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Daddy's Boys

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Dean can be very stubborn when he doesn't get his own way, as John has discovered. He also doesn't like it very much when he thinks his baby brothers are getting more attention than him, which is why even when Sam called shotgun this morning, Dean shoved his brother over and blitzed out the door of their motel room in a haphazard dash to reach the Impala's passenger side first.

"Where does it hurt, Sammy?" John asks as he kneels down beside his middle son, pushing a hand back through those adorable bangs of his.

Sam sniffles and points down accusingly at his hip. "Here."

"I'm sure Dean will be sorry when he sees what he's done to you," John says smoothly, and straightens Sam's too soft hair back into its original place.

"I can kiss Sammy better," little Adam pipes up, his eyes bright.

"You wanna kiss Sammy better, Adam?" John asks, a warm smile greeting his lips. He's primarily angry with Dean for being so rough around both Sam and Adam, but his youngest always knows how to brighten his day, in that naïve way of his.

Adam nods. "I can kiss his hip for him," he tells John. This makes Sam giggle, and John has never been more proud of Adam. John takes the hem of Sam's tee in between his thumb and forefinger, lifting it carefully. Adam ducks his head and puckers up, before he places a subtle, damp kiss to Sam's left hip. When Adam lifts his head back, he meets Sam's eyes and both boys are smiling like they've shared a deeply intimate moment.

A familiar warmth floods through John's stomach, and he isn't simply admiring Adam's sensitivity. No, Sammy's shirt is still risen a couple of inches, revealing soft, milky skin that has never touched by anyone other than his little brother, who's pink lips are a little wet. Adam reaches across and entwines his fingers with Sam's. Sam responds by squeezing Adam's hand, and leading his little brother out towards the car.

That heavy heat lurking in John's abdomen is nothing other than arousal: plain and simple.

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"Dean," John starts cautiously when he approaches his son, who is sitting in the Impala, arms across his chest with a slight smirk. It, of course, falters when he hears his father using that stern, warning tone of his. Dean knows what he is in trouble for before John even begins. Dean scrambles out of the Impala, standing up tall.

"Yes, Sir." Dean's palms are suddenly sweaty, and he feels like he might shrink in his father's domineering presence.

"Pushing your brother like that is very dangerous. You could have seriously hurt him. You're lucky he has Adam there for him."

Dean shoots Adam a venomous glare, and that responds in a less than desired response from the Winchester patriarch. "That's it, Dean."

Dean snaps his neck up to meet his father's eyes, confused. "What's it, Sir?"

"You'll be sitting in the back, today. All twelve hours of this trip."

Dean pouts, but he supposes there could be worse punishments. He can't help but wonder why John has gone so long without spanking him: surely this would have been a good enough reason? Dean has missed the feeling of his father's cool hand on his warm bottom, but no matter how much trouble he gets himself into, it never amounts to anything painful.

"Daddy!" Sam squeals, his voice so pitchy it sends shivers down John's spine. "Does this mean I get to sit in the front?"

"Or me!" Adam chimes in. Poor Adam never gets to ride in the front seat with Daddy - he's never quick enough to call shotgun. Often, Dean taunts him and says that the front seat is only for big boys.

"No, boys," John tells his sons, as Adam takes a few steps closer, leaning his head against John's thigh and peering up at his father imploringly. "You can all ride in the back seat today."

"All at once?" Sam asks, dismayed.

"Daddy, it's gonna be so tight!" Adam points out, and John's struck in awe of how his youngest can say something so pleadingly and not mean it sexually. It doesn't matter what Adam's intentions were: that fire burning in John's belly is travelling south.

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John liked this. He liked having his three boys squished up all together in the back of the Impala. It was midday in July, and it was hot enough to have his boys in shorts (save  for Dean, who wanted to wear his jeans all the time just like Daddy). This meant that every movement either Sam or Adam made lead to their sweaty  little legs making soft squeaky sounds as they rubbed against the leather seats.  

"Dad," Dean whines , closing his eyes. "Can't we get ice cream or something? It's hot and sticky, and Adam keeps leaning his head on my shoulder."  

"Am not!" Adam protests, sticking his bottom lip out indignantly - he's lifting his head off Dean's shoulder as he says this, however. With a withering glance from Dean, Adam carried on: "He keeps putting his shoulder underneath my head," Adam insisted defiantly.  

"That's bull shit," Dean grumbles as he elbows Adam in the ribs. Adam scowls and shoves Dean  

"Boys," John chastises from the front seat, and doesn't it thrill him how all of them obey him so willingly? They'd do anything to please their father, and John knows it, and finds it all too tempting to abuse that power. "Dean, enough of the language," John adds. "We don't need to wash your mouth out with soap again, do we?"  

Dean shakes his head, casting that frustrated green gaze of his down to his shoes, before he locks his eyes with his father's through the rear view mirror. "No, Sir," he clarifies, and warmth pools in John's gut again.  

"Good boy," John murmurs, the saccharine words sticking to his lips and ringing in his ears, and he could have sworn he'd seen a proud smile flutter across Dean's pink lips, those lips that practically scream fuck me.  

"But, Daddy?" Adam pipes up when the disconcerting silence grows too much for his ears, so accustomed to arguing on these long car trips. "Can't we please get ice cream?"  

John acquiesces after some pleading from Sammy and Adam, and a demand from Dean that John strangely isn't bothered to chastise. He pulls over after ten minutes of great difficulty involving tuning out of Dean and Sam's arguing, and searching with Adam for a Baskin Robbins, they eventually drive by a Dairy Queen, which at least shuts Dean and Sam up.  

