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i-already-know-im-going-2-hell · 3 months ago

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i'll do whatever he wants all night

dean/john, E, borderline noncon, 2k

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John is pissed off at Dean. Dean tries to get his attention by jerking off in the car while he drives. He gets his attention.

Dad still wouldn’t look at him.

They were barrelling down I-80 on their way out of Nebraska in the middle of the night. Dean had jammed a Blue Oyster Cult cassette into the radio to cope with the silence. He’d already gnawed one of his fingernails bloody and was working on a second. It didn’t seem to matter how many times he glanced over at his father in the driver’s seat. He might as well not have been there.

It was his own fault, in all fairness. John had him playing monster bait when he was sixteen goddamn years old, it’s not like he was afraid. If he’d just kept his mouth shut, if he could’ve resisted the urge to pick at the raw, open wound that was Sam’s absence—You’d have never made Sammy do this. It had sounded so clever in his head.

He threw back the rest of John’s flask in one large gulp, dropping it on the floor near his feet. His fingertips were buzzing with the need to reach out and touch him, to grab at his face and make him look. On a normal night he’d have pressed a hand into his lap, maybe sucked him off for good measure. His mouth watered at the thought.

“So you’re definitely not talking to me, right?”

More silence. John’s focus never strayed from the road, his grip on the wheel steady. Dean rolled his eyes. The vodka was just starting to blur the edges of his thoughts, and he tried to lose himself in the haze. What they’d been doing since Sam left maybe wasn’t normal. Maybe it wasn’t smart. But it didn’t exactly feel fair that John seemed to turn it off like a switch only when he wanted to punish Dean.

Another glance. More nothing from John. Dean grit his teeth. He let a hand fall between his thighs, pressing experimentally. He’d prefer if it were John’s hand on him—he was getting hard just thinking about it—but it didn’t seem like he was going to get it tonight. His belt was undone before he could stop himself. Hell, if Dad was gonna pretend he wasn’t there, who exactly was he hurting?

Still, it was like plunging into icy water, getting his cock out while John was still mad at him. It had him panting already, chest heaving as he fisted himself with intent, a knee bent up against the car door to make room. His head fell back against the headrest, eyes lidded, toes curling in his boots.

John was better at this, had years more experience. Dean tried to mimick the twisty upstroke he did that never failed to make him crazy. A small, broken noise passed his lips as he worked his fingers under the head, right where he was most sensitive.

“Stop it.”

Dean forced his eyes to open, rhythm faltering. John was glaring daggers at him, knuckles white on the wheel, the set of his jaw clenched tight. His head turned back to the road when Dean met his gaze, his meaning clear. It was an order.

Dean dug his teeth into his bottom lip. Make me, he wanted to say, but it was the kind of thing reserved for kids with dads too afraid to put their hands on them.

Instead he picked up the pace, tightening his grip, thighs tense and twitching. He was teetering on the edge just from the tension in the car, heart hammering solid against his ribcage. The next time his dad glanced over, just for a moment, he made a point to bring his hand up to his mouth and drag his tongue over his palm, slow and wet and performative.

“Dean,” John gritted out, low in his throat like a threat, upper lip curling into a snarl.

Dean let out a breathy whimper, circled a fingertip over his slit where he was leaking, hips canting up involuntarily to meet his strokes. He felt insane, exposed, like his brain was hooked up to a live wire. He let his free hand wander up under his shirt to brush over his nipples, because he was fairly certain it’d been about to reach out and clutch desperately at John’s jacket.

His dick was starting to throb, and he had to pause and grip the base to keep from losing it. He watched John, who was refusing to look at him again, but Dean knew better. He could make out the bulge in the dark denim of his jeans. If he knew nothing else, he knew the effect he had on him. It was a devastating, ugly thing that followed them wherever they went, and if John could get rid of it, if he could rip it out of himself with a sharp enough knife, he’d have done it a long time ago.

Dean’s legs were falling further apart in the enclosed space of the car. He was too close to stop this time, letting noises escape his mouth that he’d normally be embarrassed about. His whole body was tensing up, his shirt plastered to his back with sweat.

Suddenly the car was slamming to a stop, so abrupt that Dean flew off the seat and against the dashboard, barely time enough to throw his hands up to catch himself. He hit the door next, the scenery outside the windows a blur. Sam’s voice in his head—They invented seatbelts for a reason.

John had pulled them onto a winding dirt road, only going far enough to get off the highway. Still not looking at him, he threw open his door and got out. Dean froze. Coming was the furthest thing from his mind as he watched his dad make his way around the car to the passenger side.

He only had time to shove himself back into his boxers before John yanked the door open and dragged him out. Dean could barely breathe. He was gonna beat the brakes off of him, Dean was certain of it—and fuck, he probably deserved it. But then he gave an arguably performative look over each of his shoulders and hauled Dean around to the front of the Impala.

Before he could get a question out, John snapped, “Hands on the hood.”

