up yesterday.”
“Good man.” They ate breakfast in comfortable silence. As much as he missed Sam, John had to admit, his absence had simplified their lives.
Without Sammy bitching, they traveled around more, had finished more hunts in the last eight months than they had in the three years prior. John was pretty sure that his blood pressure was in much better shape. But Dean had worried him for a few months. Gotten quiet, angry.
John hadn’t blamed Dean in the least. Not after the things John had spewed at Sam. Not after the way it had ended. Even now, he couldn’t explain it. He’d known it was coming, had seen the acceptance letter that Sam had tried to hide. John was proud as hell of him for that.
But when the time came, John had panicked. How could he protect Sam when he was thousands of miles away?
“Dad?”
John looked up, forcing a smile. “Yeah. Sorry. Codeine hangover.”
“Ah. You want a shower? I can Hefty bag the cast.”
“Yeah. I think I would. Thanks.” John let Dean tape a bag over the cast, and headed into the shower, letting the water wash the memories away.
By the time he came back out, Dean was dressed, checking over his bow with an efficiency that John couldn’t help but admire. “So,” Dean grinned, checking the tension. “What are we playing for?”
“What, the satisfaction of kicking your old man’s ass isn’t enough?”
“Nope. That’s just a bonus,” Dean smirked. “If I win, once we’re back on the road, I get to pick the music for the next month.”
“Mm. Done. If I win, you get your ass off the sofa and join me in the bed.”
“Dad, your leg-“
“My leg is encased in half a ton of plaster. Nothing is going to happen to it. Not unless you’re planning on bringing a sledgehammer to bed.”
Dean shook his head. “Left it in my other coat.”
John felt his lips curl. “Well then. Deal?”
“Deal.” Dean gathered all the equipment up. “I’ll meet you out there.”
By the time John headed out, Dean had everything set up, including one of the porch chairs for John to sit in while Dean was shooting. Dean glanced up as John approached. “I figure we can each take a round of practice shots, then go best out of seven.”
“Sounds good.” John scooped up his bow, running his fingers over the curve. “You can take the practice shots first. Give me a minute to get acquainted.”
Dean grinned and grabbed one of the black and red fletched arrows. “Not a problem.”
John watched the first shot, admiring Dean’s form. Just like John had taught him. Smooth, perfect release on the bowstring. Nothing to hold it up, nothing to throw the arrow off. “Nice,” John commented, watching the arrow thunk into the third ring. “Good form.”
Dean’s smile was easy, comfortable. “Getting worried?”
John rolled his eyes.
“Invisible kid, never seen what he did,” Dean sang.
“Oh, now I’m definitely kicking your ass,” John muttered. “No way in hell can I handle a month of St. Anger on the tape deck.” He went back to checking over the bow; testing the draw and adjusting the sight.
Truth be told, John didn’t really like bowhunting. It was too…clean, too quiet. If you were going to kill something, there should be noise, or at the very least, the feel of your blade sinking into flesh. But instead, there was just the whoosh of the bowstring and the slight whistle of the arrow, cutting through the air.
It was sterile. Too easy.
But, useful. Some creatures were vulnerable to substances in their bloodstream. Like vampires, extinct though they were. To take one of them, you needed the blood from a dead man. Was poison to a vampire. Would sicken them, weaken them.
And since you couldn’t really smear it on a bullet without it burning off from the powder, it was arrow or blade. And really, who wanted to get that close to a pissed off vampire?
“Your turn,” Dean grinned, heading up to retrieve his arrows from the target. They were, John noticed, pretty damn well grouped. Five arrows, all within three rings of the center. One of them was in the center part of the target, listing a little low and to the side of dead center.
This was not going to be easy, John thought, slipping the arm guard into place.
John didn’t bother aiming for center during his warm up shots. Instead, he concentrated on putting it into the various rings. The bow was a dream; strong draw and dead on aim.
Which really left the contest up to human error.
The first round went to Dean, his shot landing dead center. Perfect. “Nice shot,” John praised, watching his own sink in a few millimeters above Dean’s.
