SPN slash (John/Sam): Come Undone (on the road to Mandalay)
Title: come undone [on the road to Mandalay]
Author:
phantomas
Genre: slash
Pairing: John/Sam
Rating: NC17
length: 2950 words
Notes:
- written for the
jeffathon prompt: 'John/Sam; possessed, hidden.' Apologies for the delay, I had to wrangle Sam into submission (no, it wasn't as fun as it sounds).
- thanks and neverending gratitude todisanddat for helping me out with this in a MASSIVE way, any remaining horror and error are purely my fault. I really have problems writing Sam *sighs*.
- Feel free to offer advice/comments, point out typos, etc. in regard to this story and to writing Sam :D
- Crossposted topapawinchester and my journal
Notes 2: I listen to way too much Robbie Williams, and that's where the title comes from in part.
come undone (on the road to Mandalay)
There's Sammy. There's the way he scrunches his nose when something disgusts him, the way he packs his books carefully, before clothes or weapons, the way he defies his father by simply keeping his hair long, long enough to be in his eyes.
And there's John. John, trying to be caregiver and teacher, father and sergeant, all at the same time. John, who keeps dragging Dean away with him on hunts from which Sam never knows when or if they'll be back. John, who never seems happy with what Sam does, how Sam does it, why Sam does it.
There's Sam. And there's John. Butting heads, once again, voices raised way over decency and safety and propriety.
Dean covers his eyes, for a moment, scratches at his eyebrow, before opening the door, before doing what he always does, shutting his father and brother up, defusing their anger, re-directing it, absorbing it.
Only, Dean is not always around, even if he tries to be.
There's this one day, when Dean is down with something as stupid as the flu, cursing germs and taking advantage of his state to have his little brother bring him juice and chocolate and soup. There's this one day, when John races home because a final piece of a particular puzzle has finally slipped into place, Caleb has called, and John needs to be there, John needs to go there as quickly as possible, and John needs back-up, but Dean's down for the count, his fever-burned eyes and chest cough can't be denied, so there's no one else John could take but Sammy.
Because no matter what Sammy believes, John knows Sam is just as good a hunter as Dean is, as John himself is.
So they go. John and Sam.
And when they come back – late at night – they can barely look each other in the eyes.
"How did it go," Dean asks them. "Did you get it?" He insists.
"It went fine," John says, bloodied coat on his shoulders, and then closes his bedroom door behind him, a bottle of Jack in his hand. A quiet click of the lock and then silence.
"We got it," Sam says, discarding their weapons duffel in a corner, and then he closes the bathroom door after himself, the sound of water running in the shower stall starting right away.
"What the fuck…" Dean mutters, looking from one door to the other, but his bones are aching with fever, and he dozes off soon after, way before he intends to, because it's clear to him that something big has gone down, as big as Pam Anderson's boobs. Which is what he's dreaming of right then, as Baywatch goes on in the background, the TV set left switched on, and loudly so.
###
"You're not my son," John's voice was calm, contained. Eyes open, unflinching.
"I'm not? Didn't know Mom went around fucking strangers, dad. You never said." It looked like Sam, it moved like him, but John was sure. It couldn't be Sam.
"You won't get away with this. Even if you kill me, there'll be others on your track, sooner than you think."
"Damn, dad. You and your threats. Do this, Sam, do that, Sam, don't you know how important this is?. Always the same tune. And I'm tired of it. So, so tired, dad."
John was solidly tied up against a massive trunk, arms stretched around the tree, the skin on his wrists bleeding already. Sam's voice was so…John closed his eyes, for a moment.
Sam moved in front of him, as tall as his father, taller even. "You push and you push, and you keep pushing. I never wanted this. I never wanted this, dad." His voice was low, almost soft, but John couldn't mistake the anger in it for anything else.
"Sammy…" there was a twist, a break, in John's voice, in his features. A drop of sweat ran along his temple, to the curve of his jaw. "Christo…" He tried. It had to be something else than his boy, had to.
Sam tilted his head. "What, you think I'm possessed?" Shaking his head, he slid the hunting knife from the sheath at his side. "Sure, Dad. Think that if that makes you happy. You can't control me anymore. I won't put up with you anymore." The blade flashed bright, moonlight filtering through the foliage.
