Episode 0x-- - Losing Game Who: Dean Winchester, John Winchester When: 2001 What:Sam's left for college, and Dean and John are left to deal with each other Where: On The Road
Sam's gone. Sam's gone and there's nothing John can do about it. The boy made his choices, went on his own path, despite everything John said. Just -- ignored all of John's wishes for him, all his plans for the family, and abandonned he and Dean. Leaving John sitting with a bottle of whiskey at the kitchen table, head in hands, trying to figure out where he went wrong. Dean's been stone silent since the door slammed; he tailed Sam to the bus station, just to make sure he got there okay, and came back with his tail between his legs. He walks past John, finally moving from his spot by the front door, finding himself a bottle of something strong; he does not even take the time to figure out what it is before he has it open and is taking a swallow. John rubs his hands over his face and leans back in his chair, sighing. He sees Dean and almost laughs, thinking about how much Dean is taking after him. Dean wouldn't leave him. Dean wouldn't disobey him like that. At least, John hopes not; without his boys, what does he have? Dean leans against the counter, looking out the window in between swigs. He feels lost, not knowing what to do or say now that his little brother is gone; he was always supposed to protect him, to watch out for him, to help him - and now he is gone, and Dean cannot help but feel like he failed at his most important job. He pushes his chair back from the table a little, watching Dean through a haze of whiskey. "C'mere, boy," he orders, gesturing for Dean to get closer. Right now, he just needs to forget about Sam, and lose himself in Dean's moans. Dean obeys, the movements tense and without any of his normal eagerness to please. He stands in front of John, bottle still in one hand, quiet and waiting for orders. He just wants to sit somewhere and drink his alcohol, and maybe sleep for a week or two. John takes the bottle and sets it on the table, tugging at Dean's hip to pull him closer, down onto his lap. "I said come here," he growls, gripping the back of Dean's neck to pull him down into a kiss. These days, it's the only thing that helps John forgot about how insane his life has gotten. Which probably says something about him. He does not resist, bending down and returning the kiss listlessly. This seems like the wrong time and place for this, this should be a celebration of something, and there is nothing to celebrate about losing Sam. But it is John, and he does not dare bring it up, not after that. "What's the matter with you, boy?" Dean responding so -- unenthusiastically worries him. He twists his fingers Dean's hair, trying to kiss him more firmly. Dean can't leave him, not now. Not after losing Sam. He pours his frustration and anger into the kiss, biting The sting of John's teeth against his lips clears a bit of the fog from his depression; his body is responding to John, wanting to kiss him more, wanting to press against him, but he still cannot find the crazy rush that normally takes him over. He shrugs in response, letting his body go, and it is kind of like watching someone else return John's kiss firmly, clinging to his jacket with both John sighs, pissed off at himself and at Dean. He shoves Dean off, glaring at him and sitting in his chair heavily. "You don't want it, don't ask for it. Go on, then, get out. Go back to your room." He grabs the bottle back and takes a long drink, staring morosely at the table rather than looking at Dean. It'd just make him angrier. That breaks through to Dean, John's hurt showing through like that; it has always been easier for him to deal with someone else's problems than his own. "- Dad-" He grabs a chair, pulling it next to John's. "I'm not leaving." He puts his hand on the bottle, thinking that John needs to stop drinking, but does not pull it away just yet. He tries to shrug Dean off, turning away from him a little. "Leave it be, boy," he sighs, not wanting to discuss this right now. Or ever, for that matter. He just wants things to go back to normal, when he had two sons he knew loved him. And if he can't have that, at least he can try to forget. "Dad-" Dean pulls the bottle away, out of John's reach, using his other hand to touch his shoulder. "Come on." He wishes he had something comforting to say, but he does not, so he just tries to get his father to focus on him, if nothing else. "I said get!" John shoves harder at him, half trying to get him away, half trying just to knock him off balance or push him over. He's hurt, by Sam and Dean both, and right now he doesn't want to think about any of them. Dean nearly falls off his chair, saving himself only by jumping to his feet. "- /Dad!