The second was his, all the way. Dean landed just outside the circle, and this time, John sunk it into the hole made by Dean’s first shot.
Third and fourth rounds went to John, too. Then, Dean came back for the fifth and sixth.
The seventh round, Dean lined up the shot, breathing slow and even, like John had always coached him. He let the bowstring go on the exhale, the shot flying straight and true, piercing the target just a little off center.
Not much of an opening, but it would have to do. John centered down, aimed carefully and let out a breath, releasing the shot at the very last second of his exhale.
The arrow streaked from the bow, sinking into the target. Dead center.
Dean blew out a breath, and grinned. “One of these days, I’m going to find something I can beat you at.”
John smiled back, looking down at his cast-encased leg. “We could race,” he offered.
Dean laughed then, the sound open, joyful. It was good to hear. “You’d find a way.”
“Probably trip you with the crutches,” John drawled.
“Probably.” Dean slung an arm around John’s shoulders, leaning into him just a little. “Anything to not use the damn things for walking.”
John leaned his head into Dean’s. “I know. I’m a shitty patient.”
“Yeah, you really are. But it’s okay. The nurses at the hospital only cheered a little when you got to leave.” Dean’s tight smile told John all that he needed to know about the four days he’d spent laid up in the hospital. Dean had managed to finish the hunt, wiping out the werewolf that had snapped John’s ankle like a twig, throwing him into a tree for his trouble.
Dean had handled things like a true hunter, tracking and killing the werewolf in its den without sustaining a scratch of his own.
His boy. There really weren’t words for how proud of him John was.
Dinner that night was comfortable. Dean seemed to be relaxing a little now that John had proven that he could still kick Dean’s ass at something, and was back to his wry, irreverent self. He only bitched a little before sliding into bed next to John.
They both passed out pretty quickly, John listening to Dean’s slow and even breathing, letting it lull him into a comfortable sleep.
When he opened his eyes again, it was to the sky awash in pink-gold light of dawn. That was the nice thing about being in the mountains, John thought. The sky was clear, untarnished by the smog that hung over the cities.
He let his head roll to the side, smiling at Dean, soundly asleep on his stomach, a line of spit trailing from his lower lip to the pillowcase. John’s smile faded after a moment, taking in the dark shadows under his eyes. Since his injury, Dean hadn’t been sleeping well, too afraid to climb into bed with John, but too afraid of missing a call if John needed him.
The result, from the looks of it, was a lot of sleepless nights.
John stretched, feeling the weight of the cast on his ankle. At least the sharp pain had eased. Now it was the dull ache of a healing bone. In another few days, that would fade as well, to be replaced by the dull itch of an annoying cast.
For now, though, he was relaxed and sleep-warm, and his boy was next to him, safe and comfortable.
He ran a hand over his stomach, scratching the spot where his boxers always rode up and dug at night. Then, absently, his fingers slid lower, giving his morning hard on a light pat.
Dean shifted in his sleep, hips moving a little restlessly. John glanced over, running a rough palm down his side, planning to soothe him back to sleep. Instead, Dean’s hips jerked a little, a breathy noise sliding out of his mouth.
Oh. It was like that, then. John slid his hand lower, curling around Dean’s hipbone, feeling it warm and solid under the thin boxer-briefs that Dean favored. With a gentle nudge, he urged Dean onto his back, cupping him and feeling the dampness where the tip of his cock rubbed against the thin material.
Dean’s eyes flew open, staring at him with undisguised surprise for a second. Then, his expression shuttered. “Dad, what are you—your leg-“
John leaned forward, brushing his lips over Dean’s, stilling his protest. “Then you’ll just have to take it easy on me,” he murmured, tongue darting out to rasp over Dean’s lower lip.
By the time Dean pulled back, protesting seemed to be off his lists of things to do. “How do you want to do this?” he asked softly, running his hand down John’s stomach, brushing fingertips along the bulge in John’s boxers.
John hissed out a breath. “I could jerk you off, or blow you,” he offered. “Or, if you’d rather, you can ride me.”
Dean hissed, eyes closing for a moment. “I can do that. Gonna get me ready?”
“You got something?”
