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SPN: Anchoring
Fandom: Supernatural
Main characters: John, Dean
Referenced characters: N/a
Pairings: John/Dean
Contains: Incest, sex
Rating: NC17
Summary: It should cause a flicker of guilt.
Note: Only seen S1 at this point.
Dean's on his knees again.
It should cause a flicker of guilt. John doesn't know when that stopped: right now, he doesn't care. Dean's on his knees, for him, his son's on his knees, and his hand is gripping hard at Dean's hair, and Dean is looking up at him with eyes wide and fever-bright. He's tense, still, at this point, sharp lines of need. John has to make this better, take that away, see Dean calmed, satisfied. It doesn't matter anymore how he does it, only that the desperate needy look should never be there in his son's eyes.
He hauls Dean closer, biting hard at the inside of his cheek as Dean hisses, as Dean's eyes fall half-closed in -- can you call it pleasure? John guesses that Dean would, so that's okay. It's fine. He spreads his legs a little, tugs Dean to kneel between them, and Dean's already bringing his hands up before he gives the order, undoing his belt, his jeans. Dean's hands used to tremble when he did this. Now they're perfectly steady as he tugs John's cock out, careful, as he presses his palms to John's thighs. John puts his hands on top of Dean's anyway, anchoring, and sees the flash of gratefulness in Dean's eyes.
This has become easy for them, so easy that neither needs to speak. John pulls Dean closer again and Dean makes this little noise and leans close and licks. Licks and teases with his breath, but never too much; he takes John's cock into his mouth easily before John has to give orders. He sucks gently at first, scraping his teeth lightly, and John rumbles approval -- no words, just noises. This is more honest than words and orders anyway. Dean's eyes close fully now, but only for a second. He knows what the next order would be, opens his eyes to look up at John through his lashes.
The horror, the sickness, used to hit just then, sharp in John's gut, and he used to ignore it, ignored it until it went away entirely. Now he cups the back of Dean's head, pushing his fingers into his hair, and pushes gently, making Dean take more. Dean moans again.
It's always better than John remembers. Now that he doesn't think about how wrong it is, now he lets himself like it, it's better than anything. Except maybe being inside Dean: that's different, that's special, and the noises Dean makes then...
"Dean," he says, and no more than that, because Dean doesn't need more. Slowly he pulls back, his eyes deep and dark, his lips red, soft, wet.
"I wanted -- "
"Dean," he says again, warning now, and Dean nods, eyes dropping. He gets up, goes to his bag, takes a tube of lubricant out. Most people wouldn't see the soft tremors in him, the faultlines. John catches it all, and knows how much of it is eagerness, how much of it nerves. Dean wants to do this right, needs to do this right, and he won't let anyone make it easy on him. He comes back to the bed and moves onto it, kneels. John's known this body since it was tiny, and this, too, used to sicken him, make him angry, make him stop.
That was when he thought it was him who wanted this most, him that used Dean. Before he realised how much Dean needs it. He's only ever drawn back once or twice, only ever stopped it a few times, because the few times he did, he saw something empty in Dean, something broken.
"Dad," Dean says, shaky, and John touches him soothingly, running his hands over Dean's sides and back. He finds the scars, each and every one of them his fault, touches them. Takes the lube from Dean and slicks his fingers. It's nothing but right when he presses two fingers to Dean's entrance, teases him. Nothing but right when he slides them inside Dean. The tension is already changing, and Dean's back arches as he tries to push back for more. John holds him still.
"No, Dean," he says, firmly, and Dean stills again. He's breathing harder now, and John knows the expression that will be on his face. He'll be biting his lip, his eyebrows drawn together, his forehead slightly creased, like there's some kind of puzzle to solve. And later -- later it will smoothen out as Dean abandons himself fully, lets John do what he has to do for him. If he called anything beautiful, it might be Dean's face in those moments, much as Dean would hate to know that. John pushes his fingers deeper, twists them, and groans with Dean. "Tell me," he says. This used to be the way he salved his conscience. Now -- now he just likes to hear it, likes to know Dean's still sure, that Dean still wants.