/" Dean grabs him by the front of his shirt, wanting to shake him, to knock him out of this funk, because he hates seeing his father like this, and damn it, some part of him has to admit that this is John's fault, the whole lot of it with Sam, and that feeds his anger like nothing else. "Knock it the fuck off!" He's yelling at him now, giving him a hard shove back, though his hold on his shirt keeps him from toppling over. "You watch yourself, son, I'm not in a forgiving mood." He backhands Dean across the face, then grabs his wrists tightly. "You'd best let me go, before I do something you don't like." He's had enough of his boys backtalking and arguing with him, enough of his sons betraying him. It stings more than he wants to admit, how hard Sam fought against him. He could never bring himself to throw Sam around like he did Dean, so Dean starting a fight like this is a good excuse to work out his anger. Dean stumbles back at the hit, but refuses to let go. He glares at John and would hit him back if his wrists were not pinned. "Stop being such a jackass!" he snarls, even though he knows it will only make John angrier. Part of him thinks that John deserves to be hurt, deserves to have things piss him off, and the other part just thinks it is easier to deal with him this way, the physical violence much more tolerable than watching his father drink himself silly in misery. "Stop talking to your father that way," he shouts back, slamming Dean against the counter, trying to twist his wrists and make him let go. He wants to bruise Dean, to make him hurt as much as John's hurting right now. To do something to get rid of this -- ache at the loss of his son. Sam meant more to him than John ever told him, and now he's regretting never having shown him. Dean only lets go when he feels the bones in his wrists threaten to crunch, trying to keep his balance against the counter and not be totally cowed over it. Sam talked to you like this, he thinks, but it does not make it out of his mouth. Instead he tries to use his weight to shove John off, using the counter as leverage. And John shoves back, planting his shoulder against Dean's chest and pushing hard, trying to pin him more firmly. "What're you trying to do?" John growls, letting go only to turn Dean and twist his arm behind his back. "You sure you want this fight?" Dean cries out, despite himself, when John twists his arm. "Get off me, Dad!" He is not sure, not sure at all, because John is frightening when he is this angry, but Dean is angry too, and he does not know of any other way to deal with their combined anger right now than to let it play out like this. So he stomps on John's foot and swings his free arm back to catch him with an elbow, using every tactic that he has been taught to try and escape. He stumbles back a step before he catches himself, trying to grab Dean again. "Get back here, boy -- " John swings a punch at his stomach, suddently regretting having taught Dean so well. His son knows how to fight, but John has the advantage of being bigger than him, at least. Dean swerves out of a the way, getting out from in between John and the counter, to a more open area. He skirts the table, trying to get a second to catch his breath and figure out what the hell he is doing. He finds himself taking in the situation like he would in any other fight, marking escapes, possible moves, defensible areas in his mind. With a frustrated noise, John lunges after Dean. He has no plan of attack, no escape strategies; he's just half drunk and mad. He grabs for Dean's arm, his shirt -- anything he can reach, so long as he gets a hold of him somehow. Dean is startled because of the complete lack of plan; he is used to his father taking calculated, careful moves, not leaping wildly. He tries to jerk away, but is too slow; he feels John's fingers catch in his shirt. Perfect. John hauls Dean closer, then throws him against the wall, coming up behind him and slamming his wrists over his head. "I told you to leave it be, boy. Why can't you just listen?" He sighs, breathing hard, his forehead resting lightly against the wall beside Dean's arms. Dean tries to struggle, but his wrists hurt, already starting to bruise from John's earlier grip. He pants slightly, wondering if he should give up and apologize, but unwilling to give John that satisfaction just yet. He stills, figuring that he is trapped with whatever punishment John decides to give him and that it is no use fighting it, at this point. The position feels all too familiar, and despite himself, John skims a hand lightly over Dean's hip, onto his thigh. It's wrong, and he knows that. Even worse with Dean pinned against the wall, more or less helpless. All the same, he can't quite resist scraping his teeth over the back of Dean's neck, shivering and digging his fingers into Dean's thigh. That was not what Dean was expecting. He gasps in shock, straightening from the surprise. He tries to twist his head around to look at John, but he cannot do more than glance over his shoulder. When Dean twists his head, John brushes his lips against his jaw, pressing closer, pinning Dean more firmly against the wall. He shouldn't do this -- can't. He'll regret it. But God he needs it, and Dean's so damn close that John can't see or smell or feel anything other than him. Dean bites back a whimper, confused by this sudden change of pace. "- Sir?" he asks carefully, having dropped even thinking of him as 'Dad' as soon as this became something more than just a fight. John doesn't answer; instead, he drags his teeth over Dean's neck, pushing a hand up the back of his shirt. This, this is all he needed. Just to feel Dean like this. Sick and twisted as it is, being with Dean like this makes him feel good. And after that awful fight with Sam, John desperately needs to feel good again. Dean's heart rate picks up despite himself, not that it got the chance to go back to normal after the fight. He is pretty sure that John should be able to hear it, thudding in his chest. He shivers as he feels the warm hand along his back; it feels