Dean just rolled his eyes, stretching past John to dig in the nightstand drawer, coming up with a bottle and handing it to John.
“On your stomach,” John murmured, popping the lid. He watched Dean wriggle off the briefs as he rolled, and let his hand slide down Dean’s spine.
“C’mon,” Dean muttered, hips moving slowly, rubbing his hard cock against the sheets.
“Cut that out,” John muttered, slapping Dean’s ass lightly.
Dean moaned low and needy, hips jerking under John’s touch. It made John smile, quickly coating his fingers with the slick lube.
The moment his finger brushed Dean’s entrance, Dean froze, breath going shallow. “Yeah,” he whispered. “C’mon, please.”
John slid two fingers in without preamble, feeling Dean tight and hot around him. God, so wrong, but it felt right, felt like it was his honor to have Dean’s trust like this. To be the one person in the world that Dean would let his guard down with.
Dean made a hoarse noise and John stilled, wondering if he’d hurt the boy. It had been a while, he thought. Between the last couple hunts coming fast and furious and his injury, it had been…a while.
“You all right?” John asked softly.
“Y-yeah,” Dean managed, voice thin and thready. “Don’t stop.”
John scissored his fingers, enjoying the way Dean’s voice broke, the way his hips bucked.
“That’s good,” Dean gasped, grabbing the bottle of lube and pouring it onto his hand, curling around John’s cock, slicking him thoroughly.
“Dean, you’re not-“ John started to protest, breaking off as Dean straddled him, pressing slowly down. He watched Dean’s eyes narrow, head tilting back in unconscious submission as he impaled himself on his father’s cock. John reached up, running a callused thumb down the line of Dean’s throat, rasping over warm skin.
Dean shuddered, sliding down hard, until John was buried in him.
“Jesus,” John growled, breath stuttering out. So fucking tight. It never failed to amaze him how tight Dean was. How perfect.
Dean, being…well, Dean, didn’t give him much time to think about it, smoothly rising and falling, finding a slow, easy rhythm that had John gritting his teeth and reaching for Dean’s slim hips.
Dean grinned, and John felt his own lips curve. Right up until Dean’s hands locked around his wrists, forcing them to the bed. “I was thinking,” Dean said, voice almost steady. “You might have been right. You’re really not fragile.”
“Dean,” John growled.
“Nope. Not going to work. I’m driving this time.” He smirked, bending to nip at John’s lower lip. “Now, relax. I’ll get there eventually.”
With no real other option, John laid his head back on the pillows, watching as Dean fucked himself on John’s cock, the way Dean’s teeth bit his lip, the slow roll of his hips, skin golden in the pale rose light.
It was agony. It was perfect.
Dean leaned forward, letting go of John’s arms to trace down his chest, stroking over the still pink scar on his stomach. When the werewolf had thrown John, a stray branch had made a good try at eviscerating him. When Dean brought his eyes back to John’s they were shadowed, that edge of fear back in them.
Without allowing himself to think, John reached up, cradling Dean’s cheek. “I’m okay. I’m here.”
“I know that,” Dean scoffed. “Kinda hard to miss, considering.” To punctuate his statement, he deliberately tightened around John, smirking when it provoked a shallow thrust, and a strained noise. “Want something?” he teased.
John smiled slightly, pulling Dean down onto him. Dean went willingly, then yelped as John pushed off with his good foot, rolling them until Dean was under him.
“Dad! Your-“ John smothered the protest with his mouth, slanting hard and merciless over Dean’s.
“I’ll live,” John said, driving in hard, watching Dean’s eyes fall closed, lips parting in a sigh of pleasure. Without giving Dean time to adjust, he picked up a fast, almost brutal rhythm. It couldn’t last. It had been too long, and Dean had been teasing, and before he knew it, John could feel his body tighten.
“Touch yourself,” he growled. “Want you to come for me.”
Dean moaned low and long his hand sliding between their bodies. “Fuck, Dad,” he whimpered. “I-“ He barely got his hand around his cock before he was tensing, his hips snapping against John’s, warmth spilling between their bodies.
