Rain pounded against the window and Dean heard distant thunder. The window slipped its catch again and flew open in the wild wind. Dean sighed tiredly, crossed to the window and latched it closed again. He looked at his watch: it was almost midnight. Dad would be home, soon.
Dean set up the coffee percolator with the last of the coffee. The percolator was the only luxury they had. The apartment had just four rooms: two bedrooms, a bathroom and the main room which served as a living room and kitchen. There was no heating or hot water because the boiler was broken and their worthless landlord wouldn't get off his ass and fix it.
A canvas sheet lay across the kitchen table and on top lay a large collection of knives. Dean had spent a couple of hours on the schoolwork he was supposed to be finishing; even had Sammy explaining Plato to him at one point, but schoolwork bored the crap out of him. Shakespeare and Plato weren't gonna help him hunt monsters, so what good was it all?
After he sent Sammy to bed at ten, Dean cleared the books away and got out the knives. He methodically checked each blade, sharpened the ones that needed it and wiped each blade with oil to prevent rust. This, he could do. It was way easier than Shakespeare, and it let him work without thinking about where his father was.
John wasn't hunting tonight. He'd gone out to make some money, which meant he was playing pool or poker. It meant John would come home in a mess, either from a bar fight or from too much whiskey. If he'd got into a fight, Dean would patch him up as needed. If it was whiskey, Dean would give him coffee if John were capable of drinking it, and would make sure John at least took his boots off before he passed out. Then he'd sleep himself, but be sure to be up early to prepare something to help with the hangover.
Dean was oiling the eleventh blade when he finally heard a key in the apartment door. He abandoned the knives and hurried to the door.
John's coat was soaked through, his hair wet and clinging to his skull. He was fumbling with the wet coat as he came through the door. Dean waited while he shrugged the coat off his shoulders. John tried to hang the coat up and missed the coat-hook. It fell to the floor, where John ignored it.
Just drink, then. That was a relief. Dean moved up to his father's side. "Dad, it's okay. Come on." He led John toward the couch.
John went with him compliantly, which wasn't a good sign. Dean could smell the whiskey on his breath and the cigarette smoke clinging to his skin and clothing. John's skin was cold to the touch, his clothing damp from the rain. He leaned heavily on Dean's shoulder as they walked the short distance, so heavily that Dean wondered if this was just the alcohol...but he saw no sign of injuries and he couldn't see or smell any blood.
Dean bundled John onto the couch and stepped back a little, assessing John's condition. He thought about the coffee waiting in their kitchenette, but John seemed too far gone for that. He wasn't going to sober up tonight. Better to let him sleep it off and remember to warn Sammy to be real quiet tomorrow.
Dean knelt down to take off John's boots. "Is everything okay, Dad?"
John grunted and pulled a wad of cash out of his jeans pocket. "Good night," he said.
Dean looked at the cash with relief. At least there would be food on the table for another week. He finished unlacing John's right boot and carefully pulled it off his foot. He pushed up the left leg of John's pants and pulled the knife out of his left boot before starting work on the laces.
"Sammy...?" John slurred.
"He's sleeping," Dean answered without looking up.
"Get your schoolwork done?"
Dean shrugged. "Most of it," he lied. He glanced up to see John's eyes following his every movement. Dean was used to that, too, but the close scrutiny made him nervous in ways he didn't like to think about. The left boot came free and Dean rose to sit beside his father.
He wanted to ask why John kept doing this when he knew he had a family at home. He wanted to demand to know what John expected him to do when John got himself killed in one of his barfights. But all Dean said was, "Do you want coffee, Dad? I made some fresh."
There was no answer. John had sunk back into the couch, his head tilted back. He wasn't unconscious yet, though.
Dean grasped John's forearm to get his attention. "Okay, whatever. Are you gonna sleep here or do I get you to bed?"
John covered Dean's hand with his own. "You're a good boy, Dean."
Dean rolled his eyes. "How old do I have to be before you quit callin' me 'boy'?"
John smiled, a little more alert. "Around eighty," he suggested.
Dean grinned back. "Nah. In a few years I'll be able to kick your ass when you call me that."
John patted his hand again. "By then, you won't care."
Dean smiled, but the smile was forced, unhappy. He hated that the only time Dad would talk to him like this was when he was drunk. He hated himself for wanting it. It was a weakness. So he pulled his hand away and stood. "I'm gonna get you a blanket."
The blanket was folded over the back of the chair, all ready. Dean picked it up. When he turned around, he found John right behind him, on his feet. Dean caught him before he fell. "Jesus, Dad, did you drink the entire bar?"
