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Dean's hands trembled slightly as he held the pistol up, the cold metal in his hands feeling as if it was piercing through his skin and digging its fangs into his palms. He was 17 now, he’s been holding these things since before he could remember, but that rush of adrenaline never really leaves, it takes home in you – burrowing itself in your stomach long enough that you feel empty without it, like a drug that's high will never quite be the same as the last time; but strong enough that you'll always come back.
Dean takes a deep breath, a futile attempt to soothe his shaking hands and finally lets his finger pull back. It lays on the trigger, almost caressing it as he lets the machine in his hand fire. The brunette watches the bullet fly, despite its speed it almost seems to slow down to him, maybe it is the adrenaline. He follows the small piece of metal all the way to the target, watching as it sides through the red middle of the target paper and lodges itself into the tree bark behind it.
Almost as soon as the wood chips fly Dean feels a large, warm hand on the back of his shoulder, rough and calloused; and the solid shape of his fathers chest against his back.
Dean is starting to look just like him.
“There you go Dean! Thats what im talking about son,” John chuckles, removing his hand to move back to the white fold out table beside him and take out more bullets from the container, Dean hadn't realised he'd already emptied the whole magazine. He finally lowers his still shaky hand, finger laying on the side of the barrel instead of the trigger, not nearly as comfortable. Dean turns back to his father, tossing the gun to flip it in his hand and give it back to John. “Thanks daddy.” he says softly.
It is a childish name, dean knows that, most kids grow out of it at around 11– He knows that because in middle school when John had to come pick him up one day dean had called him “Daddy” and another kid heard, and god knows kids are cruel, he was happy to leave that town behind. But still, even at 17, Dean can't get himself to drop the name, maybe it's partially funny to him, maybe it's his subconscious trying desperately to hold on to a semblance of the childhood he never got the privilege of having, he never tried to look hard into it, notably because John didn't seem to mind.
John smiles down at his eldest son, soft and warm, a smile Dean never gets often, a smile he tries to soak up like sunlight in winter because of that exact reason. Dean smiles back, all teeth and excitement, attempting in some way to show the awe he has for his father.
“Shots like that are starting to become the norm for you Dean, I might need to look out,” John jokes, his tone light and happy as he turns back to the pistol in order to take out the magazine and reload it.
Dean keeps smiling a small laugh escaping him, “yeah old man, maybe one day I could even beat you to it on a hunt.” He teases using his elbow to nudge his dad, then crossing his arms over his chest.
John finishes reloading the gun then turns back to dean, smirk plastered on his face like it's painted on, normally it is. “Yeah? You're gonna have to steady your grip a lot more than that if you wanna reach my level, boy,” he says, handing the gun back to his son, flipping it in his hand just as Dean had done.
Dean feels his face heat up in embarrassment, he thought John hadn't noticed, he knew if he was standing where his father was he wouldn't have; but maybe that was the difference between the two of them – one dean would grow into. The boy doesn't say anything and takes the pistol, turning back to the target once more, the red middle standing in stark contrast to the rest of the forest in its greens and browns.
John moves behind his eldest, chest pressed up tightly against his back as he moves his arms around the boy's shoulder to place his hands on top of Deans. “It's alright, used to happen to me all the time too, you just gotta calm down dean.” he mutters against the boy, breathing hot and wet against Dean's ear and upper neck; exacerbated further by the heat and humidity of the Georgia summer. “Calm down boy,”
It takes everything in Dean's body not to shudder, not to completely fold and whine at the tone and gruff nature of his fathers voice. Instead he steals himself, allowing his father to guide his hands and finger over the trigger, John's breathing starting to calm his own.
“Get 'em, boy.”
Dean fires, the bullet lodging itself right into the same hole the one before it did, right in the middle, the red of the paper target John got starting to look frayed and matted by the bullet holes. Dean lets out a breath and lowers the gun, realising that his hands aren't shaking this time – his breathing mirroring Johns.
John smiles, Dean can feel it, hell he can practically see it; the small proud smile that takes over his fathers face as dean does as he's told, as he follows John's every move like a dog, a dog baring its teeth and snarling as its owner waits to command it to bite and tear – the prong collar around its neck biting into its skin as a reminder of its place. a working dog.