Dean tightened even more around him, and John shivered, slamming into him one last time, bending to bite at Dean’s throat. Dean arched under him, arms tightening around John as he shook.
When they could breathe again, Dean sighed, hands running along John’s shoulder as he slid off, awkwardly falling to the side. “You okay?” Dean asked.
“I’m fine, Dean. Relax.”
“Okay,” Dean murmured resting his head on his father’s chest. “Just checking.”
John rumpled Dean’s hair, pressing a kiss to his son’s sweaty forehead. Eventually, they’d have to get up. Eventually, John’s leg would heal, and they’d get back on the hunt. But for right now, this was enough.
Title: No Regrets
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: John/Dean
Warnings: See also "pairing."
Disclaimer: If I owned John Winchester, he wouldn't be able to walk for weeks. Alas, Kripke does instead. *sigh*
A/N: This is for
derryderrydown who requested "Dean and John hunting together during the Stanford years." OR "Dean and John training together... I have something of a weapons kink, especially for archery, and I love family dynamics." I kind of ended up doing a mishmash of both, hope it's okay!Special thanks go out to the lovely
eloise_bright who stepped up and beta-ed for me even though daddycest isn't her thing. She is awesome and deserves much love and praise. All remaining mistakes are mine. *grin*The door to the cabin burst open, letting a rush of wind and rain into the living room. John barely looked up from the gun he was reassembling, slapping the clip back in and pulling the slide to chamber a round. “Hey, boy. Anything at the PO box?”
“Nah,” Dean muttered, shaking the rain of his hair. “Unless you really want to put new shag carpeting in the Impala.”
John smiled tiredly. “I think I’ll pass.”
“I figured.” Dean hung his jacket up next to the door and walked over to his father, laying a hand on his shoulder. “How’s the leg?”
John grimaced, looking down at the offending limb, encased in a plaster cast and little walking boot. “It’s fine,” he muttered. His eyes lit on several large bags sitting by the door. “What’s all that?”
Dean grinned, dimples flashing. “The sporting goods store is closing down. They were selling off their stock at rock bottom prices.”
“Dean, you know we can’t really afford-“
“I know, but we’re okay for the time being. I got a new card, so we should be okay until you’re on your feet. Mr. Mason said we can use this cabin for as long as we need to, and honestly, it’s deer season. If it comes down to it, I’ll go bag one.”
“Okay, okay,” John held up his hands in surrender. “So, what did you get?”
The smile came back full force as Dean hurried over, scooping up two large bags. “These ran me about forty bucks a piece.”
John opened the bag, slowly at first, then faster as he realized what it was. Finally, it sat in his lap, gleaming a dark crimson, all hard lines and graceful curves. “Seriously? Forty dollars for a compound bow like this?”
“Yeah, I know. Aren’t they great? I got targets and some arrows, too. Figured we can practice once this rain clears up.” Dean pulled out his own bow, a deep blue that seemed to shimmer in the dim light.
“Sounds good. It’s supposed to move out tonight, according to the radio.” John laid the bow gently on the table and pushed himself to his feet, limping towards the kitchen. Dean moved in front of him quickly, and John grunted, trying to swerve around.
“What do you need?”
John sighed. “I was going to get a drink.”
“I’ll get it. Go sit. You’re supposed to use the crutches if you get up.” Dean hurried to the kitchen, coming back with a glass of water, and laid two white pills next to it.
“Won’t need those,” John muttered.
“Dad, you’re gray. It’s not a good color on you.” When John just glared at him, Dean rolled his eyes. “Jesus. It’s like living with a well-armed four year old. You do everything but stomp your foot and yell ‘I do it myself,’” Dean mocked.
John raised an eyebrow at Dean, and the boy took a step back. “Sorry. Just take the pills?”
After a long minute, John nodded, settling back into the chair, and scooped up the pills. “Am I being that bad?” he finally asked.
“Pretty much,” Dean smiled. “Without the throwing food phase Sam went through, though.”
John’s smile tightened. “If you want to go down, check on him, you can. I’ll be fine here for a few days.”
