
Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/2293769.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Supernatural
  Relationship:
      Dean_Winchester/John_Winchester
  Character:
      Dean_Winchester, John_Winchester
  Additional Tags:
      Community:_blindfold_spn, Parent/Child_Incest, Car_Sex, Barebacking,
      Established_Relationship
  Stats:
      Published: 2010-07-20 Words: 2290
****** Summertime Blues ******
by Edwardina
Summary
     prompt: John/Dean (15-17) established relationship: John has been
     away for a while on a hunt, when he gets back Dean is desperate to
     get fucked but is too obedient to ask for it himself. John takes Dean
     out to get some groceries or something but on the way he pulls over
     to the side of the road and has Dean ride his bare cock. He comes
     inside Dean and then feeds it to him afterwards as it drips out of
     Dean's ass.
Notes
     Written for blindfold_spn and originally posted here.
Dean tries to ignore the stuff that makes him ache for his dad - the shaving
kit left on the bathroom counter, the flannel shirt left slung over the back of
the chair by the room's door. Dad's been gone longer than a couple of weeks
before, and they survived. He survived.
Besides, Sam needs him. It's summertime and there's no homework for him to do,
so Dean takes him to the nearest library and lets him take out a card so he can
read some local high school's summer reading list like the little geek he is.
They walk three miles into town to go see dollar movies and buy Otter Pops from
the nearest Gas Mart and try to freeze them in a red cooler full of ice. The
family two doors down has a hot teenage daughter, corn-fed blonde with some
serious tan lines. It takes Dean all evening one night to get her name out of
her, splashing around in the pool and buying her Diet Dr. Peppers from the
vending machine: Michelle. Dean sings "Michelle, my belle, these are words that
go together well..." on a loop and drives Sam up the wall, and Sam puts himself
to bed with a book every night, grumbling.
The cell phone never rings.
Dean stares at it. Wills it to. Wants it to be dad calling him to say, "Be home
soon, son." But it never makes a peep. He tries not to think about it.
It's 12:30 am and Dean's watching an old Star Trek on Nick at Nite when he
hears the struggle of a key in the lock of their front door. His shotgun's in
his hand before he even registers pushing himself up off the saggy roll-out
couch, thoughts rapid-fire in his head. The motel manager - the maid, ignoring
the "Do Not Disturb" sign on the doorknob - some dumbass trying to get into the
wrong room - Michelle - something bad, a monster --
"Dad," Dean breathes, stashing the gun back behind the chair again as Dad
elbows his way in.
Dazedly, Dean takes stock without even realizing he's doing it. No blood, not
that he can see. No limping. He hasn't trimmed his beard since the last time he
was here, Dean can tell - he watched him do it. He looks exhausted, but he
always looks exhausted. It doesn't mean anything. More than anything, the smell
of Dad overtakes him, familiar and sweaty in this heat, grimy from the road.
"The phone didn't ring," Dean says. "I didn't know you were comin'."
"Take this, Dean," Dad says, and Dean does, heart in his throat. Dad's duffel.
It's heavy, but Dean's much stronger than he used to be, and besides, the
weight of all the stuff he knows Dad takes with him when he leaves is
comforting to have back. Salt, he knows, amulets, knives, guns.
"Gimmie the other one," he offers, and lets Dad load him down with the lighter
pack of clothes and stuff, too, carries them off to the bedroom, where it's
dark and the AC unit is blowing on HI.
Sam's asleep, he thinks off-handedly, starting to nearly choke on the feelings
winding up in him. Please, Dad.
When he emerges, Dad's leaning back against the door, rubbing his face. His
hair is a mess, too-long just like his beard. He's probably been sleeping in
the car most of the time, Dean realizes, and he probably aches like a son of a
bitch, and needs to sleep in a real bed.
"Sammy?" he asks, sensing - or just hearing - Dean back in his orbit.
"Good. Fine. Sleepin'," says Dean, trying hard not to sound as desperate as he
feels. It's so easy with girls like Michelle. They probably won't let him do
anything, but if they do, it's Miller time, it's bonus, it's his lucky day. But
they don't do what Dad does. They don't make him feel like that, all knotted up
and intense and...
