
Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/56739.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Supernatural
  Relationship:
      John_Winchester/Sam_Winchester
  Character:
      John_Winchester, Sam_Winchester
  Additional Tags:
      Fuck_Or_Die, Incest
  Series:
      Part 1 of No_More_Room_in_Hell
  Stats:
      Published: 2010-01-28 Words: 907
****** No More Room in Hell, Boys ******
by autoschediastic
Summary
     Sam clutches the sawed-off in his left hand and thinks about how
     Dean's not here.
Sam doesn't know what to do. His hands and face are numb from the streaming
cold rain. The forest around them is pitch black, treacherous. In a thin band
of yellow, the flashlight fallen into the mud at his feet, John's face is
ashen.
"The car," John says. With unsteady hands, he holds the wadded up lump of Sam's
flannel to his shoulder. "Get to the car. Get the green bag, with the black
drawstring." He grits his teeth against a pained noise. "Go, Sam!"
Sam clutches the sawed-off in his left hand and thinks about how Dean's not
here. He couldn't do anything different if he was, except then Sam wouldn't
feel so fucking alone.
Mud needles through Sam's jeans like icicles when he drops to his knees. He
shoves the gun away, pulls his father's hands from the wound. The bleeding's
stopped, the flesh blackened as if burned. Too late for whatever charms or
poultices they own.
"Sammy," John says. His voice wavers, already breaking down. He doesn't sound
anything like the strong, stubborn father Sam rails against every day.
Sam hesitates.
"Don't you," John warns. A hand comes up fast, too fast, to twist in the collar
of Sam's soaked tee. The seam digs into the back of his neck. "I can ride it
out, Sammy, don't."
"Can you?" Sam shouts, shoving at John's hand. "You want me to just leave you
here? You want me to tell Dean I just left you?"
John's eyes glint in the light. They're both shaking, Sam from the cold
creeping deep in his blood, John from the poison crawling through his. He says
Sam's name one more time, a prayer and a plea. The hand gripping Sam's shirt
loosens, slides up to cup the side of Sam's neck. "You're going to tell him you
did this, instead?"
Sam closes his eyes tight. He hates this life, not the man who gave it to him.
"It's okay," he says. He leans down, puts a hand uncertainly on John's injured
shoulder. Defiantly, he grits his teeth and reaches further down to strip open
his father's belt. "It's okay," he repeats.
John's grip on his neck tightens and he shakes his head no, but there's no word
squeezed past his lips. Sam's heart flutters against his ribs. There's so much
heat hovering in the air just above John's body that he wonders why the rain
isn't sizzling when it strikes skin.
Sam closes his hand around his father's cock, fingers prickling back to life.
John's hard and thick, already slick with precome. The answering throb between
his own legs twists Sam's insides up in knots. Over the thundering rain, he
hears John's ragged moan.
He tries not to think about what he's doing, how easily his hand glides over
soft flesh or the creeping tingle up the back of his spine. Through his
dripping bangs, he watches the flashes of dark skin between his fingers.
"Sam-"
"Is this enough?" Sam cuts in, gravel-rough. It sounds like he's about to cry
and it makes him so angry. "Is it?"
John's fist thuds into the mud. His other hand is still on Sam's neck, flexing
fitfully, like he wants to let go but can't.
"It's okay," Sam hears himself saying, over and over again as he tugs John's
jeans out of the way. "He'd do the same, Dad, he would. Can't let you- he
wouldn't."
His stomach roils as he takes John's cock into his mouth the first time. He
chokes on it, not prepared for the bitter, saltsweet taste or the way John's
hips surge. Not knowing what else to do, he fits his fingers to the strong jut
of John's hipbones, holds on and opens his mouth as best he can.
The head of John's cock is soft against the insides of his cheeks, the flared
ridge and knot of scar tissue from circumcision beneath it thick on his tongue.
The quick, frantic breaths he drags in through his nose are shunted back in his
face as John shudders, thrusts.
In seconds, his lips feel raw. The taste of sweat is gone from John's skin,
only the tang of precome left when John draws back far enough for it to smear
across his tongue. He twists his head, tries to keep his teeth from scraping,
and is rewarded with a fresh burst of slick on the roof of his mouth. He's
trembling as hard as his father, now.
John groans Sam's name like it's tortured from him, heavy and rough and full of
harpy-poison lust. Sam still doesn't think about what he's doing, or why, he
just shoves a hand inside his jeans, fists it tight over his own dick because
it's either that or rut against his father's leg. He loses whatever
coordination he had left when he comes, barely registering his own pained noise
when John's cock touches the back of his throat.
When Sam learns the taste of his father's come, John's fingers are tangled
tightly in his too-long hair. One breath, two; John doesn't move so Sam pulls
away slowly, tries not to stare at his father's softened cock wet with his
spit.
Sam swipes a hand across his face, leaves a tiny, itching smear of mud and come
behind as he searches for the belt lost in the dirt. "Dean would've," he says,
his voice fucked out, nearly lost in the rain. "Dad. He would've."
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