“Sam’s fine. We’ll run through in a few weeks, when you’re feeling better.” Dean shrugged, turning away to scoop up the bags of groceries he’d brought in. “I’ll get us something together for dinner,” he added.
“Thank you,” John said. “In the meantime, I think I’ll go put my leg up.”
“Good plan. I’ll call you when it’s ready.” Dean eyed him for a moment. “Use your crutches.”
“Yes sir,” John snapped a salute and picked up his crutches, swinging himself into the bedroom with a minimum of fuss.
For a while, he heard Dean banging around in the kitchen, then the pills took over, pulling him down into an uneasy sleep.
The moon had risen high in the sky by the time John woke, shaking off the lethargy of the narcotics. The cabin smelled delicious, and he wondered how he had slept through that aroma. He started to sit up and found a note on his stomach.
You were so out of it, I decided to let you sleep. When you wake up, yell, and I’ll bring dinner in.
John shook his head, levering himself upright. He could eat at the table.
And, he could get his own damn food. He had a broken leg, not a terminal disease.
As he swung past the couch, a soft noise caught his attention. John paused, looking down at Dean with a fond smile.
His oldest boy was stretched out on the small couch, head and feet hanging over the edges. He’d kicked the thin blanket off, chest bare in the chill of the cabin. The bed was big enough for both of them, especially with their…arrangement, but Dean was afraid of jostling his leg.
John wasn’t really sure when he’d started seeing his boy as less of a son, and more a fellow soldier, but sure as the sun rose, it had happened. And then, about six months ago, he’d seen Dean in an even different light.
Lover.
There weren’t enough words to say how wrong it was, but for them, it worked. Hunting was a lonely existence, and there weren’t many people that you could let your guard down around. Actually, there were exactly two people he trusted that much, and both of them were his sons.
Now, with Sam in college, he was down to one. His Dean.
It still hadn’t been easy for them. Even now, John wasn’t convinced that it didn’t make him worse than the things they hunted. Somehow, it didn’t matter all that much. It was comfort, and trust. Love.
Tugging the blanket back over Dean, John managed to get to the kitchen and ladle himself a bowl of stew. Then, he ate it standing up, leaning on the crutches for support, because he couldn’t figure out how to carry it to the table.
Him, stubborn? Surely you jest.
By the time he went back to bed, Dean had kicked the covers off again. Shaking his head, John stumbled back into the bedroom, and fell into a fitful sleep.
Morning dawned clear and cool, the rain giving way to the sunlight that slanted across John’s face when he finally opened his eyes, stretching slowly.
Dean was already up, fixing breakfast and coffee when John slowly made his way into the living room. “Hey, boy,” John murmured, smiling at Dean’s shower-damp hair. “You’re up early. Didn’t sleep well?”
“Nah, not too bad. The couch is more comfortable than it looks. You?”
John shrugged. “So-so.”
“Leg bothering you?” Dean pulled out a chair and John settled in, making a face as Dean pulled another chair close, propping his cast up on it.
“Nah,” John rumbled. “Looks nice out today. You still want to give those bows a try?”
Dean’s smile flashed as he thumped a mug of coffee down in front of John. “Already set up the targets on some straw bales I picked up yesterday.”
“Good man.” They ate breakfast in comfortable silence. As much as he missed Sam, John had to admit, his absence had simplified their lives.
Without Sammy bitching, they traveled around more, had finished more hunts in the last eight months than they had in the three years prior. John was pretty sure that his blood pressure was in much better shape. But Dean had worried him for a few months. Gotten quiet, angry.
John hadn’t blamed Dean in the least. Not after the things John had spewed at Sam. Not after the way it had ended. Even now, he couldn’t explain it. He’d known it was coming, had seen the acceptance letter that Sam had tried to hide. John was proud as hell of him for that.
But when the time came, John had panicked. How could he protect Sam when he was thousands of miles away?
“Dad?”
John looked up, forcing a smile. “Yeah. Sorry. Codeine hangover.”
“Ah. You want a shower? I can Hefty bag the cast.”
“Yeah. I think I would. Thanks.” John let Dean tape a bag over the cast, and headed into the shower, letting the water wash the memories away.
