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SPN: Only One Thing
Fandom: Supernatural
Main characters: John, Dean
Referenced characters: Sam
Pairings: John/Dean
Contains: Incest, rimming, sex
Rating: NC17
Summary: It's Dean's fault, really.
Notes: Yes, I am going to the special hell. Only seen S1 at this point.
Dean tries to be quiet. Fuck, he's trying. He knows it's important, like everything Dad tells him to do. Even knows why, this time: it's because if they wake Sam up, he's going to freak out. It doesn't take a genius to figure out that Sam might have a bit of a problem with his dad and his brother doing -- well, this. Dean grips the covers hard, tries to breathe properly, tries to focus. It's hard, with Dad's hands on him, holding him down, holding him together; hard with Dad's tongue pushing into him like that, thick and hot and not enough.
"Dad," he says, all breath and no force, and Dad's hands tighten on him, so there might be bruises tomorrow. Dean has no problem with that. Looks at himself in the mirror sometimes, the day after Dad's wants have got the better of his self-control, and touches the bruising. Thinks: yes. And: his.
It's all his fault, actually. It might be Dad holding him down, Dad calling the shots in that gruff growl of his, but it's Dean's fault for wanting it, for starting it. He's just fine with that.
As long as Dad doesn't stop, he's just fine with pretty much anything right now. He grips the covers tighter, squirms, rubbing his cock against the bed. Dad's fingers dig in deeper and he arches a little, wanting, wanting so much.
"Dad," he says again, and he hears the guilt in John's voice when he answers, and that cuts him to the bone.
"Son," he says, thick and gruff. He licks one more time and pulls back, and Dean can't help but make a whining, wanting noise. Yeah, it's his fault John can't stop this. But he can't stop it either, needs it, lives for it. Lives for the feeling of John pushing inside him, filling him up, hard and hot. Lives for the feeling he gets then, like he's good enough, like he's actually doing something right, because Dad can't hold back his noises, then, can't hold back at all.
The arch of Dean's back, the roll of his hips, say: it's okay, whatever you want, just use me, just stay with me, I'll take the blame.
The gentle touch of John's hand to the small of Dean's back as he pushes in, that says only one thing.
Sorry.
Or maybe: it's not your fault.
Main characters: John, Dean
Referenced characters: Sam
Pairings: John/Dean
Contains: Incest, rimming, sex
Rating: NC17
Summary: It's Dean's fault, really.
Notes: Yes, I am going to the special hell. Only seen S1 at this point.
Dean tries to be quiet. Fuck, he's trying. He knows it's important, like everything Dad tells him to do. Even knows why, this time: it's because if they wake Sam up, he's going to freak out. It doesn't take a genius to figure out that Sam might have a bit of a problem with his dad and his brother doing -- well, this. Dean grips the covers hard, tries to breathe properly, tries to focus. It's hard, with Dad's hands on him, holding him down, holding him together; hard with Dad's tongue pushing into him like that, thick and hot and not enough.
"Dad," he says, all breath and no force, and Dad's hands tighten on him, so there might be bruises tomorrow. Dean has no problem with that. Looks at himself in the mirror sometimes, the day after Dad's wants have got the better of his self-control, and touches the bruising. Thinks: yes. And: his.
It's all his fault, actually. It might be Dad holding him down, Dad calling the shots in that gruff growl of his, but it's Dean's fault for wanting it, for starting it. He's just fine with that.
As long as Dad doesn't stop, he's just fine with pretty much anything right now. He grips the covers tighter, squirms, rubbing his cock against the bed. Dad's fingers dig in deeper and he arches a little, wanting, wanting so much.
"Dad," he says again, and he hears the guilt in John's voice when he answers, and that cuts him to the bone.
"Son," he says, thick and gruff. He licks one more time and pulls back, and Dean can't help but make a whining, wanting noise. Yeah, it's his fault John can't stop this. But he can't stop it either, needs it, lives for it. Lives for the feeling of John pushing inside him, filling him up, hard and hot. Lives for the feeling he gets then, like he's good enough, like he's actually doing something right, because Dad can't hold back his noises, then, can't hold back at all.
The arch of Dean's back, the roll of his hips, say: it's okay, whatever you want, just use me, just stay with me, I'll take the blame.
The gentle touch of John's hand to the small of Dean's back as he pushes in, that says only one thing.
Sorry.
Or maybe: it's not your fault.