"It's not- it can't be you, Sam. Sammy. You can fight it. Whatever it is, you can fight it, son," John spoke with resolute calm, only the nervous bobbing up and down of his Adam's apple betraying him.
Sam's smile was a small smile. "I'm tired of fighting, dad." The buttons on John's heavy plaid shirt popped one after the other, the knife easily slicing from one to the other. "There," Sam murmured. The moon was behind him and John couldn't see his son's face clearly but he could feel and see the blade expertly cut through his shirt, exposing his chest to the open air.
"Sammy. Sammy…" It wasn't possession. It wasn't what they were hunting. What… his boy would never. He'd never. John would not believe his youngest son actually wanted to hurt him. Hurt his own father. One after the other, incantations and exorcisms and any other ritual John had ever learnt flashed into his mind, Latin, Greek, symbols and rites that could help him understand what was happening to his son. His baby boy.
Sam smiled again. His long fingers worked John's belt, his fly, quickly and efficiently. "Don't worry. I'm not going to kill you. You're my dad. I love you. You don't believe it, do you? You never had the time to listen to me, not really, have you? I just want to make you see. How much I love you. So much." The very tip of the knife lodged against John's jugular, Sam's big hand tugged on his father's jeans until they slid past John's waist. Sam snorted. "Going commando, dad. That's a surprise. You really wanted to get here fast, uh? Tell you what. Prove me you love me, and I won't ditch you here. Prove me you care about me, prove it to me, and I won't just leave and leave your sorry ass here to rot."
John's eyes widened. "You- you must be crazy. If this is some sort of sick joke, I swear, boy," his voice raised in force and volume. "This has gone too far. It ends, here, you get that? Samuel Winchester. Stop it. Right. Now."
"You don't get to tell me what to do, dad. Not anymore…"
A sharp intake of breath was John's only reaction to the feel of long, masculine fingers around his limp dick.
"C'mon. You never really give yourself time to indulge, do you? Think of this as a chance. Something for yourself. Something only your son can give you, since you won't let anyone else in your life. In our lives." Sam looked down, licking his lips, focusing on coaxing John's dick to life. "You didn't know, did you? So many things you don't know about me, dad. So, so many things…"
Sam's smile was the same glorious smile he gave John when he presented him the card he'd painstakingly made for him on Mother's Day so many years ago, 'because you're my dad but you're my mum, too, you know?' John had felt like crying, then. He felt like crying now, too, and maybe he was, shamed and embarrassed and lost in front of this boy that was manipulating him so well, so skilfully, taking him in a place where John really didn't want to go.
"I just want to know if you love me, dad. Because you always order me around, but you never…you never pay me attention. You never touch me, you never hug me anymore, and I liked it when you used to do it, you know? I liked it. Very much."
Sam's breath was warm on John's lips, sweet. "Of course I love you, son," John muttered, fighting the swelling of his genitals, hating the sparkles of pleasure running through his veins. "You don't need to do this. There's no need for this…" John had never pleaded for anything in life. Well, he had, once, with God, begged and prayed to him to have Mary back, to make it all go away, but he was drunk then, and it didn't work anyway. Now he was close to begging Sam, his son, to take his hand off him, because what father would get a hard-on with his own son stroking his dick up and down, like that, so slowly, so painfully? What kind of father was he, that his own son would turn on him, turn him on, in this way?
"Please, Sammy…" it wasn't what John meant to say. There were other words. But right now all he could feel was the heat spreading through his groin, in his face, the pleasure that tickling fingers were giving him while playing with his balls.
"I love you so much, dad. And I hate you so much. Now it's me doing the controlling, isn't it? Now it's me having full control over you. Making you do this."
John inhaled sharply.
Sam smirked.
###
So.
There's this vast expanse of trees, woods or forest, whatever you like. And there's this boy, tall and obviously grown way too fast, and he's moving quietly, all legs and arms, from tree to tree, hiding in the shadows, paying attention to where he puts his feet. And there's the very lethal-looking pump-action shot gun in his hands. His hair is too long, and he has to shake it off his eyes, off the ugly bruise on his forehead, but he looks as if he knows where he's going, eyes on the leaves and bushes, ears tense to any sound.