It almost makes Dean's legs give out, the close proximity of it all, the way he can feel his father's palms still on his shoulder, warm and rough against his skin through the fabric of his thin, too old T-shirt. Dean relaxes against his fathers chest subconsciously, despite the warmth outside making them both sweaty and far too sticky, he can't help himself, John's warmth is something different, it's warm and inviting; Familiar. It reminds Dean of nights far beyond travelling on the road, hell before Sammy was even born, before it didn't have to be like this.
They stay like that for a while, it passes in a blur for Dean, he isn't even sure how many bullets they burn through in the hours out there because all he can think about is his daddy's big, warm hands on his, His daddy's chest against his back, his daddy gently taking the gun from him to reload it, his daddy grumbling in his ear.
“Good boy”, “that's what im talking about De’”, “You're getting so good.”
Every muttered word goes straight to Dean's head, making him dizzy and light headed. he feels like he’s gonna faint — John’s sent, his body pressed against his own, the praise falling out of his mouth like a prayer, all of it makes Dean want to curl up into his daddy’s ribs and live there, put his hands into his father’s muscles and imprint his teeth; make his mark.
After a while they finally let up, the sun, which was high in the blue sky, is now low over the horizon; casting everything that it reaches in a golden yellow hue. The sun reflects off of the leaves and trees around them, the light falling through them like water onto his fathers face, painting him. Dean admires him, the way his strong, thick arms pick up the bag they carry their guns and ammo in like it’s nothing, like it’s light as an empty bucket, Dean wonders if he could pick him up like that, throw him and round and manhandle him like a ragdoll.
That thought goes straight to Dean's cock, which has been growing half hard in his boxers ever since he and his daddy came out here, watching as the southern heat makes his fathers skin wet and shiny, his shirt sticking to his chest and riding up on his stomach as he stretches.
The eldest son swallows and looks away, attempting, in vain, to steal his face and force the blood rushing south to still. Dean doesn’t think his father will notice as long as he stays just like this, as long as Dean doesn’t let his wild and vivid imagination get a hold of him. It happened frequently, his daydreams, mostly of his father. His broad, strong middle holding him down as he takes what he wants from him, using deans body to take out the frustrations of a hunt that's been stewing in his head for god knows how long; growling in deans ear telling im to just “fucking take it” that this is his purpose.
Dean trails behind his dad, always a few feet behind but never straying too far, he never does. It's like a barrier in his brain, one he can never cross, one he can never even think of breaking because the debilitating feeling that seeps into his bones when he thinks of disappointing John makes him want to rip his own hair out. It's a feeling that's been groomed into him no doubt, but that doesn't change the toll it's taken on Dean's psyche.
Dean can definitely feel himself grow harder; fuck. He snaps his head down, opting to stare at his feet as they walk rather than his fathers back as he strolls in front of him casually.
Dont think, dont think, dont think.
The chanting doesn't work, it rarely does, leaving Dean to grow lost in his own head again as they continue the hike back to John's truck. He stays that way the whole way back, his head floating away from his body; disconnected.
“Ooph-” Dean lets out a surprised huff, colliding with the solid shape of John's back, he hadn't even noticed he stopped moving. He realised then that they had made their way back to the truck and that the sun which was setting is now almost fully down over the horizon, setting west. The brunette quickly scrambles back, face as red as the setting sun as he attempts to pull himself together, to no avail.
“Shit- oh sorry dad,” he murmurs, moving to take the rifle slung over his shoulder off and hand it to John to lay in the back of the truck.
John chuckles, looking down at Dean as he takes the rifle from him, and then puts it along with his own and the pistol case into the back seat. “Damn kid, you in there? Gotta look out.” he teases, shaking his head for emphasis.
Dean's face turns even darker scarlett, leading him to turn away from his father in an attempt to hide it – and his growing erection. “Yeah yeah, sorry.” he huffs, rolling his eyes.
John just chuckles again and turns away to walk around the front of the truck and get in the driver seat. “Come on, don't wanna get back too late.” he calls out.
Dean worries his bottom lip with his teeth, shifting on his feet as he attempts to think of a fast solution or excuse as to why he is obviously rock fucking hard in his jeans. He struggles, sweat starting to collect on his brow, further pushed by the honk of the truck. John obviously pushing him to hurry up already. Dean sighs and accepts his fate, climbing in the truck.