"Please, Dad," Dean says, and the words tumble out in a hot rush, his fingers tightening around handfuls of the bedcovers. "Please, I want you inside me, I want you to fuck me so hard, want to know, want to feel, need -- "
John is already pulling his fingers out, pressing close. Dean doesn't need much, never has, like he's eager to welcome John inside of him. He pushes in quick, one shallow thrust, opening Dean up, and holds back his groan to hear Dean's. "Want to hear you," he says, and Dean nods, hands tightening again, his back arching just a little.
"Please, all the way inside, please, need to feel it."
John thrusts in deeper, harder, and his moan almost covers Dean's. Dean twists underneath him, bucks a little, panting quick, harsh. He's still talking, meaningless half-words and pleas. John knows now what he wants, what he likes, knows Dean's body as well as his own, maybe better. He moves fast, drives deep, tries not to think, tries just to listen, to feel. Dean sounds amazing, panting and cursing and arching, begging. John bites at his shoulder, kisses his neck, thrusts in deeper and harder until Dean makes a deep sobbing noise, squeezing hard around him.
"Just -- oh god, Dad, just a little more, I need -- "
He always meant things to be different. Never meant for Dean to want, to need -- John moves faster, presses closer, reaches round and jerks Dean off, roughly, so that he jerks against him and sobs again.
"Dad, please..."
"Whenever you're ready," John says, unsteadily, pushing in deeper, holding back. Dean has to be first.
It doesn't take long before he's crying out, tightening, his hips jerking and his back arching more than ever. He looks amazing, skin sheened with sweat, trembling a little, and he feels even better. John lets himself go, thrusts hard again and again until he's coming too, pushing deep inside Dean and coming so hard the world might be ending.
"Dad," Dean whispers again, and John waits for the guilt to come. And when it doesn't, he lies down beside his son and holds him close and tries not to go looking for it.
Main characters: John, Dean
Referenced characters: N/a
Pairings: John/Dean
Contains: Incest, sex
Rating: NC17
Summary: It should cause a flicker of guilt.
Note: Only seen S1 at this point.
Dean's on his knees again.
It should cause a flicker of guilt. John doesn't know when that stopped: right now, he doesn't care. Dean's on his knees, for him, his son's on his knees, and his hand is gripping hard at Dean's hair, and Dean is looking up at him with eyes wide and fever-bright. He's tense, still, at this point, sharp lines of need. John has to make this better, take that away, see Dean calmed, satisfied. It doesn't matter anymore how he does it, only that the desperate needy look should never be there in his son's eyes.
He hauls Dean closer, biting hard at the inside of his cheek as Dean hisses, as Dean's eyes fall half-closed in -- can you call it pleasure? John guesses that Dean would, so that's okay. It's fine. He spreads his legs a little, tugs Dean to kneel between them, and Dean's already bringing his hands up before he gives the order, undoing his belt, his jeans. Dean's hands used to tremble when he did this. Now they're perfectly steady as he tugs John's cock out, careful, as he presses his palms to John's thighs. John puts his hands on top of Dean's anyway, anchoring, and sees the flash of gratefulness in Dean's eyes.
This has become easy for them, so easy that neither needs to speak. John pulls Dean closer again and Dean makes this little noise and leans close and licks. Licks and teases with his breath, but never too much; he takes John's cock into his mouth easily before John has to give orders. He sucks gently at first, scraping his teeth lightly, and John rumbles approval -- no words, just noises. This is more honest than words and orders anyway. Dean's eyes close fully now, but only for a second. He knows what the next order would be, opens his eyes to look up at John through his lashes.
The horror, the sickness, used to hit just then, sharp in John's gut, and he used to ignore it, ignored it until it went away entirely. Now he cups the back of Dean's head, pushing his fingers into his hair, and pushes gently, making Dean take more. Dean moans again.