By the time he came back out, Dean was dressed, checking over his bow with an efficiency that John couldn’t help but admire. “So,” Dean grinned, checking the tension. “What are we playing for?”
“What, the satisfaction of kicking your old man’s ass isn’t enough?”
“Nope. That’s just a bonus,” Dean smirked. “If I win, once we’re back on the road, I get to pick the music for the next month.”
“Mm. Done. If I win, you get your ass off the sofa and join me in the bed.”
“Dad, your leg-“
“My leg is encased in half a ton of plaster. Nothing is going to happen to it. Not unless you’re planning on bringing a sledgehammer to bed.”
Dean shook his head. “Left it in my other coat.”
John felt his lips curl. “Well then. Deal?”
“Deal.” Dean gathered all the equipment up. “I’ll meet you out there.”
By the time John headed out, Dean had everything set up, including one of the porch chairs for John to sit in while Dean was shooting. Dean glanced up as John approached. “I figure we can each take a round of practice shots, then go best out of seven.”
“Sounds good.” John scooped up his bow, running his fingers over the curve. “You can take the practice shots first. Give me a minute to get acquainted.”
Dean grinned and grabbed one of the black and red fletched arrows. “Not a problem.”
John watched the first shot, admiring Dean’s form. Just like John had taught him. Smooth, perfect release on the bowstring. Nothing to hold it up, nothing to throw the arrow off. “Nice,” John commented, watching the arrow thunk into the third ring. “Good form.”
Dean’s smile was easy, comfortable. “Getting worried?”
John rolled his eyes.
“Invisible kid, never seen what he did,” Dean sang.
“Oh, now I’m definitely kicking your ass,” John muttered. “No way in hell can I handle a month of St. Anger on the tape deck.” He went back to checking over the bow; testing the draw and adjusting the sight.
Truth be told, John didn’t really like bowhunting. It was too…clean, too quiet. If you were going to kill something, there should be noise, or at the very least, the feel of your blade sinking into flesh. But instead, there was just the whoosh of the bowstring and the slight whistle of the arrow, cutting through the air.
It was sterile. Too easy.
But, useful. Some creatures were vulnerable to substances in their bloodstream. Like vampires, extinct though they were. To take one of them, you needed the blood from a dead man. Was poison to a vampire. Would sicken them, weaken them.
And since you couldn’t really smear it on a bullet without it burning off from the powder, it was arrow or blade. And really, who wanted to get that close to a pissed off vampire?
“Your turn,” Dean grinned, heading up to retrieve his arrows from the target. They were, John noticed, pretty damn well grouped. Five arrows, all within three rings of the center. One of them was in the center part of the target, listing a little low and to the side of dead center.
This was not going to be easy, John thought, slipping the arm guard into place.
John didn’t bother aiming for center during his warm up shots. Instead, he concentrated on putting it into the various rings. The bow was a dream; strong draw and dead on aim.
Which really left the contest up to human error.
The first round went to Dean, his shot landing dead center. Perfect. “Nice shot,” John praised, watching his own sink in a few millimeters above Dean’s.
The second was his, all the way. Dean landed just outside the circle, and this time, John sunk it into the hole made by Dean’s first shot.
Third and fourth rounds went to John, too. Then, Dean came back for the fifth and sixth.
The seventh round, Dean lined up the shot, breathing slow and even, like John had always coached him. He let the bowstring go on the exhale, the shot flying straight and true, piercing the target just a little off center.
Not much of an opening, but it would have to do. John centered down, aimed carefully and let out a breath, releasing the shot at the very last second of his exhale.
The arrow streaked from the bow, sinking into the target. Dead center.
Dean blew out a breath, and grinned. “One of these days, I’m going to find something I can beat you at.”
John smiled back, looking down at his cast-encased leg. “We could race,” he offered.
Dean laughed then, the sound open, joyful. It was good to hear. “You’d find a way.”
“Probably trip you with the crutches,” John drawled.
“Probably.” Dean slung an arm around John’s shoulders, leaning into him just a little. “Anything to not use the damn things for walking.”
