Episode 0x04 - Without A Sound Who: John Winchester, Dean Winchester When: 1997 What:John can't hold back any longer. Where: On The Road
John shouldn't be this -- this antsy. This anxious to have his hands on Dean again. But it's been far too long since their last good lead, and this has to stay as a reward if John's going to be able to justify it to himself. So he sends Dean out ot the range with Sam, to give him lessons. So he can reward him tonight, after Sam goes to sleep. God, he's so screwed. Dean loves the range, so when they get back he is in a good mood, cheerily hen pecking Sam through their nightly routine (after the guns are cleaned, of course). He gets Sam into bed, before wandering into the kitchen to find something to snack on (not to mention checking up on John). He's kept to the kitchen, mostly, looking pointlessly over his notebook and not seeing much of anything while he waits for Sam to go to bed. When he sees Dean, he licks his lips unconsciously and gives him a brief flicker of a smile. "How'd the lesson go?" Dean gives him a grin, looking him over in a quick glance, just to make sure everything is alright. He opens the fridge and takes a look at their stock. "He can hit anything as big as a pop-can at two-hundred yards. Soon he'll be down to grape size." Dean's voice is full of pride. "That's great. You're doing a good job of training him." He glances over at Dean again, leaning back in his chair. "Are you going out at all tonight?" He's since forgiven Dean for the episode with the acid, given that Dean's proved himself several times over since then. He can go out. So long as John knows exactly where he is and when he'll be back, and Dean understands that if he's not back by then, he'll suffer the consequences. Dean smiles at the praise over the fridge door. "I was thinking about hanging around here tonight." He picks a package of hot dogs and a coke, closing the door and setting them on the counter, looking for something to warm the hot dogs up on. "That so?" John shuts his notebook, rubbing at the back of his neck with a sigh, trying figure out.... how to phrase this, exactly. During a hunt it sort of... naturally fell into place after they were finished. But here, in their own home, without a hunt to initiate the reward... it feels more awkward. "Catch a movie on the tube, or something. Want a hot dog?" he asks, putting one in for John before he can answer. He can feel the odd tension in the room, and he continuously glances at John out of the corner of his eye, trying to figure out what the cause of it is. "Sure, sounds good." He stands to get a coke for himself, leaning against the fridge with a soft sigh. "I haven't seen anything good in the paper lately. Maybe I missed something on the news." "Watched it this morning. Everything's pretty quiet." Dean waits for the hot dogs to finish, pulling them out of the hot microwave with mild curses, not that he bothers to let them cool down. He sets two aside for John and the other three for himself. "Careful, they're hot," he says needlessly, looking up at him, his expression asking the 'Are you okay?' that he does not express otherwise. John snorts a quiet laugh, taking a long sip of his coke. "Careful with those, they're dangerous." He sits, again, toying with his bottle before pulling his dinner towards him. "Sorta nice to have an evening in, for once." Though he doesn't mean it. He'd rather be out, skulking around with a gun than sitting on the couch. "Good, though," Dean says through a mouthful. His snack is not going to make it out of the kitchen. "Guess so, yeah." He looks down, mashing a hotdog piece into a puddle of ketchup. He wishes they were out, too, on another hunt, because things were less awkward that way, at the very least; sad, he supposed, that things were less awkward when hunting evil and screwing (hopefully) afterward than watching TV together, but. "That's disgusting," he smirks, nodding to Dean's hotdog massacre. It does feel awkward, sitting around like this. Eating dinner -- or a snack, or whatever -- and talking. About the news. Like they were normal people. He steals the ketchup for his own hotdog and takes a bite, not really tasting it as he swallows. "Tastes better this way," Dean shoots back, finishing it off. "That going to be enough to eat?" He took Sammy out for fast food, but he knows John probably did not eat much while they were gone, if at all. "Yeah, I'm fine." He finishes off his hot dog, not feeling that hungry. "Not everyone has your appetite, Dean," John teases, offering the other hot dog to his son. "Have at it, I'm not that hungry, anyway." Dean hesitates for a moment, and then takes it. "I've still got a growth spurt coming," he jibes, even though he knows that he has hit the end of the line; still an inch or so shorter than John, damn genetics. "I know, I know. You're a growing boy." He wanders over to Dean and ruffles his hair a little, letting his fingers linger for a few moments before he takes his hand away again. "Growing up to be a great hunter too, Dean." That causes Dean to