To the eldest's surprise his father doesn't mention it, though he definitely looks, Dean can see his soft brown eyes staring him up and down as he climbs in and settles into the cab. But still John says nothing and instead puts the car in drive and then lays his hand over Dean's mid thigh. It's not necessarily an uncommon gesture, but in this current situation dean in pretty sure its his dad trying to kill him; like actual homicide kill him because the warm heavy weight of John's hand on his thigh, that close to his leaking cock, is going to overload his brain and fry him he's sure.
Dear god he cant take it, he feels like every pothole and small bump in the road is gonna send him through the windshield, and John's hand placement isn't helping. His cock twitches again in his boxers, leaking another drop of precome – dean is honestly impressed there isn't a wet spot on his jeans yet. Another thing, Dean must be hallucinating from the lack of blood going to his brian because he’s also pretty sure that John's hand is slowly moving up with every bump.
“So dean, what's going on with school?” John asks casually, like his eldest son isn't sitting right beside him about to cream his pants from his hand on his leg.
Dean takes longer than he should to process the question, but when he does he clears his throat and shifts in his seat. “F-fine, just normal billshit you know, as always.” he says, voice still coming out higher and more strained than he would like, but he manages.
John just hums, hand still inching up higher and higher till it reaches the sensitive skin between Dean's thigh and cock, and starts to run there, soft and sweet, almost absentmindedly. Yep, dad is definitely trying to kill him.
“Mmm, yeah, Sammy must have got those smarts from your mom because god knows you ain’t got it from me kid.” John chuckles, eyes flicking from the road to deans, still beat red, face.
Dean just nods, barely breathing as he feels his fathers hand creep up to fully rest on his crotch, still gently rubbing circles into his skin. He looks up, finally gathering the courage to look over at his father and see his reaction. “D-daddy..” he mutters, squirming in his seat.
“What is it, boy? Does shooting like that always get you up?” John teases, now using his full hand to grip Dean's cock through his jeans, feeling his pulse.
Dean just whines, subconsciously spreading his thighs further and pushing his hips up into his dads hand. John just laughs again, shaking his head as he grinds his hand down hard, making Dean whimper.
“Down boy, Bad mutt.” John scolds, pushing Dean's hips back down as his son whines and cries out.
“D-daddy, i-i I'm sorry! I'm sorry I'll be good.” Dean whines, shaking his head frantically in desperation. The boy pants, squirming in his seat as he attempts to stay still for daddy. Stay good.
“That's it, that's it, good dog.” John mutters, using his thumb to move up the tip of Dean's cock; using the rough denim to rub at Dean's slit, making the boy yelp.
John smirks, moving up to one handily unbuttoned dean's jeans and slides down his fly, exposing his ruined boxers. The fabric is dark blue and worn, like most Winchester clothing, and has a dark wet spot at the top where Dean’s cock has been leaking. It makes John smile, knowing that Dean could, and would, cum in his boxers on command if John so asked. He'd grovel at John's feet if he asked.
John turns back to the road, acting completely causal as he starts to roughly jerk Dean's cock in his boxers; Making the boy whine in desperation. Dean's hips stutter, pressing up into John's hand to gain more friction.
“Stupid dog, humping my hand like a puppy in heat.” John groans, feeling his own cock thicken up in his hands. “You just want daddy to use you, huh boy? Make you useful.”
Dean nods, panting and starting to drool down his chin as he loses his thoughts; his head filling to the brim with fuzz. His hands scrambling, trying to find purchase anywhere they can on the truck's old beat-up carseat, and finally settling on the headrest behind him, his head thrown back in ecstasy.
John makes a low, gruff sound, his hand moving faster on the mutts twitching hardness. It's rough and aggressive, it's gonna leave a burn no doubt with how fast he's using the fabric to jerk Dean off; but he doesn't care. Dean would take it all, take anything John thought good enough to throw at him. John's hand slows, leaving Dean writhing and whimpering in its place; his hands scrambling to grip his daddy arm and keep it where it is, scared John will pull away if he doesn't.
“Daddy- daddy no no i’m good! Ill be good, please..ngh please-” The boy babbles, frantically shaking his head as he begs for the touch back; like a puppy laying at its owner's feet whining and crying for a treat after a trick. Tears welling up in Dean's big green eyes that pull at John's heart strings, always had – with all of John's bravo, he really is defenceless against his eldest.