"You boys behave yourselves?"
...like a kid.
"Yes, sir."
"Any trouble?"
"No, sir."
"Any word from Jim?"
"No, sir."
Dad reaches out, gets fingers into Dean's hair and ruffles it gently, hand
heavy, and Dean almost busts inside, can't keep himself from breathing like
Dad's hand is on his dick and not just his head. He looks up at Dad almost
reluctantly, not sure if he's being pathetically obvious or not. Dad can
probably read his mind.
Dad's smiling at him, though. He's got bags under his eyes and the weight of
the world on his shoulders, but it's a smile.
"Now tell me. You boys have everything you need for another day? When I hit the
mattress, it's gonna be for a long time."
Dean doesn't want to say no to his dad, not even about this.
"We got Otter Pops," he says lamely.
"There's a Wal-Mart a couple miles up the road," Dad says, taking him by the
shoulder. "Let's get some actual sustenance. Then we can rest."
It's electric out at one in the morning, the air so humid it's fogged up all
the windows at the motel, the neon of bar signs in the distance the only thing
Dean can see when they pull out on the road. The car smells so much like Dad, a
smell the motel room had lost after just a couple of hours but that Dean's
covered in now. The radio's off, so all he can hear is the highway and Dad's
breaths and his own heartbeat, and the silence between them is half comfortable
(it's relief, too, all kinds of relief that their family's together again, and
safe, and that Dad's job is over and he'll be resting soon) and half nerve-
wracking. At least, for Dean. He's half-hard in his jeans. He can't help it.
Dad being right there when Dean had no idea he was even going to get in tonight
is just so much to take in. He wasn't prepared. He doesn't have a grip on
himself. He felt so cool and easy-going lounging on the steps of the motel pool
with that chick, making her laugh and splash him, but Dad is just - on a whole
other level.
"Something you want to tell me?" Dad asks, out of nowhere, jerking Dean out of
an awkward squirm.
"No!" comes out of his mouth.
"No," Dad repeats.
"No, sir."
"Hm," Dad grunts at him, and no one can pack a punch in a single noise like Dad
can. Half a minute later, Dad's turning the wheel, pulling off into a picnic
area where there's a covered set of picnic tables and green trash drums
bracketing it. The car goes into park and the lights cut off, leaving the
picnic table in relative darkness. The feeling cutting through Dean is sharply
on edge between so busted, in trouble now and maybe?
"You need something, son?" Dad asks, flat-out, giving him this measuring look.
All Dean can do is flush red and look down.
"Need takin' care of, don't you?" Dad says, and Dean can't read his voice, it's
impossible, somewhere between drill sergeant and Daddy - the Daddy that taught
Dean to swim and flipped quarters into the shallow end for him to dive after.
The Daddy that used to give him bear hugs and let Dean sit in his lap to watch
baseball games and kiss him on the head.
"Open the glovebox," Dad says, and Dean does, still straddling the feeling of
being in trouble. On top of the usual hundred maps, there's a travel-size tube
of Astroglide, lit up yellow by the light in the box, and it practically slides
off the pile and into his hand, like a little present for him.
"Dad," he whispers.
"Right here, right now, Dean," Dad says firmly, and Dean hears it like an order
and permission at once and bolts into action, rustling his t-shirt up and out
of the way and scrabbling to get his jeans undone. He's so embarrassingly hard
in them, so humiliated that Dad can tell how bad he wants to get fucked just
seeing him, smelling him, being around him again.
"What about condoms?" he asks, 'cause usually they're careful not to make a
mess. It's safer. Dad says so. Dean always uses them.
But Dad just looks at him. "No condoms this time."
Oh my fucking God.
Dean's jeans end up in the footwell, but he's barely got his boxer-briefs off
and they hang around one knee as he crawls up onto his dad's lap, self-
conscious and dying for it, for his dad to be balls-deep in him, fucking him
like he's a girl. His fingers are almost useless as they dig at his dad's belt.
No girl could want his dad's dick as bad as he does.
"Hurry up, son," Dad says roughly, and grabs at Dean's hips with controlling
hands, keeping him from backing up against the steering wheel. "Get my cock in
you. I know what you need."