John leaned his head into Dean’s. “I know. I’m a shitty patient.”
“Yeah, you really are. But it’s okay. The nurses at the hospital only cheered a little when you got to leave.” Dean’s tight smile told John all that he needed to know about the four days he’d spent laid up in the hospital. Dean had managed to finish the hunt, wiping out the werewolf that had snapped John’s ankle like a twig, throwing him into a tree for his trouble.
Dean had handled things like a true hunter, tracking and killing the werewolf in its den without sustaining a scratch of his own.
His boy. There really weren’t words for how proud of him John was.
Dinner that night was comfortable. Dean seemed to be relaxing a little now that John had proven that he could still kick Dean’s ass at something, and was back to his wry, irreverent self. He only bitched a little before sliding into bed next to John.
They both passed out pretty quickly, John listening to Dean’s slow and even breathing, letting it lull him into a comfortable sleep.
When he opened his eyes again, it was to the sky awash in pink-gold light of dawn. That was the nice thing about being in the mountains, John thought. The sky was clear, untarnished by the smog that hung over the cities.
He let his head roll to the side, smiling at Dean, soundly asleep on his stomach, a line of spit trailing from his lower lip to the pillowcase. John’s smile faded after a moment, taking in the dark shadows under his eyes. Since his injury, Dean hadn’t been sleeping well, too afraid to climb into bed with John, but too afraid of missing a call if John needed him.
The result, from the looks of it, was a lot of sleepless nights.
John stretched, feeling the weight of the cast on his ankle. At least the sharp pain had eased. Now it was the dull ache of a healing bone. In another few days, that would fade as well, to be replaced by the dull itch of an annoying cast.
For now, though, he was relaxed and sleep-warm, and his boy was next to him, safe and comfortable.
He ran a hand over his stomach, scratching the spot where his boxers always rode up and dug at night. Then, absently, his fingers slid lower, giving his morning hard on a light pat.
Dean shifted in his sleep, hips moving a little restlessly. John glanced over, running a rough palm down his side, planning to soothe him back to sleep. Instead, Dean’s hips jerked a little, a breathy noise sliding out of his mouth.
Oh. It was like that, then. John slid his hand lower, curling around Dean’s hipbone, feeling it warm and solid under the thin boxer-briefs that Dean favored. With a gentle nudge, he urged Dean onto his back, cupping him and feeling the dampness where the tip of his cock rubbed against the thin material.
Dean’s eyes flew open, staring at him with undisguised surprise for a second. Then, his expression shuttered. “Dad, what are you—your leg-“
John leaned forward, brushing his lips over Dean’s, stilling his protest. “Then you’ll just have to take it easy on me,” he murmured, tongue darting out to rasp over Dean’s lower lip.
By the time Dean pulled back, protesting seemed to be off his lists of things to do. “How do you want to do this?” he asked softly, running his hand down John’s stomach, brushing fingertips along the bulge in John’s boxers.
John hissed out a breath. “I could jerk you off, or blow you,” he offered. “Or, if you’d rather, you can ride me.”
Dean hissed, eyes closing for a moment. “I can do that. Gonna get me ready?”
“You got something?”
Dean just rolled his eyes, stretching past John to dig in the nightstand drawer, coming up with a bottle and handing it to John.
“On your stomach,” John murmured, popping the lid. He watched Dean wriggle off the briefs as he rolled, and let his hand slide down Dean’s spine.
“C’mon,” Dean muttered, hips moving slowly, rubbing his hard cock against the sheets.
“Cut that out,” John muttered, slapping Dean’s ass lightly.
Dean moaned low and needy, hips jerking under John’s touch. It made John smile, quickly coating his fingers with the slick lube.
The moment his finger brushed Dean’s entrance, Dean froze, breath going shallow. “Yeah,” he whispered. “C’mon, please.”
John slid two fingers in without preamble, feeling Dean tight and hot around him. God, so wrong, but it felt right, felt like it was his honor to have Dean’s trust like this. To be the one person in the world that Dean would let his guard down with.
Dean made a hoarse noise and John stilled, wondering if he’d hurt the boy. It had been a while, he thought. Between the last couple hunts coming fast and furious and his injury, it had been…a while.