John smiles, his hand still slowly, agonizingly slowly, rubbing over deans weeping flushed red cock. He uses his other hand to pull the truck over to the side of the old country backroad, making Dean realize in the back of his head that they haven't seen another pair of headlights since they got on the road. John moves to put the truck into park, then turning fully over in his seat to give Dean his full attention.
The older man takes him in, because god is his son beautiful. His eyes travel down Dean's neck and ears – flushed red and warm to the touch with arousal and shame; the sight of his arms flexing with restraint as he grips the headrest behind him in desperation. Dean's heaving chest that is no doubt also flushed a nice shade of pink below his fitted t-shirt, and all the way down to his cock – wet and jerking with desperation as the boy whines and humps up into his fathers hand.
“God you're such a good dog, Dean, so well trained.” John groans, moving his hand over to his own trapped erection; roughly fondling the tip.
Dean sobs, his cock – now flushed deep red – almost weeping overcome with need. His knees drawing together as he fights the knot forming in his stomach; it's hot and blinding, and Dean wants with every fiber of his being to let it consume him whole. Dean looks over to his father, eyes wet and so blown wide with need that the light green in them is barely visible now, especially in the dark truck.
“Plee-ah please daddy! Wan’ come pleeease," Dean babbles out, barely understandable as he folds over himself in an attempt to ward off the inevitable. He whines as he hears his dad chuckle again, using his rough hand to squeeze his tip harder; causing him to yell out.
John contemplates, his eyes raking over his son as he writhes against his hand, skin on fire it seems. He finally smiles, softer than before, and concedes.
“Yeah baby, come on make a mess for daddy,”
Dean's mouth falls open, back arching high as he finally comes all over his fathers hand, whines and yelps falling out of his mouth as it finally slows down. Leaving him heaving against the car seat of the truck.
“There we go, there we go baby.” John coos, smiling as he watches his baby boy come apart in his hand; slowly pulling his hand away and bringing it up to his mouth, licking it clean from Dean’s come.
The eldest whimpers, watching as his father tastes him while burning holes into his own eyes; the sight makes Dean's cock twitch despite the overstimulation. John smiles, finally pulling his hand away from his mouth and instead grabbing Dean's hair with it, pulling just enough to solidify Dean's place, and Dean knows it.
“Now, your gonna let daddy fuck that pretty face of yours and come inside; and your gonna swallow every fucking drop. Aren't you pup?”
Dean nods frantically, shuddering as his dad practically growls in his ear. He shifts to his side and leans over the center console of the truck, bracing his hands on his fathers thighs as he leans down. He hears John groan above him, grabbing his cock by the base and guiding it to Dean's open mouth, gently pushing past his lips – soft and pink. Dean stays put, using his tongue to cover his bottom teeth and hollowing out his cheeks slightly for his daddy to use. It takes everything in him not to smile when he hears his daddy groan and grip his hair tighter; the prickling pain making Dean squirm in his seat.
Dean makes a small yelp, suddenly feeling his father force his head up and down as he thrusts his cock back into Dean's mouth. Dean takes it, like he always has and most likely always will. It's been drilled into his little head that this is his place, his purpose to John and nothing will ever change that.
John can feel himself growing close, he never lasted long when they got like this, all desperate and risky, most of the time leading to them almost catching a public indecency charge; thank god it's dark out. He uses Dean a little faster, thrusting his hips up in time with his movements to hit the back of Dean's throat, making his son whine. Part of him feels a little guilty, but it's nothing compared to the overwhelming need and dark pleasure he is feeling from the power he has over his son; his puppy.
The older man growls as he finally spills over, forcing Dean's head down and gasping as he feels the boy swallow around him. He stays that way for a couple seconds before letting up, letting dean pull away and gasp for air. After calming down Dean leans against his side, chest heaving a bit from the intensity; John will never get tired of that sound.
After a minute or two, and a couple headlights driving by, John finally tucks himself back into his jeans and shifts back to a normal position, using his hand to pat the side of Dean's dazed face and help him look somewhat decent again.
“There you go pup, daddy's got you.” He mutters, smiling when all he gets in return is a soft whine.
John finally puts the car in drive and leads the car back onto the road, driving back to the motel. He looks over one more time to his son, who is now dozing off in the passenger seat.
John smiles, what an obedient little dog.