smile. He leans into the touch until John takes it away, lifting his head to look up at him. "I do my best," he says, not humbly but truthfully. Nothing can ever match the feeling he gets when John compliments him like that. Now that he's this close, it's harder to resist touching him. Harder to hold back. He carefully takes Dean's plate away, setting it on the counter behind him. "You do well," he murmurs, his heart speeding up a little as he shifts closer to Dean. Dean swallows, steadying himself with his hands on the counter. The way he says it makes his blood race south - that soft tone of praise that promises rewards. "Thank you, sir," he answers softly, wetting his lips with the tip of his tongue. John inhales sharply, eyes darting down to Dean's lips, then back up to his eyes. Slowly he leans in, bracing his hands against the counter on either side of Dean. With a slightly shaky breath, he leans in and brushes his lips against Dean's ear. "How quiet can you be?" he whispers, his voice low and a little rough. Dean shivers, his breath hitching as John leans over him. He should not like being trapped this much; it goes against everything he has been taught about being careful and making exit strategies, but with John all the rules seem to disappear. "Very quiet," he promises, willing to do anything to have John. He very nearly moans at that, scraping his teeth lightly over Dean's neck. "Come to my room. Make sure Sammy's asleep and then come to my room." With what feels like an emmense effort, he pulls away and starts towards his room, his hands trembling faintly. Dean has to take several deep breaths before he can move to do as he is told; he checks on Sammy, trying to be as quiet as possible, and feels a sudden stab of guilt. He wonders what his brother would think, knowing that he did this, with him in the next room - he shoves the thought out of his mind, closing the door gently and moving down the hall to John's room. John sits on the edge of his bed, hands clasped together as he waits for Dean. When he hears the door click open he stands, abruptly, swallowing hard. "Close the door," he says, as quietly as possible. "Lock it." He doesn't want any chance of Sam walking in on this, but he doesn't want to wait until the next hunting trip, either. Dean turns and does so, before stopping and standing where he is, facing John, clasping his hands behind his back and waiting for his next command. He has rarely been in John's room, and now it feels akin to walking on sacred ground. ... what a good soldier. John has to smile a little as he moves closer to Dean, stroking his hands over his arms slowly. "You can relax," he whispers, leaning in to brush his lips against Dean's jaw. Dean lets his hands fall to his sides, closing his eyes for a brief moment at the kiss. He enjoys the feel of John's stubble scratching against the tender skin of his neck, though he tries not to think about that too in depth. "Sorry," he murmurs. "Dean." John tilts Dean's chin up to look him in the eye. He had something he was going to say, about how Dean doesn't have to apologize, that he can relax here, that he's safe. But as soon as he looks into Dean's eyes he loses his train of thought and can't do anything but lean in and kiss him. Dean relaxes all at once, stepping closer to John and deepening the kiss; he feels safe when John calls him by his name, like that somehow makes everything okay. He leans into John, bracing his hands on his arms. This feels so different from the other times they've done this. Slower, more intimate. More tender. He wraps an arm around Dean's waist, tracing his tongue gently over Dean's lips and sighing into the kiss. Dean parts his lips, sucking lightly at the tip of John's tongue. He runs his hand down his chest, stopping at his hip and daring to let his thumb creep under John's t-shirt, stroking the skin above his waistband. John inhales sharply, sliding his tongue into Dean's mouth and reaching a hand up to stroke through his hair. He moans, softly, deepening the kiss, his fingers teasing up under Dean's shirt to stroke over his lower back. Dean shivers at the feel of John's calloused fingertips on his back, stifling a groan. He shifts back onto his heels, wanting to pull him even closer, but he realizes that he is not going to be able to stand up straight if he takes more of his weight. When they pause for a breath, he glances beyond John and then questions, "Bed?" They should move, shouldn't they? John glances back at the bed and considers it, then shakes his head. "Too much noise." Instead, he leans Dean back against the nearest wall, pressing close and kissing him again, a little more urgently than before. Dean moans the slightest bit, returning the kiss fervently. He slips his hand completely under John's shirt, grasping his hip tightly, resisting the urge to pull it against his own just yet. John pulls away for a moment to push Dean's shirt off his shoulders, sliding a hand under his t-shirt to tease his fingers over his chest. He drags his teeth over Dean's lip, then sucks at it gently, thinking