Dean exhaled sharply, didn’t even realize he was holding his breath. He turned shakily around and did as he was told, leaned forward to press his body to the hot metal of the car, palms down.

John’s big hands were up under his shirt, his hips slotting insistently against Dean’s. His heart was in his throat. He could feel the hard line of his gun at his waist, and Dean let himself wonder what it would feel like pressed against his head. He wondered if John would do it, if he’d had the guts to ask.

John hastily pulled his jeans and boxers down around his thighs. His hands grabbed at his ass to spread him open, and Dean braced himself for the blunted press of his father’s cock on his hole. But it didn’t come—instead what he felt was hot and wet. He barely managed to stifle a moan in his shoulder as John’s tongue worked him over, eyes rolling in his head. He was terrified of making a sound, because despite what anyone that saw them might think, John wasn’t doing this for him.

Dean could hear a faint metallic noise, and he realized distantly that it was his own nails scraping against the metal of the car, trying to find purchase. John had a thumb pressed up against his rim that was making him insane, making his thighs tremble, but the licking and sucking at his hole never slowed down, never let up. He slid two wet fingers inside him without warning, only gave him a few strokes before he made it three. Dean was near hysterics. His back arched before he could stop it, and his face burned at what he must look like right then.

John finally pulled back. Dean’s head fell forward to the car, breath coming out in choppy, heaving intervals. The sound of John’s belt and then his zipper coming undone sent a shudder up his spine. There was lube in the glovebox but he couldn’t imagine daring to speak, let alone to ask for John to go get it.

His dad braced a forearm against the small of his back as he pushed the head of his cock inside, used a foot to kick his ankles further apart. Dean couldn’t help it, he curled an arm over the back of his head like he was trying to hide. It ached like nothing else, and he couldn’t have been even halfway in before Dean was reaching a hand back to push against John’s hips. John snatched him by the wrist so tightly his bones ground together.

“On the hood,” he said quietly. There was a silent I won’t say it again in his tone. “You can take it.”

Dean nodded once, his throat numb, and pressed his hands back down.

John kept pushing. The pressure was steady and overwhelming and it shoved every thought Dean had ever had right out of his head. Hands moved to his hips to hold him still as John started bucking into him, shallow thrusts that kept Dean from getting a full breath in.

He fisted the back of his shirt as he bottomed out, and Dean was grateful his dad couldn’t see his face because he was pretty sure his eyes were crossing. He was suddenly acutely aware of how hard his dick was underneath him. He could feel himself sliding in the pool of precome that had started to collect.

He’d given it a valiant effort but he couldn’t be quiet anymore. Spit wasn’t enough—he could feel every centimeter of John dragging inside him, filling him up. He was pulling him back by his shirt to meet his thrusts and forcing feral, ragged noises out of his mouth.

He could hear John groaning, and his fingers twitched with how badly it made him want to touch himself. “Jesus, you’re so fucking—” His voice broke off to groan again, hammering into him now. He got a grip around one of Dean’s thighs and lifted until he got the idea, one leg bending up onto the hood as far as his jeans would let him.

When he pushed into him again, Dean let out a broken cry, white-hot electricity shooting up his spine. He could hear the smirk in John’s voice. “There we go.”

He ground himself into Dean, impossibly deep, probably in his guts by now. Dean might have been rocking back against him, he wasn’t sure anymore. John bent down and panted hot on the back of Dean’s neck, before he moved underneath his jaw and let his teeth connect. Dean was practically crying with the effort it took to keep his hands in front of him. It was too much, he was too full, too vulnerable. He’d never felt this helpless before.

All of John’s weight was on him as his rhythm started to get erratic. Dean was pretty sure he was dying, stuck somewhere between coming and not coming. He shoved into him once, twice, three times before he stayed there, grinding out his orgasm, and Dean’s eyes were welling up before John reached underneath him and got a hand on his cock. It was all it took—Dean choked on a scream as it hit him, hips pushing back against John as he came almost violently into his hand, head shoved into his shoulder.

John let him try and catch his breath for a minute. His legs were barely keeping him upright.

“You okay?” he muttered into Dean’s neck. Dean managed a nod.

He whined when he finally pulled out. He could feel a trickle of come sliding down the inside of his thigh as John turned him around to lean against the car. He pulled his jeans up for him, buttoned them, fastened his belt in a way that felt unbearably intimate, more so than fucking him. He did the same for himself, quickly. His eyes met Dean’s.

“You’d better speak to me with some respect, or not at all,” said John, watching him carefully.

Dean nodded again. “I’m sorry, sir.”

John nodded too. He scrubbed a hand over his face, his expression unreadable. “Get in the car.”

He stepped back and Dean stumbled shakily to the passenger side door. He wished they had more vodka. He wasn’t convinced his dad had forgiven him, but at least he was looking at him again.

#I was supposed to be doing something else but I wasn't good and decided to read dadfuckery instead #deanjohn

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