Piling out of the car, John's heart leaps as Sam laces his fingers through Adam's, and he can't help but adore the scene before his eyes. Sammy has always been small for his age, and although he's a whole two years older than Adam, he's just a few inches taller. Even if Adam's blonde and Sam's brunette, from behind their shaggy locks are very similar. John knows he should take them both to cut their hair off, or just give it a light shave like he does with Dean's, but he doesn't have the heart.   Not when the current length makes it so easy to imagine tugging on it. Imagine pulling Sammy down by his scruffy brown mane, forcing those perfect rose-coloured  lips around his swollen cock. Or maybe dressing his youngest up in a dress and pigtails, making his baby girl put on a show for Daddy.  

No, John has decided. He won't get their hair cut just yet.  

Of course, there is so much more to observe than just hair, when he can see the flattering way those denim shorts cup his littlest boys' perfectly rounded  asses, and reveal their soft legs, still youthful and  fair-haired .  

His eldest, however, is another story entirely. Whereas Sam and Adam amble along carelessly, not  realising  how sexy they are with their too-long hair and too-short trousers, Dean revels in his attractiveness, knowing all too well that he's hot.  And that is  wrong: no twelve-year-old should be aware of something like that. And, hell, neither should his father, but John can't stop himself from ad miring  how his son swaggers along the path to the shop, smirking at a bunch of middle school girls and making them swoon. And that floods  John's heart with fatherly pride that is perfectly natural, yet causes a pang of envy in his chest in his chest that makes him feel like more of a monster than what he hunts.  

Of course, ten minutes later, when they're all seated around a circular table, any of John's guilt regarding his mental exploitation of his very underage sons is long forgotten.  

But they're just asking to be fantasised  about. Sam has such a pretty tongue when he is licking daintily at the vanilla atop the cone in his hand, saving every drop of ice cream like it's a precious gift. Dean's different, though, so different to his brother. Dean's in a rush to destroy his ice-cream, devouring it hungrily.  Adam misses his mouth with almost every bite, until there is vanilla smeared all over his cheeks.  

"Ads," John says, passing a napkin to the little boy. "Wipe it up, okay?"  

Adam nods, and he swipes the napkin over his chin and cheeks, yet a pale sticky mess remains. Sammy chuckles, swinging his legs back and forth. "You have a beard like Daddy!" he says, and even sour Dean chuckles at that one.  

"Daddy, look!" Adam says, peering at himself in the reflection of the shop window.  

"I'm looking, baby." John's pitch rises at the end of that sentence, because Adam's tongue has darted out to lick any  flavour off his lips, and he holds John's gaze the entire time.  

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They arrive at the motel and John knows he should do some research, work out the finer details of this case, but he can take his chances with this one, he knows he can. He pours himself a glass of whiskey and orders pizza for the boys, and best yet, Dean is on his best behaviour, sitting patiently and letting Sam read to him - Adam listening and admiring his brother equally attentively  

John is on the couch, sipping the drink and shaking it in between swallows, and gradually he can feel himself losing his focus, but he pours a little more either way. Dean will stay up for a few more hours, probably try for a drop of whiskey, whining that this person and that person let him drink, but John will refuse. Last thing he wants is his own blood to be such a mess.  

He cares about his boys, he really does.  

When the pizza arrives, it's the ice cream situation all over again. Adam gets sauce all over his face, and he tries to lick it off, but he misses every time. John feels his trousers familiarly tighten as Sam giggles and reaches out, swiping the mess away with his thumb, before offering to kiss it away.  

John can't quite handle that so he quickly intervenes, telling Sam that Adam's fine, which earns him a strange look from Dean - before his eldest son casts a gaze down to his jeans and tenses slightly.  

John does his very best to ignore that, but Dean grows more suspicious. Unreasonably so. John has never touched his boys.  

But Adam touches him. When the pizza is finished, Adam comments that Daddy has some food in his beard . John laughs roughly, scrubbing at his scratchy scruff, and Sam nods and tells him it looks good.  

Adam wants to know what stubble feels like, and so John can't quite protest when Adam seats himself up on John's lap.  

"Lemme rub it," Adam whispers.  

John just nods, dumbfounded. Sam looks almost as enchanted as Adam, and Dean raises an eyebrow.  

"Rub it, boy," John sooths, and he could almost feel society's frowns as Adam leans closer, his smooth cheek meeting that bluish black stubble and he moves his soft face up and down, bouncing on John's thigh as he does so.  

"Happy?" John forces himself to ask when Adam finally pulls back, his left cheek streaked with red.  

"Yeah," Adam breathes, giggling. John has visions of forcing his head between Adam's beautiful legs and sucking that tiny prick to ecstasy, all the while burning his inner thighs. He leans his head back and lets out a little involuntary shudder.  

"Daddy?" Sam chirps. "Daddy, are you okay?"  

"Yeah, Daddy?" Dean grumbles from where he is, focused on the Gameboy he got for his birthday once. "You okay?" He quirks his eyebrow at John again and John could have sworn he'd spotted a trace of envy in his son's penetrating gaze, but there's Sammy to treat.  

"Yeah, Sammy," John promises.  

"Can I rub it?" Sam asks, eyebrows creased and the puppy dog eyes are about to start, but John really doesn't need to be convinced.  

"Yeah," he breaths. "Go on, not fair if Ads gets to and you don't, after all."  

Sam giggles, wrapping his legs around John's waist and giggling at what John can only assume is the sensation of his bulge pressing against Sammy's little crotch, which has happened more times than John can count.  

Rather than focus on the obvious scatter on John's face, Sam tilts his head down, tucking his forehead into the softer hair at John's upper neck, and he rubs there slowly and John bites his tongue to keep himself shut up.  

"Dean?" Sammy asks, almost breathless at one point. "Dean, wanna have ago?"  

Dean is quiet for a moment, before finally, the boy says:  

"Maybe later tonight."