It's always better than John remembers. Now that he doesn't think about how wrong it is, now he lets himself like it, it's better than anything. Except maybe being inside Dean: that's different, that's special, and the noises Dean makes then...
"Dean," he says, and no more than that, because Dean doesn't need more. Slowly he pulls back, his eyes deep and dark, his lips red, soft, wet.
"I wanted -- "
"Dean," he says again, warning now, and Dean nods, eyes dropping. He gets up, goes to his bag, takes a tube of lubricant out. Most people wouldn't see the soft tremors in him, the faultlines. John catches it all, and knows how much of it is eagerness, how much of it nerves. Dean wants to do this right, needs to do this right, and he won't let anyone make it easy on him. He comes back to the bed and moves onto it, kneels. John's known this body since it was tiny, and this, too, used to sicken him, make him angry, make him stop.
That was when he thought it was him who wanted this most, him that used Dean. Before he realised how much Dean needs it. He's only ever drawn back once or twice, only ever stopped it a few times, because the few times he did, he saw something empty in Dean, something broken.
"Dad," Dean says, shaky, and John touches him soothingly, running his hands over Dean's sides and back. He finds the scars, each and every one of them his fault, touches them. Takes the lube from Dean and slicks his fingers. It's nothing but right when he presses two fingers to Dean's entrance, teases him. Nothing but right when he slides them inside Dean. The tension is already changing, and Dean's back arches as he tries to push back for more. John holds him still.
"No, Dean," he says, firmly, and Dean stills again. He's breathing harder now, and John knows the expression that will be on his face. He'll be biting his lip, his eyebrows drawn together, his forehead slightly creased, like there's some kind of puzzle to solve. And later -- later it will smoothen out as Dean abandons himself fully, lets John do what he has to do for him. If he called anything beautiful, it might be Dean's face in those moments, much as Dean would hate to know that. John pushes his fingers deeper, twists them, and groans with Dean. "Tell me," he says. This used to be the way he salved his conscience. Now -- now he just likes to hear it, likes to know Dean's still sure, that Dean still wants.
"Please, Dad," Dean says, and the words tumble out in a hot rush, his fingers tightening around handfuls of the bedcovers. "Please, I want you inside me, I want you to fuck me so hard, want to know, want to feel, need -- "
John is already pulling his fingers out, pressing close. Dean doesn't need much, never has, like he's eager to welcome John inside of him. He pushes in quick, one shallow thrust, opening Dean up, and holds back his groan to hear Dean's. "Want to hear you," he says, and Dean nods, hands tightening again, his back arching just a little.
"Please, all the way inside, please, need to feel it."
John thrusts in deeper, harder, and his moan almost covers Dean's. Dean twists underneath him, bucks a little, panting quick, harsh. He's still talking, meaningless half-words and pleas. John knows now what he wants, what he likes, knows Dean's body as well as his own, maybe better. He moves fast, drives deep, tries not to think, tries just to listen, to feel. Dean sounds amazing, panting and cursing and arching, begging. John bites at his shoulder, kisses his neck, thrusts in deeper and harder until Dean makes a deep sobbing noise, squeezing hard around him.
"Just -- oh god, Dad, just a little more, I need -- "
He always meant things to be different. Never meant for Dean to want, to need -- John moves faster, presses closer, reaches round and jerks Dean off, roughly, so that he jerks against him and sobs again.
"Dad, please..."
"Whenever you're ready," John says, unsteadily, pushing in deeper, holding back. Dean has to be first.
It doesn't take long before he's crying out, tightening, his hips jerking and his back arching more than ever. He looks amazing, skin sheened with sweat, trembling a little, and he feels even better. John lets himself go, thrusts hard again and again until he's coming too, pushing deep inside Dean and coming so hard the world might be ending.
"Dad," Dean whispers again, and John waits for the guilt to come. And when it doesn't, he lies down beside his son and holds him close and tries not to go looking for it.