it might never fully heal, if they keep going like this. Not that John minds, entirely; he loves the way Dean's lips look, kiss swollen and slightly parted. He moans at the thought and scrapes his nails lightly over Dean's chest. Dean gasps, bracing his back against the wall. He spreads his legs slightly so that he can pull John flush against him, kissing him hungrily. The rawness of his lip only seems to make the kiss better, the same way the feel of John's nails do. He grips Dean's hip tightly with one hand while the other continues to explore his chest, tracing over old wounds. It drives him out of his head, how badly Dean wants this, wants him. He grinds their hips together firmly, reaching between them to undo Dean's jeans. Dean whimpers, not remembering to be quiet, reaching to help John push down his jeans. His other hand gropes from John's hip to his back, and then, after a second's hesitation, lower. It surprises him every time, just how good it feels to have John pressed against him, rubbing them together like he does. John bites harder at Dean's lip as a warning to keep quiet, both hands running down over his thighs. They're both wearing too many clothes, and he breaks the kiss for a moment to pull his shirt off, tugging at the hem of Dean's shirt. "Arms up." Dean has to clench his jaw to keep silent, lifting his arms above his head as he grinds his back teeth together. He watches John, feeling oddly exposed, stretched out from top to bottom like this against the wall, his shirt riding up and his jeans slung halfway down his thighs. Once John gets the shirt out of the way, he pins Dean's arms above head, squeezing his wrists tight enough to leave bruises, kissing him hungrly. Dean looks so -- wanton, like this. Eager and needy, like he can't wait for John to be in him. He shifts to hold Dean's wrists with one hand, undoing his own jeans and kicking them away. Dean twists his wrists under John's hand, an instinctual reaction, testing how much give he has and if he can break free. He returns the kiss fiercely, nipping at John's lips and tongue, the feeling of being trapped making him fight in little ways. John presses Dean's wrists more firmly against the wall, gripping the back of his thigh and hiking his leg over his hip, pressing closer to him. His kiss becomes possessive, controlling, biting back just fiercely. He bucks beneath him, partly for the fight and partly to grind their hips together. His hands clench in and out of fists, but he does not break the kiss, even as he has to gasp for breath against his lips. He realizes, in the still functioning part of his brain, that they don't have what they need nearby. He's not particularly inclined to move away, so he moves his mouth to Dean's neck, offering him his fingers so they don't do this completely dry. Dean kisses the tips of John's fingers, before realizing what they mean; he flushes a bright red, and is suddenly very glad that he does not have to look John in the eye. He carefully takes his fingers into his mouth, up to the first knuckle, and runs his tongue across them hesitantly. John shivers a little and uses his free hand to push Dean's boxers down, trailing his fingers down his spine. He makes a quietly approving noise of the way Dean's tongue feels against his fingers, wondering how it might feel elsewhere. The noise gives him the courage to go farther, taking them in deeper and sucking at them, still lightly but more boldly. He does not bring his wrists down from above his head, staying as John positioned him, though he aches to touch him. God -- he hopes that's good enough, because he needs to kiss Dean again. He takes his hand away and slips it between Dean's thighs, teasing a finger against him as he captures Dean's mouth in another hungry kiss. Dean would gasp but he does not have enough breath to; he returns the kiss breathlessly, his lungs burning in his chest. He manages a whimper, muffled by John's lips, when he feels the finger, spreading his thighs farther apart, open and willing. He breaks the kiss to catch his breath, breathing hard against Dean's lips as he works a finger into him. He tries to go slow, be gentle, though every inch of him is aching to be in him as soon as possible. Dean bites his lip severely to keep the sounds he wants to make trapped in his throat, clenching his hands back into fists. He tries to stay still, but he cannot help but shift back and forth a bit, trying to get a more comfortable position, or perhaps just to force John's finger against the spot that will make him forget any discomfort. John presses his finger in deeper, watching Dean's face carefully for any signs he should stop. Carefully, he starts moving his hand, searching out that spot, wanting to make Dean feel good again. Dean cannot help the small cry that escapes him when John's finger brushes against it; he presses down against his hand without shame, his hands abandoning their post above his head to bury their fingers in John's hair. He kisses him again to try and muffle the noise, moaning quietly himself, moving his