His hands slide back and grab Dean's ass cheeks, opening them up lewdly, and
Dean's body wants to buck in orgasm right then and there, even as he gets Dad's
zipper down in a frenzy and tugs and pulls at the wide-open denim, digs his
fingers in to find his dad's cock. He can feel it, hot with blood and hardening
for him, to him this monstrous and perfect dick more powerful-looking and
beautiful than any dick he'd seen in magazines or locker rooms, and he can't
help but think, like always, Dad made me with it.
There's a cold, wet, slippery shock, then - Dad's finger, wet with lube and
sliding over his hole. Dean yelps, half in surprise and half just because he
can't believe this, that Dad's going to let him get fucked out where anyone
could find them, in the car, in the middle of the night. When Dad's finger
thrusts insistently up into his ass, it just feels fucking sexy.
"You're ready for it," Dad says, not even a question.
"Yes, sir," Dean garbles, dying. Dad doesn't even know how ready he is,
especially to feel everything bare inside him.
"What are you going to do, Dean?"
"Get your dick in me," he responds deliriously, "get fucked..."
Dad's finger-fucking him, now, and sometimes, that would be more than enough,
would get Dean off all over the papery motel sheets, Dad just fingering him up
the ass.
"That's right. Gonna ride it, Dean. Right here on top of me. You hear me?"
"Yes, sir! Yes, sir. Please, Dad."
"Gonna be quick?" Dad asks, and Dean knows they have to be - that it probably
will be, they haven't gotten to fuck in what feels like so long.
"It'll be a quickie," Dean promises, and hears Dad's rasp of a laugh.
"Yeah, it will be. Got a big load I've been savin' up for you," Dad's voice is
going dark, nasty, and Dean can't help it, he shudders relentlessly, halfway to
coming at the tone, let alone the mere idea of Dad's jizz touching him up
inside for real. "Sit on my dick, buddy."
Dad's cock opens him up like a finger, two fingers, three fingers can't, feels
too big and too scary, but Dean sinks to the root of it, slick inside and
hanging onto Dad's shoulders.
"There you go," Dad whispers, and their cheeks rasp together momentarily, Dad's
beard shocking and comforting at the same time, the smell of him the most
familiar thing Dean knows. Daddy, from his earliest memory. "Fuck yourself on
it, kiddo. Make it feel good."
Dean whimpers, grinds himself wetly, his own dick rubbing up under Dad's t-
shirt against the trail of dark hair under his navel, and Dad puts arms around
him, keeps him from flying off the handle. It's overwhelming. Too much. Dad's
dick inside him, Dad underneath him and all around him, Dad with him and taking
care of him in a way he never took care of Sammy. Dean explodes so quick, too
soon, not even fully adjusted to the feeling of his ass being opened and
filled, and he comes up Dad's stomach in a feverish haze, creaming bare, hot,
sweaty skin in jerks of seed.
"Whoa, Dean," Dad whispers, and grabs at the back of Dean's neck, fingernails
scratching through the scruff of hair there. Dean's body spasms without his
permission; his breath hiccoughs. He feels Dad straining taut and kicks his
hips into gear again, sliding himself along his dad's dick, the noise of their
sweat and his own jizz between them making it sound so wet.
"Do it, Dad," he begs, forehead tucked between Dad's neck and shoulder. "Oh,
God, please. Want your load in me for real..."
"Gonna come in your ass, Dean," Dad says, and it sounds like a threat, so low
and mean like Dad can sound sometimes.
"Do it, do it," Dean begs, and squishes pathetically as Dad locks him down with
both arms and does it, shoots off in him. It's so surreal, knowing his dick is
bare, knowing the wad Dad's loading him up with is the same that made him, and
Dean's aware enough to know that's an extra helping of really messed up on top
of the plate of messed up that is his relationship with his dad, but he doesn't
give a fuck. He loves it. Dad fills him up for real for the first time, and
it's so much that it slips out somehow, is pushed out by Dad's dick as it
pulses.
He doesn't have to say anything. Dad's hand slides down his spine, dips low to
stop it, and Dean doesn't hesitate to open his mouth for it.
Dad can definitely read his mind.
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