There's this place, dark and isolated, where a hunter has brought his son along to hunt something evil. And there's this boy, looking for his father.
And then there's the moment when the boy finally finds the tracks he was seeking, follows them, and finds himself peeking from around the trunk of a massive sequoia, looking upon his father, tied to another tree. And then there's…himself. And there's this other moment, when the boy realizes what it is that he is watching. First he blushes, beetroot dark, from the roots of his too long bangs to the tip of his fingers. And then he pales.
####
"Sammy…"John Winchester wasn't ashamed of the sounds coming from him. He was ashamed of how weak his body was. Ashamed of the gasps he was trying to suffocate.
"Yes, daddy?" The tone was mocking, the movement vicious. With the knife still held close enough to skin to be easily lethal, Sam had shed his own jeans, lowered them and his underwear on his thighs. One wide palm spread on the bark alongside John's head, Sam was pressing his body against his father's, rubbing against it like a snake coiling around a branch. There was no space between them, only sweaty skin, John's trail of dark hair below his navel, the smell of male sex, pungent and bitter. And Sam, pushing, pressing, rocking against his father. Panting.
"I'm never good enough for you. Never. But I'm good enough for this, aren't I? Hm? Aren't I?" The sharp blade left a thin red line along John's collarbone, thicker drops following it. "Talk to me, daddy. Look down. Look at your dick. I'm good enough for your dick, then, uh?"
John had to. Death wasn't far from his thoughts now, a wish more than the fear of it, but as long as he was breathing, there might be a way to … to understand, to help Sam, to free him from whatever evil was in him, because John could not, would not believe what was happening.
But he could not lie anymore, either. He couldn't hide what a male hand and callused fingers could do to him, were doing to him. He couldn't stop the blushing of arousal from spreading on his face, his chest, he couldn't break the heart wrenching sobs tearing him apart, nor how hard he was, Sam's thumb drawing tiny circles on the tip of his cock-head, wetting it with its own precome. "Please, son…"
"How many times, dad? How many times you have watched us, sparred with us, and all the time, all the fucking time, you've been thinking of this. You've washed us, dressed us…touched us," the last words were whispered to John's ear, Sam's teeth biting into it suddenly right after. "You have, haven't you?"
"No. No. I've never. Never." And yet John couldn't meet his son's eyes, only feel how the skin of his cock was sliding perfectly against Sam's, how his baby boy had grown up, as tall as his father, taller soon, with wide shoulders, and strength.
It was painful, and shameful, and- John felt it, he felt his heart gave in, collapse in an empty dark hole in his chest as his hips moved forward, as his body betrayed him, rocking against the one that was riding him. "Son. Son, please…"
"That's it, daddy. That's it. Don't fight it. You always wanted it, didn't you? This and more…" Sam had his thigh firmly lodged between his father's, so that he couldn't close his legs, couldn't escape anywhere. "I bet you'd like your baby boy to sit in your lap, right now, uh? D'you want me to sit in your lap, sit on your cock?"
John shook his head, again and again, wanting to avoid Sam's murmured obscenities. He threw his head back, hitting the tree behind him, hard. "No. No, no, no…"
"Yes. Yes, yes, yes…" Sam was implacable. There wasn't an inch of John's cock or lower belly that he wasn't touching with a part of his body, the right side of his face smeared with the blood trickling from the many superficial cuts his knife was slicing into John's skin.
"C'mon, dad. Don't you wanna come? I know you do. Your cock's rock hard, mine's too. Like father, like son, daddy." Sam wrapped his long fingers around both their dicks, tight enough for it to be painful, to be wonderful.
"Sammy," John sobbed, hitting the tree with the back of his head again, his balls tightening up, at least, finally, tension coiling in his groin, there, there, in the hand of his boy…
####
There's a silence in the boy's ears that has nothing to do with the woods around him, or the scene in front of him. It's a silence born out of practice, experience, training. Focus, aim, lock target.
Stance.
Inhale.
Release.
Trigger.
Shoot.
There's this boy, shooting at himself.
There's this boy, staring with wet eyes at the way his father he's tied to a tree.
There's this boy, looking down at the corpse of something that is him, and yet isn't.