good, which is completely out of place in this situation and only confuses Dean more. The shiver's rewarding, and John moves his hand around to Dean's chest, dragging his nails slowly over his stomach, sliding his hand down over the front of Dean's jeans, rubbing his palm against him. Maybe they both need this, this kind of release. At least telling himself that makes him feel like less of an awful person. Dean bites his lip, leaning his forehead against the wall. A small sound escapes him when John touches him like that, shifting his hips back. He thinks that he should be fighting this, trying to buck him off, and he twists his wrists again, attempting freedom, but John's hand against him makes him want to moan. John takes one of Dean's hands and tangles their fingers together, pressing Dean's palm against the wall. He grinds his hips slowly against Dean's ass, exhaling through his teeth as he undoes Dean's jeans, pushing his hand inside. Dean's not pushing him off, which means he can keep going. If Dean makes an honest effort to get away, John would stop. God, he hopes he would. Dean whimpers, closing his eyes and struggling to breathe properly. He feels dirty, wanting to press against John's palm; this is not like wanting it the other times, when he deserved it, when he has earned it, this is something else, something not right. Something that makes him wrong for enjoying any bit of it. But he is not sure whether he wants to stop or not, so his movements are as confused as he is, hips pressing forward even as he tries to move away. When Dean whimpers, John does too, just a low sound in the back of his throat. He rubs his palm firmly against Dean, tugging at his ear with his teeth before shifting to bite at his neck again. He feels just as confused as Dean does, wanting to pull away and run but wanting to keep going, keep touching, keep feeling this. Dean squeezes his fingers around John at the sound, clinging to him as best he can. He braces his forehead against his free arm, hips moving of their own volition between John's hand and his erection, leaving him hard and wanting. John squeezes his hand back, then pushes Dean's jeans and boxers down. He drags his nails up the back of Dean's thigh, over his ass, leaving red welts in their wake. They have -- none of what they need, and Dean's mouth is slightly out of reach. So John licks over his fingers briefly before starting to work one into Dean. God that hurts. Dean clenches his teeth, closing his eyes tightly, but he does not protest. If John thinks that he needs this, then he needs it, and he cannnot say no to that. He digs his nails into the wall, chipping the paint. He's sure it hurts -- it has to hurt, without much of anything to ease the way. John presses a few more gentle kisses against Dean's neck, moving his hand as slowly as possible, trying not to hurt Dean anymore. His hand detangles from Dean's and he wraps an arm around Dean's waist, fingers stroking slowly over his stomach, trying to sooth a little. Dean's hand follows John's, placing it over the hand on his stomach, not wanting to lose that contact. He takes a deep breath, though it catches in his throat once or twice, trying to shift to a more comfortable position. "You're okay," John whispers, kissing his ear. "I've got you." He tries to makes it feel good, curling his finger a little and trying to find that spot that will make Dean gasp in pleasure, instead fo pain. The words cause him to relax a bit, feeling safe again, the fear of the fight fading. He turns his head back, trying to catch John's lips for a kiss, moaning suddenly as John's finger finds what it seeks. His automatic reaction is to reprimand Dean for making too much noise, but then he remembers that Sam isn't here to hear it. He presses harder, rubbing insistantly to see if he can make Dean moan louder as he kisses him, biting at his lip. Dean cries out, holding on to John's arm to help keep himself upright as his knees go weak. "Sir-" He is not sure what he is asking, but the word slips out against John's lips anyway, as he pants and tries to kiss back, movements sloppy. John tightens his grip on Dean's waist, supporting him as well as he can as he works a second finger into him. The way Dean's kissing him -- the lack of control, the raw need -- it's intoxicating. He can feel his shirt sticking to his back, sweat building up between his shoulderblades as they kiss, the anticipation close to unbearable. Dean digs his fingernails deeper into the wall, biting at John's lips desperately. This- doing this with John- it rips all other thought out of his head, and that is what he needs, what he wants- Dad's right to do this, he's always right, because this keeps them both from thinking about Sam. God, John just wants to bury himself in Dean until there isn't room for anything else inside either of them. Nnh -- but he wants to kiss Dean properly. He takes his hand away just long enough to turn Dean around, pressing him back against the wall and kissing him frantically, pushing his fingers back into him. Dean leans heavily against the wall, gripping John's shoulders with his hands as he returns this kiss wildly, mindless of teeth or tongue. He presses down against John's fingers, willingly spreading his legs as far as the jeans around his thighs will let him. He groans and spreads his fingers, twisting them, working to undo his own jeans and kick them away. Dean still has his jeans