“You all right?” John asked softly.
“Y-yeah,” Dean managed, voice thin and thready. “Don’t stop.”
John scissored his fingers, enjoying the way Dean’s voice broke, the way his hips bucked.
“That’s good,” Dean gasped, grabbing the bottle of lube and pouring it onto his hand, curling around John’s cock, slicking him thoroughly.
“Dean, you’re not-“ John started to protest, breaking off as Dean straddled him, pressing slowly down. He watched Dean’s eyes narrow, head tilting back in unconscious submission as he impaled himself on his father’s cock. John reached up, running a callused thumb down the line of Dean’s throat, rasping over warm skin.
Dean shuddered, sliding down hard, until John was buried in him.
“Jesus,” John growled, breath stuttering out. So fucking tight. It never failed to amaze him how tight Dean was. How perfect.
Dean, being…well, Dean, didn’t give him much time to think about it, smoothly rising and falling, finding a slow, easy rhythm that had John gritting his teeth and reaching for Dean’s slim hips.
Dean grinned, and John felt his own lips curve. Right up until Dean’s hands locked around his wrists, forcing them to the bed. “I was thinking,” Dean said, voice almost steady. “You might have been right. You’re really not fragile.”
“Dean,” John growled.
“Nope. Not going to work. I’m driving this time.” He smirked, bending to nip at John’s lower lip. “Now, relax. I’ll get there eventually.”
With no real other option, John laid his head back on the pillows, watching as Dean fucked himself on John’s cock, the way Dean’s teeth bit his lip, the slow roll of his hips, skin golden in the pale rose light.
It was agony. It was perfect.
Dean leaned forward, letting go of John’s arms to trace down his chest, stroking over the still pink scar on his stomach. When the werewolf had thrown John, a stray branch had made a good try at eviscerating him. When Dean brought his eyes back to John’s they were shadowed, that edge of fear back in them.
Without allowing himself to think, John reached up, cradling Dean’s cheek. “I’m okay. I’m here.”
“I know that,” Dean scoffed. “Kinda hard to miss, considering.” To punctuate his statement, he deliberately tightened around John, smirking when it provoked a shallow thrust, and a strained noise. “Want something?” he teased.
John smiled slightly, pulling Dean down onto him. Dean went willingly, then yelped as John pushed off with his good foot, rolling them until Dean was under him.
“Dad! Your-“ John smothered the protest with his mouth, slanting hard and merciless over Dean’s.
“I’ll live,” John said, driving in hard, watching Dean’s eyes fall closed, lips parting in a sigh of pleasure. Without giving Dean time to adjust, he picked up a fast, almost brutal rhythm. It couldn’t last. It had been too long, and Dean had been teasing, and before he knew it, John could feel his body tighten.
“Touch yourself,” he growled. “Want you to come for me.”
Dean moaned low and long his hand sliding between their bodies. “Fuck, Dad,” he whimpered. “I-“ He barely got his hand around his cock before he was tensing, his hips snapping against John’s, warmth spilling between their bodies.
Dean tightened even more around him, and John shivered, slamming into him one last time, bending to bite at Dean’s throat. Dean arched under him, arms tightening around John as he shook.
When they could breathe again, Dean sighed, hands running along John’s shoulder as he slid off, awkwardly falling to the side. “You okay?” Dean asked.
“I’m fine, Dean. Relax.”
“Okay,” Dean murmured resting his head on his father’s chest. “Just checking.”
John rumpled Dean’s hair, pressing a kiss to his son’s sweaty forehead. Eventually, they’d have to get up. Eventually, John’s leg would heal, and they’d get back on the hunt. But for right now, this was enough.
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Date: 2006-12-27 03:05 am (UTC)Holy wow! This was hot and yeah...hot!!
Is it wrong that I love your John/Dean? Cause I do.
*is going to Hell for loving this so very, very much*
Thanks for sharing! :)
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Date: 2006-12-27 04:36 am (UTC)no subject
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Date: 2007-01-20 11:43 pm (UTC)(calystarose on JF)
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