####
Sam rubbed his cheeks with the back of his hand. Long strides brought him to where John was, tied to the tree, head bent over his chest, eyes closed.
"I can't…can't look at- it. Move it." John's voice was the most tired Sam has ever heard. He looked down, at the creature wearing his skin, his clothes, his features, lying on the forest floor, marked with dead leaves and wet soil, hair a mess, dick still half-hard.
"Dad…it knocked me out. I'm sorry," and yet Sam wasn't able to take those final steps to get near his father, to untie him. He was trying hard not to look at him either, his father's body familiar and yet so foreign to him in this dishevelled, aroused state.
"Just. Move it aside. Now, Sammy. This damn rope is sawing my wrists in two." Snapped orders rarely had the same effect on Sam than they had on Dean, but for once, Sam did as John ordered him to, dragging the shapeshifter's body far enough so that it was outside of John's range. Sam's eyes didn't focus on the creature's face, or the blood spreading on its clothes, or his open fly. He stepped back towards John, then, rubbing his hands on his thighs, finally cutting the rope with his hunting knife.
Once his shoulders were free to move in a more natural position, John moaned softly. Sam moved closer, going to hold his father in case he was injured in ways that Sam hadn't seen yet, finally close enough to see the blood on him.
"Let me check on you- "
John slapped his son's hands away. "'m fine," he snapped. His fingers were cold and hurting, circulation coming back in waves and prickling stings, and John's attempts to put his cock back in his pants and zip his fly were nothing more than that. Sam tightened his jaw, only now finally letting himself feel the dull throbbing in his head.
"You're fine. A fucking shapeshifter wearing my face practically rapes you, and you're fine!"
"Don't start, Sam."
"You want me to pretend I didn't see what I saw? Is that what you want?"
"Yes, that's exactly what I want. And mind your language with me."
Sam turned on his heels. With practical, economical if tense movements, he went to collect John's weapons from where the shapeshifter had dropped them. Without uttering a word, he took out the heavy packet of salt from his bulging pockets and poured it over the creature's corpse.
###
There’s Sammy. And there’s John. There’s a shower with scalding water, there’s a bottle of Jack Daniels, locked doors, but it’s not enough.
It just isn't enough.
finis
Author:
phantomas Genre: slash
Pairing: John/Sam
Rating: NC17
length: 2950 words
Notes:
- written for the
jeffathon prompt: 'John/Sam; possessed, hidden.' Apologies for the delay, I had to wrangle Sam into submission (no, it wasn't as fun as it sounds). - thanks and neverending gratitude to
disanddat for helping me out with this in a MASSIVE way, any remaining horror and error are purely my fault. I really have problems writing Sam *sighs*. - Feel free to offer advice/comments, point out typos, etc. in regard to this story and to writing Sam :D
- Crossposted to
papawinchester and my journalNotes 2: I listen to way too much Robbie Williams, and that's where the title comes from in part.
There's Sammy. There's the way he scrunches his nose when something disgusts him, the way he packs his books carefully, before clothes or weapons, the way he defies his father by simply keeping his hair long, long enough to be in his eyes.
And there's John. John, trying to be caregiver and teacher, father and sergeant, all at the same time. John, who keeps dragging Dean away with him on hunts from which Sam never knows when or if they'll be back. John, who never seems happy with what Sam does, how Sam does it, why Sam does it.
There's Sam. And there's John. Butting heads, once again, voices raised way over decency and safety and propriety.
Dean covers his eyes, for a moment, scratches at his eyebrow, before opening the door, before doing what he always does, shutting his father and brother up, defusing their anger, re-directing it, absorbing it.
Only, Dean is not always around, even if he tries to be.
There's this one day, when Dean is down with something as stupid as the flu, cursing germs and taking advantage of his state to have his little brother bring him juice and chocolate and soup. There's this one day, when John races home because a final piece of a particular puzzle has finally slipped into place, Caleb has called, and John needs to be there, John needs to go there as quickly as possible, and John needs back-up, but Dean's down for the count, his fever-burned eyes and chest cough can't be denied, so there's no one else John could take but Sammy.
Because no matter what Sammy believes, John knows Sam is just as good a hunter as Dean is, as John himself is.
So they go. John and Sam.