around his leg, so John pushes them down as best as he can, gripping Dean's thigh to lift his leg and attempt to push the jeans off the rest of the way with his foot. Dean tries to help, but he is distracted by John's fingers, nearly sliding down the wall with a startled noise from his throat. He hooks his freed leg over John's hip, nails leaving red marks across his shoulders. John hisses and pushes his fingers deeper, thrusting hard a few more times before he loses his patience completely. Taking his hand away, he spits in his palm to slick himself up, kissing Dean deeply as he starts to push into him. One hand braces against the wall while the other grips Dean's thigh bruisingly tight. He gasps, breaking the kiss to bury his face in John's neck. He twines his fingers in his hair, making small sounds against his skin as John pushes into him. He can do nothing else but cling to him, desperate but unable to move. Once he's completely inside him, John stays there, holding Dean against him and pressing breathless kisses to his hair. "Dean..." he sighs, stroking his fingers over Dean's thigh, shifting against him with a quiet gasp. Every time they do this, it always surprises John how good it feels. It is ridiculous, but Dean feels like he should say something romantic in return, hearing John say his name like that, but he keeps his mouth shut, instead turning to place small kisses along John's neck. He wants to stroke his hair, tell him that everything is going to be alright, make this more comforting than just sex, but he is too afraid to. The kisses are so achingly sweet it nearly makes John want to cry. He tilts Dean's chin up, kissing him tenderly and cupping a hand over his cheek, more like a lover and less like the drill seargent he usually is. This is unfair, for both of them, Sam leaving like this. John was selfish to think he was the only one affected by it. The kiss makes him a bit braver, and he lets himself stroke John's hair, touch gentle. "We'll be okay," he murmurs against his lips, before kissing him again, slow and sweet. He can't do this -- not against the wall like this. John eases away, but lets the kiss linger gently. He strokes his hands over Dean's chest with a sigh, resting their foreheads together. "Let me take you to bed. Do this right." Dean looks at him in surprise, not having expected that. "Alright..." He feels almost shy, as if they have wandered into new territory, acting like lovers instead of- whatever they were before. He stops trying to define it, kissing John again instead, a light, brief touch of the lips. Maybe they shouldn't, but... they both need the comfort. With one last gentle kiss, John pulls away and does his jeans back up, moving towards his bedroom. He glances briefly at Sam and Dean's room, shaking his head sadly before moving into his own to sit on the bed. Dean hesitates for a moment, wondering if it is more awkward to put his pants back on or to wander in without them. He pulls his boxers back on instead, following John to his room. He cannot glance look at his room, because that would start the depression all over; he focuses on John, and making him feel better, sitting beside him and reaching up to knead his neck with his fingers. John reaches over to rest his hand on Dean's thigh, letting his head fall forward as Dean rubs at his neck. It's comforting, and a little strange that Dean is the one to take care of him, now, instead of the other way around. "We'll be alright..." he sighs, not sure who he's trying to reassure. He nods, resisting the urge to pull him into a hug, keeping it to the massage. "'Course we will." He wishes that he could think of something funny to say, to maybe make John crack a smile, even though he knows his father does not think he is all that amusing, most of the time. "C'mere," he sighs, stretching out on the bed and holding a hand out to Dean. He wants to hold him close, to feel Dean warm and safe in his arms, where nothing can hurt him. Where nothing can hurt either of them. He needs to believe, even for just a little while, that things will be okay. He presses a kiss to Dean's forehead, stroking his fingers through his hair, resting his hand on top of Dean's. He's never allowed himself this, never allowed it to be this intimate. He and Dean would -- would fuck, and Dean would go back to his room, or his bed, and they wouldn't talk about it until the next time it happened. Like if they didn't say it out loud, they weren't doing anything wrong. Dean sighs, drinking in the comfort while he can. This has never happened before, and he doubts it will ever happen again. It feels girly, cuddling like this, like he is John's girlfriend or some sort of weird shit like that, but it is nice, in its own way. Anyway, he does not have to worry about what happens, here, if he is girly or not, because they do not talk about things like this, and thus it cannot be awkward later. John pulls Dean a little closer, leaning in to kiss him, just as slowly and sweetly as Dean had moments ago. It feels so good, this gentle closeness, this tenderness. He parts his lips only a little, not deepening the kiss, but letting it stay as it is, simply their lips moving together. Dean closes his eyes, wrapping his arms around John, allowing himself to hold him close as they kiss. He relaxes completely, now, content that John is going to be okay, that they are both really going to be okay, no matter what happens.