Dean tried to steer John back toward the couch. He held John tight around his waist, taking most of his weight while he kept the blanket in his free hand. They were almost at the couch when John stumbled, maybe over one of the boots or maybe he just tripped over his own feet. But he fell toward Dean, pulling him off-balance. Dean landed half-on, half-off the couch. John landed heavily on top of Dean. The impact knocked the breath out of him.
Dean tried to get up but John's weight held him down and John, his reactions messed up by alcohol, hadn't moved. Dean pushed at John's shoulders, trying to get him to move.
John raised his head from Dean's shoulder. His face was a bare inch from Dean's own. John's whiskey-laden breath was hot against Dean's cheek and Dean knew, an instant before it happened, that his dad was going to kiss him.
John's kiss was a sour taste of whiskey and cigarettes. His teeth clashed against Dean's, his tongue pushing between Dean's lips. John's hand slid clumsily down Dean's side, pausing at his waist before moving to squeeze his ass. Dean felt his blood rush south, his cock hardening. He tore his mouth away from John's, pushing him away in a panic.
Dean scrambled out from beneath his father, tumbling them both to the floor in his haste. He got his feet under him and backed off a few steps, breathing hard. Every instinct told him to run, get the hell out. But he couldn't. This was his Dad. Who needed him.
John grabbed on to the couch, clumsily trying to haul himself up.
Getting his breathing - if not his dick - under control, Dean reached down to help John to his feet. Hauling John upright, he asked, "Can you walk?" The answer was pretty clear, but he asked anyway.
"'M fine," John mumbled.
"Sure you are, tiger. Come on. I'm puttin' you to bed." It made more sense to let John sleep on the couch but suddenly Dean wanted two closed doors between them. He'd sleep better knowing John was in his own bed. He pulled John's arm around his shoulders and started walking him toward the bedroom.
John's bedroom was the smaller of the two. There was barely enough room in there for the bed. Dean fumbled for the light switch as they reached the door, dragged his father inside and let him fall onto the bed. He bent down, lifted John's legs up onto the bed, and straightened. It was tempting to just leave him there.
This wasn't the first time John had kissed Dean when he was drunk. Dean wasn't stupid. He knew his father would never touch him when he was in his right mind. He'd been drinking more heavily lately, ever since that hunt last year in California. Dean didn't know much about it: he'd been made to stay home with Sammy. But he knew someone died, and he knew it had changed something for John. Maybe for both of them. Dean didn't stay home for the hunts any more and when John got drunk...stuff happened.
Dean might not be great at the school stuff but he knew a lot of Latin. In vino veritas. That was an interesting one. It meant that too much whiskey made you tell the truth. That freaked him out a little. He wanted to ask John about the kissing, but he couldn't because his dad never seemed to remember once he was sober.
Dean sighed and leaned over the bed. He couldn't leave John to sleep in wet clothes. At the very least, the jeans had to come off. Dean unbuckled John's belt and pulled it out of the loops. He got the jeans unbuttoned and started to work them down over John's hips. John had an erection. Dean tried not to notice how that sight hardened his own dick.
John mumbled something unintelligible as Dean pulled the wet jeans down and off his legs. He folded the jeans and laid them on the floor, then sat down on the edge of his dad's bed.
"I'm gonna let you sleep it off, okay?" Dean pulled the blanket over John's body. "Just sleep," he said softly.
John's hand gripped Dean's forearm, preventing him from leaving. "Dean, wait. I ain't so drunk as that."
"Bullshit. You can't even stand."
John's grip on his arm tightened. Dean met his hooded eyes, trying to understand. John looked like he wanted to say something, but no words came.
But Dean understood. His father needed him.
Dean swallowed past the tightness in his throat, and nodded slowly. "It's okay, Dad." He withdrew his arm from John's grip and stripped off his t-shirt. He stood and unzipped his pants. Please god don't let Sammy wake up... Dean removed his underpants and socks, leaving everything in a heap on the floor. He straightened and stood, naked, before his father.
John gazed at him for a moment, long enough for Dean to squirm under the scrutiny. The room was cold, raising gooseflesh on his skin, and the cold didn't help him stay hard. Without speaking, John pushed back the blanket. Dean, shivering in the cold, lay down beside him. There wasn't a lot of room in the narrow bed.
Dean had a feeling John would remember this in the morning. It was going to change everything.
His father raised a hand to Dean's face, one thumb caressing Dean's lips. He shifted in the bed, one leg working between Dean's knees, and his mouth came down on Dean's again. Dean parted his lips to accept the kiss and John responded hungrily. He thrust his tongue into Dean's mouth, his hand cupping Dean's face, fingers gripping hard enough to bruise. The whiskey taste was a little fainter and Dean could taste his dad beneath it.