And when they come back – late at night – they can barely look each other in the eyes.
"How did it go," Dean asks them. "Did you get it?" He insists.
"It went fine," John says, bloodied coat on his shoulders, and then closes his bedroom door behind him, a bottle of Jack in his hand. A quiet click of the lock and then silence.
"We got it," Sam says, discarding their weapons duffel in a corner, and then he closes the bathroom door after himself, the sound of water running in the shower stall starting right away.
"What the fuck…" Dean mutters, looking from one door to the other, but his bones are aching with fever, and he dozes off soon after, way before he intends to, because it's clear to him that something big has gone down, as big as Pam Anderson's boobs. Which is what he's dreaming of right then, as Baywatch goes on in the background, the TV set left switched on, and loudly so.
###
"You're not my son," John's voice was calm, contained. Eyes open, unflinching.
"I'm not? Didn't know Mom went around fucking strangers, dad. You never said." It looked like Sam, it moved like him, but John was sure. It couldn't be Sam.
"You won't get away with this. Even if you kill me, there'll be others on your track, sooner than you think."
"Damn, dad. You and your threats. Do this, Sam, do that, Sam, don't you know how important this is?. Always the same tune. And I'm tired of it. So, so tired, dad."
John was solidly tied up against a massive trunk, arms stretched around the tree, the skin on his wrists bleeding already. Sam's voice was so…John closed his eyes, for a moment.
Sam moved in front of him, as tall as his father, taller even. "You push and you push, and you keep pushing. I never wanted this. I never wanted this, dad." His voice was low, almost soft, but John couldn't mistake the anger in it for anything else.
"Sammy…" there was a twist, a break, in John's voice, in his features. A drop of sweat ran along his temple, to the curve of his jaw. "Christo…" He tried. It had to be something else than his boy, had to.
Sam tilted his head. "What, you think I'm possessed?" Shaking his head, he slid the hunting knife from the sheath at his side. "Sure, Dad. Think that if that makes you happy. You can't control me anymore. I won't put up with you anymore." The blade flashed bright, moonlight filtering through the foliage.
"It's not- it can't be you, Sam. Sammy. You can fight it. Whatever it is, you can fight it, son," John spoke with resolute calm, only the nervous bobbing up and down of his Adam's apple betraying him.
Sam's smile was a small smile. "I'm tired of fighting, dad." The buttons on John's heavy plaid shirt popped one after the other, the knife easily slicing from one to the other. "There," Sam murmured. The moon was behind him and John couldn't see his son's face clearly but he could feel and see the blade expertly cut through his shirt, exposing his chest to the open air.
"Sammy. Sammy…" It wasn't possession. It wasn't what they were hunting. What… his boy would never. He'd never. John would not believe his youngest son actually wanted to hurt him. Hurt his own father. One after the other, incantations and exorcisms and any other ritual John had ever learnt flashed into his mind, Latin, Greek, symbols and rites that could help him understand what was happening to his son. His baby boy.
Sam smiled again. His long fingers worked John's belt, his fly, quickly and efficiently. "Don't worry. I'm not going to kill you. You're my dad. I love you. You don't believe it, do you? You never had the time to listen to me, not really, have you? I just want to make you see. How much I love you. So much." The very tip of the knife lodged against John's jugular, Sam's big hand tugged on his father's jeans until they slid past John's waist. Sam snorted. "Going commando, dad. That's a surprise. You really wanted to get here fast, uh? Tell you what. Prove me you love me, and I won't ditch you here. Prove me you care about me, prove it to me, and I won't just leave and leave your sorry ass here to rot."
John's eyes widened. "You- you must be crazy. If this is some sort of sick joke, I swear, boy," his voice raised in force and volume. "This has gone too far. It ends, here, you get that? Samuel Winchester. Stop it. Right. Now."
"You don't get to tell me what to do, dad. Not anymore…"
A sharp intake of breath was John's only reaction to the feel of long, masculine fingers around his limp dick.