hand faster and aiming to hit that spot with each thrust of his finger. This is what keeps John up at night; images of Dean spread out underneath him, naked and willing, all his. Dean whimpers into his mouth, desperate for that touch, shivers racing through his body each time John finds his mark. He wraps his arms around John's neck in a bid to keep himself upright, tightening his leg against his hip. "Dean -- " he gasps, working a second finger into him and pressing frantic kisses over his neck and shoulder. He twists his fingers a little, wanting to make him gasp, wanting to hear that delicious 'please sir' again. "Ohgod-" Dean digs his nails into John's shoulders, pushing his hips up against him wildly. "Sir-" he gasps, clawing at John's skin, driven near mad by the feel of his fingers. He's half tempted to keep going like this, to watch Dean fuck himself so beautifully against his fingers. And maybe sometime, he will. But now he takes his hand away, pushing his own boxers off and kicking them out of the way. For lack of better lubricant, he spits in his palm and slicks himself up with a shudder, gripping Dean's hip tightly as he pushes into him. Dean's lip begins to bleed anew under the pressure of his teeth; god, he feels bigger this way, going in roughly instead of with the smoothness of the lotion. He leans his head back against the wall and clings to John's shoulders for support, breath coming in short gasps of air. John leans in to lick the blood off Dean's lip, kissing him firmly, resting for a moment, leaning against Dean and trying to breathe. The friction is -- amazingly intense. Overwhelming. He grinds his hips slowly against Dean's, exhaling through his teeth. He kisses John desperately, needing it to anchor himself against the unbridled sensations that happen everytime John moves even the slightest bit. He cannot move himself, forced to hold onto John tightly and let him grind against him, in him, and try not to moan. John braces one hand against the wall, gripping his thigh firmly as he starts moving his hips. Dean clinging so tightly to him feels good, it makes him feel wanted -- needed. Loved. He sucks at Dean's lip, grinding hard and deep. "Sir-" It comes out as a breathless moan, torn out of him by pleasure. John sucking at his lip, pressing into him, filling him- it is nearly more than he can bear, and yet part of him still cries out for more, to be taken harder and faster and to lose what sense he has left. He crushes his mouth against Dean's, digging his nails into his thigh and pounding into him as hard as he can, barely able to contain his own moans. He drives deep into him, over and over, his breath harsh and shallow in between devouring kisses. Dean strangles a cry in his throat, making a single, soft, wild noise, his body twisting against John's furiously. This is what drives him crazy, John fucking him like this, mindless of anything else, claiming him, using him. He comes apart all at once, and it feels like losing his mind; he has never felt something so good. And Dean moving against him like that, moaning so desperately, that's what pushes him over the edge. He bites at Dean's shoulder to stifle his own moan, shuddering hard and holding Dean tightly against him. Dean breathes in short gasps, sagging against John and burying his face in his neck. He is suddenly exhausted, his last energy spent on trying not to drag John to the floor with his weight. "Come on..." John murmurs, dragging them both over to the bed to lay down, pressing soft kisses to Dean's face. His body aches and he'll sleep like the dead tonight, he's sure. But god -- it was worth it. Dean lets himself be moved, curling up beside him and beginning to put himself back together. He knows he will have to move soon, or he will fall asleep here, and he has no way of explaining that one to Sammy in the morning. His gut twists a bit when he thinks of his little brother, and he desperately hopes that they were quiet enough not to disturb him. John gently rubs his hand over Dean's back, kissing his hair. He wishes they could stay like this, but -- Sammy's next door and Dean has to go back to his room. They shouldn't have done this, here, with Sam so close by. He should learn to control himself better. Dean allows himself one kiss, gentle and unintrusive, before sitting up. "Sammy," he whispers by way of explanation, with a guilty shrug of his shoulders. "I know," he nods, sitting up and rubbing a hand over his face. "Clean up a little and go back to your room. Don't wake your brother." He kisses Dean's shoulder, then the back of his neck, lightly. "I'll see you in the morning." He nods, murmuring a "Yes sir," before getting up and finding his clothes; he picks up John's as well, setting them on top of the dresser, before putting on his boxers and a shirt. He glances back at the bed. "Good night." He nearly says Dad, but the word dies on his lips. "Good night," he answers with a soft smile. It breaks his heart a little, to make Dean leave like this. But they can't chance Sammy finding out -- he doesn't need to know.