John shifted again, his body pinning Dean down. John's damp shirt was pressed between them, the buttons digging into Dean's skin. His father was strong - Dean had always known that - but to have that strength used against him like this was...was...
Was turning him on.
John's hand was rough and callused from years of handling guns and knives and crossbows. He released Dean's face, his hand sliding down to Dean's neck, over his chest. John buried his face in Dean's neck, whispering words Dean couldn't hear. Dean raised a hand to cup the back of John's head, wet hair cool against his fingertips. John's hand travelled down Dean's body, exploring. Dean heard himself moan, anticipating that touch as John's hand slid lower and lower.
Strong fingers curled around Dean's cock, squeezing, stroking and god but that felt good! Dean bit his lip, trying to keep the sounds inside. John's hand on his dick didn't feel like when he jerked himself off. John did it differently, pumping faster, his thumb rubbing just under the head. Dean gasped, gripping the blanket with his free hand and he was coming hard, thrusting into John's hand.
His father stroked him still, milking every last moment of Dean's orgasm. He stroked more slowly as Dean's dick softened. Dean felt weird, like he'd done something wrong.
Dean turned his head to look at his father. John was smiling down at him, a strange, gentle smile. Dean didn't quite understand, but he felt reassured.
John's hand, slick with come, slipped between Dean's thighs, cupping his balls. Dean smiled, relaxed, letting his eyes close. But then he felt the firm pressure of a finger against his anus. His eyes flew open. "Dad?"
John swallowed Dean's protest with a kiss, slow and gentle. "Don't be scared, Dean," he said softly. He pushed his finger inside Dean's body.
It hurt. But Dean knew better than to show pain to his father. He kept his breathing steady and tried to relax.
"Good, Dean. That's good," Dad murmured against his cheek. There was more pressure as John pushed in further, finger-fucking him slowly.
It wasn't bad. It might even feel kinda good when he got used to it. Dean sighed as his body slowly opened to his father's fingers. Dean knew what was coming next. He could feel John's cock, pressing heavily against his thigh. It felt very big and he was a little scared. Trapped beneath John's body, spreading open for him, Dean felt vulnerable. But there was something else, too: he felt needed. He had never allowed things to go this far before. Now he could feel the tension in John's body, the sheer need in his full, heavy cock and he understood how desperately John needed this. Needed Dean. As John slowly withdrew his fingers from Dean, Dean remembered every drunken kiss, every time Dad held back from this, every time Dad didn't ask him to stay.
Dean reached up to his father, taking John's face between his hands. He felt scratchy stubble against his palms. He kissed his father, silently offering everything he had.
John pushed Dean's legs apart with his knee and Dean couldn't help tensing up a little. His father's cock invaded his body and oh, god, that hurt. Dean tried to breathe and a sound of pain escaped him.
"Ssh, Dean, just relax." John stroked his face, kissed his lips and his neck. "Breathe, Dean," he instructed, whispering against Dean's ear.
Dean obeyed, drawing in a breath, tasting John's sweat on his tongue. John's cock pushed into him relentlessly, giving Dean no time to adjust to his size. He was drunk, Dean thought as he struggled to take it all. He didn't realise he was hurting Dean. Dean took another breath and finally felt his body relax, opening to take Dad's thrust. He could do it now.
"Good, son, good," John murmured. He raised himself up a little, withdrawing slowly from Dean's ass.
An unexpected jolt of pleasure sparked through Dean's body. "Oh!"
"Dean..." John whispered and thrust again, hard.
Dean gasped aloud. Almost without his volition, his body rose up to meet John's thrust. Dean bit his lip, squeezing his eyes shut, clinging to his father's body as John fucked him.
John was close. "Dean - god - Dean!" he groaned. He kissed Dean's bare shoulder and unexpectedly bit down on Dean's collarbone. Dean cried out as John's teeth sank into his flesh and John cried out in orgasm.
For a moment, they both lay still. John body lay heavily on Dean, and Dean heard his father's quiet snores. He was asleep. Careful not to disturb him, Dean wriggled out from beneath John and rolled out of the bed. He made sure John was covered by the blanket, then gathered up his clothing and left the room, closing the door quietly behind him.
Dean thought about taking a shower. He was sure he needed to clean up, but there was no hot water and it might wake Sammy. Instead, he slipped silently into the dark bedroom he shared with his brother, climbed into his pyjamas in the darkness and curled up in his own bed.
He did not sleep.
In vino veritas. Truth lies in wine. But some truths are best left buried; Dean learned that a long time before. He had no idea what his father would say or do when he woke. Maybe he wouldn't remember, or would pretend he didn't. Dean knew, however, that this time he was going to make damn sure Dad remembered.
In the morning.