"C'mon. You never really give yourself time to indulge, do you? Think of this as a chance. Something for yourself. Something only your son can give you, since you won't let anyone else in your life. In our lives." Sam looked down, licking his lips, focusing on coaxing John's dick to life. "You didn't know, did you? So many things you don't know about me, dad. So, so many things…"
Sam's smile was the same glorious smile he gave John when he presented him the card he'd painstakingly made for him on Mother's Day so many years ago, 'because you're my dad but you're my mum, too, you know?' John had felt like crying, then. He felt like crying now, too, and maybe he was, shamed and embarrassed and lost in front of this boy that was manipulating him so well, so skilfully, taking him in a place where John really didn't want to go.
"I just want to know if you love me, dad. Because you always order me around, but you never…you never pay me attention. You never touch me, you never hug me anymore, and I liked it when you used to do it, you know? I liked it. Very much."
Sam's breath was warm on John's lips, sweet. "Of course I love you, son," John muttered, fighting the swelling of his genitals, hating the sparkles of pleasure running through his veins. "You don't need to do this. There's no need for this…" John had never pleaded for anything in life. Well, he had, once, with God, begged and prayed to him to have Mary back, to make it all go away, but he was drunk then, and it didn't work anyway. Now he was close to begging Sam, his son, to take his hand off him, because what father would get a hard-on with his own son stroking his dick up and down, like that, so slowly, so painfully? What kind of father was he, that his own son would turn on him, turn him on, in this way?
"Please, Sammy…" it wasn't what John meant to say. There were other words. But right now all he could feel was the heat spreading through his groin, in his face, the pleasure that tickling fingers were giving him while playing with his balls.
"I love you so much, dad. And I hate you so much. Now it's me doing the controlling, isn't it? Now it's me having full control over you. Making you do this."
John inhaled sharply.
Sam smirked.
###
So.
There's this vast expanse of trees, woods or forest, whatever you like. And there's this boy, tall and obviously grown way too fast, and he's moving quietly, all legs and arms, from tree to tree, hiding in the shadows, paying attention to where he puts his feet. And there's the very lethal-looking pump-action shot gun in his hands. His hair is too long, and he has to shake it off his eyes, off the ugly bruise on his forehead, but he looks as if he knows where he's going, eyes on the leaves and bushes, ears tense to any sound.
There's this place, dark and isolated, where a hunter has brought his son along to hunt something evil. And there's this boy, looking for his father.
And then there's the moment when the boy finally finds the tracks he was seeking, follows them, and finds himself peeking from around the trunk of a massive sequoia, looking upon his father, tied to another tree. And then there's…himself. And there's this other moment, when the boy realizes what it is that he is watching. First he blushes, beetroot dark, from the roots of his too long bangs to the tip of his fingers. And then he pales.
####
"Sammy…"John Winchester wasn't ashamed of the sounds coming from him. He was ashamed of how weak his body was. Ashamed of the gasps he was trying to suffocate.
"Yes, daddy?" The tone was mocking, the movement vicious. With the knife still held close enough to skin to be easily lethal, Sam had shed his own jeans, lowered them and his underwear on his thighs. One wide palm spread on the bark alongside John's head, Sam was pressing his body against his father's, rubbing against it like a snake coiling around a branch. There was no space between them, only sweaty skin, John's trail of dark hair below his navel, the smell of male sex, pungent and bitter. And Sam, pushing, pressing, rocking against his father. Panting.
"I'm never good enough for you. Never. But I'm good enough for this, aren't I? Hm? Aren't I?" The sharp blade left a thin red line along John's collarbone, thicker drops following it. "Talk to me, daddy. Look down. Look at your dick. I'm good enough for your dick, then, uh?"
John had to. Death wasn't far from his thoughts now, a wish more than the fear of it, but as long as he was breathing, there might be a way to … to understand, to help Sam, to free him from whatever evil was in him, because John could not, would not believe what was happening.
But he could not lie anymore, either. He couldn't hide what a male hand and callused fingers could do to him, were doing to him. He couldn't stop the blushing of arousal from spreading on his face, his chest, he couldn't break the heart wrenching sobs tearing him apart, nor how hard he was, Sam's thumb drawing tiny circles on the tip of his cock-head, wetting it with its own precome. "Please, son…"
"How many times, dad? How many times you have watched us, sparred with us, and all the time, all the fucking time, you've been thinking of this. You've washed us, dressed us…touched us," the last words were whispered to John's ear, Sam's teeth biting into it suddenly right after. "You have, haven't you?"
"No. No. I've never. Never." And yet John couldn't meet his son's eyes, only feel how the skin of his cock was sliding perfectly against Sam's, how his baby boy had grown up, as tall as his father, taller soon, with wide shoulders, and strength.
It was painful, and shameful, and- John felt it, he felt his heart gave in, collapse in an empty dark hole in his chest as his hips moved forward, as his body betrayed him, rocking against the one that was riding him. "Son. Son, please…"
"That's it, daddy. That's it. Don't fight it. You always wanted it, didn't you? This and more…" Sam had his thigh firmly lodged between his father's, so that he couldn't close his legs, couldn't escape anywhere. "I bet you'd like your baby boy to sit in your lap, right now, uh? D'you want me to sit in your lap, sit on your cock?"
John shook his head, again and again, wanting to avoid Sam's murmured obscenities. He threw his head back, hitting the tree behind him, hard. "No. No, no, no…"
"Yes. Yes, yes, yes…" Sam was implacable. There wasn't an inch of John's cock or lower belly that he wasn't touching with a part of his body, the right side of his face smeared with the blood trickling from the many superficial cuts his knife was slicing into John's skin.
"C'mon, dad. Don't you wanna come? I know you do. Your cock's rock hard, mine's too. Like father, like son, daddy." Sam wrapped his long fingers around both their dicks, tight enough for it to be painful, to be wonderful.
"Sammy," John sobbed, hitting the tree with the back of his head again, his balls tightening up, at least, finally, tension coiling in his groin, there, there, in the hand of his boy…
####
There's a silence in the boy's ears that has nothing to do with the woods around him, or the scene in front of him. It's a silence born out of practice, experience, training. Focus, aim, lock target.
Stance.
Inhale.
Release.
Trigger.
Shoot.
There's this boy, shooting at himself.
There's this boy, staring with wet eyes at the way his father he's tied to a tree.
There's this boy, looking down at the corpse of something that is him, and yet isn't.
####
Sam rubbed his cheeks with the back of his hand. Long strides brought him to where John was, tied to the tree, head bent over his chest, eyes closed.
"I can't…can't look at- it. Move it." John's voice was the most tired Sam has ever heard. He looked down, at the creature wearing his skin, his clothes, his features, lying on the forest floor, marked with dead leaves and wet soil, hair a mess, dick still half-hard.
"Dad…it knocked me out. I'm sorry," and yet Sam wasn't able to take those final steps to get near his father, to untie him. He was trying hard not to look at him either, his father's body familiar and yet so foreign to him in this dishevelled, aroused state.
"Just. Move it aside. Now, Sammy. This damn rope is sawing my wrists in two." Snapped orders rarely had the same effect on Sam than they had on Dean, but for once, Sam did as John ordered him to, dragging the shapeshifter's body far enough so that it was outside of John's range. Sam's eyes didn't focus on the creature's face, or the blood spreading on its clothes, or his open fly. He stepped back towards John, then, rubbing his hands on his thighs, finally cutting the rope with his hunting knife.
Once his shoulders were free to move in a more natural position, John moaned softly. Sam moved closer, going to hold his father in case he was injured in ways that Sam hadn't seen yet, finally close enough to see the blood on him.
"Let me check on you- "
John slapped his son's hands away. "'m fine," he snapped. His fingers were cold and hurting, circulation coming back in waves and prickling stings, and John's attempts to put his cock back in his pants and zip his fly were nothing more than that. Sam tightened his jaw, only now finally letting himself feel the dull throbbing in his head.
"You're fine. A fucking shapeshifter wearing my face practically rapes you, and you're fine!"
"Don't start, Sam."
"You want me to pretend I didn't see what I saw? Is that what you want?"
"Yes, that's exactly what I want. And mind your language with me."
Sam turned on his heels. With practical, economical if tense movements, he went to collect John's weapons from where the shapeshifter had dropped them. Without uttering a word, he took out the heavy packet of salt from his bulging pockets and poured it over the creature's corpse.
###
There’s Sammy. And there’s John. There’s a shower with scalding water, there’s a bottle of Jack Daniels, locked doors, but it’s not enough.
It just isn't enough.
finis