It's claustrophobic between them now that Sam's off at Stanford. She finds herself saying no less and less. When Sam left things got worse…a lot worse. John seemed to hold back when Sammy was around, maybe because he was worried about whether his younger son would figure out what was happening after all these years….or maybe just because Sam kept him grounded in the present, not lost in a past that was long gone.
But now there was no buffer. No reason for her to lay quietly and silently in the night as he held her down and whispered in her ears. And no reason for John to hold off or apologize in the morning.
She can run. She can leave, but to where? Sam and her father, are all she ever has had…and Sam is gone. She isn't losing John too. He needs her, and she never wanted to be the one person who held him together but she is. Without her he'll fall apart like she already has.
Deanna knows others don't have this relationship. What she and John are is dirty, sick, wrong, fucked up…but isn't everything in her life? She's been hunting since before she could hold a rifle, protecting her little brother, obeying her father, and giving everything of herself away to someone else. She is made for this…
Fuel for a fire as others enjoyed the warmth.
Deanna's sitting on the edge of the bed cleaning a rifle, some B movie is playing in the background and a bottle of beer rests between her folded legs. John's not supposed to be back for another day…maybe longer and that suits her just fine. So, when the door handle rattles she slips off the bed, flips the rifle closed and expertly takes off the safety. A silver edged knife digs into her hip from the holster strapped to her jeans, and a tiny flask of holy water rests in her back pocket. She's ready for anything. Just like a good little soldier.
The door swings open and John walks in.
Except that…she's not ready for him, never has been , never will be. The gun lowers slightly and she flicks back on the safety. Noting that John steps over the salt line without a flinch. "Back early."
He nods not bothering to answer. His eyes are reddened, his face is flushed…and she can tell he's drunk. "You finish up that salt and burn in Paxton county?" He just manages to speak with only the hint of a slur.
"Yes sir." The words automatically pop out her mouth.
Obedience is her fall back, the one thing she clings to like a lifeline.
"Ready for that hunt Bobby was telling told us about before I left?"
"I stocked up on holy water, the guns are all cleaned, I've got the info on the vics and their families."
"Good girl, Dean, good girl." He sometimes shortens her name, for her it's a reminder of the boy she isn't but wishes she could be. Her father would like her better and if she was a boy— not in that way.
John shrugs off his coat. "We'll leave out in the morning."
Deanna nods. She gathers the guns, stowing them in the duffel bag. The silver knife gets tucked under her pillow. Her half bottle of stale warm beer she downs in one gulp.
"You're just like your mother." Deanna freezes as she feels hands brushing her hair, even though she expected this. His hands are warm and rough. "You've got, her lips, her eyes, her face…just like her."
Her father presses against her body. She knows she should resist. Sometimes she can fend him off…sometimes she tries. However, if she doesn't succeed the feeling of defeat is too much, it makes her feel worse for trying and failing then just giving in.
And why is she resisting now anyway? There's no one around who will be witness to them but her and him.
John slips an arm around her waist and Deanna can feel his groin, hard and insistent pressed against her denim clad ass. He whispers, face buried in her hair. "You're so fucking pretty Mary." He's not drunk enough to mistake her for her long dead mother, she knows that now. Though when she was younger, eleven, twelve, thirteen she didn't. He's drifting back and forth between her name and her mothers, because he wants to, like they are one and the same. Maybe to him they are.
John ruts against her, pulling her hips back, so the small of her back and her buttocks are tucked against his body. She's drowning in his smelly, sweaty, body and beer soaked breath ."I love you baby girl." He whispers the words and a shudder courses through her body as simultaneously he increases the friction between them. She tries to pull away but John presses against her tighter, groaning with every stroke of his body against hers.
Before she can do anything, the grip on her hips is turning her around .One of John's hands is fumbling with his belt. "Gonna make your old man feel good?" He says it like a statement not a question.
Nonononono. The words die on her lips. Instead she nods, but still can't bring herself to meet his eyes. John's mouth is sloppy against her, cheap, whisky lingers on his breath and his tongue darts against hers.
She hates this.
As he kisses her, one hand pushes his jeans down . His dick is hard, hot, and throbbing with desire.
He's pressing her down, until she's on her knees. John's hands are in her hair bringing her forward and like years of muscle memory, her lips part even though her eyes are burning. John slides in, his skin is salty , musky and she wants to gag. He grips her hair, pulling tightly at the roots. His body is quivering.
Deanna knows what he wants, her tongue moves expertly, her lips and mouth working in time. She's been doing this since before she knew what is was….just a way to get money….something she had to do …first to feed Sam and then later because she's John's little girl. She tries to tell herself it's just someone else, maybe some beer bellied, sweaty guy in the back of a truck…or maybe one of the bikers she picks up at the bar. She can't fool herself.
Lucidity is her curse and reality is her hell.
Her father groans, his voice deep and low. He moves his hips, pushing in and out. Thrusting in time with his increasingly ragged breaths, just when she thinks it might be over he pulls away. He's panting roughly and he's harder than ever.
A hand slips under her chin and tilts her face up. Deanna knows he can see the tears there. John's thumbs brush against her cheeks. "Good girl."
Things seem to happen in fragmented drops of time. One moment she's kneeling on the dirty motel carpet the next moment John's shucked his jean's entirely and is pulling down hers. He picks her up, and sets her down on the bed. She can feel bare motel cover under her ass.
"Now, I'm gonna make you happy."
He's over her, looming like a monster that's worse than any she has ever hunted. She gets a brief reprieve as he searches and finds a rubber. Then , he doesn't give a warning before he's inside her. His hips hit against hers, each time drawing a small cry of pain from her mouth, and a stream of tears from her eyes. John says her name, then Mary's, then both, blending the words together like his will make it so.
He can't bring Mary back, but he can have her.
Deanna lets the tears fall. He finishes in a breathless whisper. "I love you."
John pulls out, and lies at her side. One arm swung possessively over her, like he owns everything she is. Her body is pulled tight against his. It's stifling.
She knows this isn't love.
Soon John falls quiets, and Deanna stares at the stained, cracked motel ceiling.
She leaves as soon as he's asleep. Deanna snatches the keys off the night stand, and grabs a fresh set of clothes. She takes the fastest quietest shower possible, and changes clothes. She snags her Taurus and shoves it in the waistband of her jeans, a knife and flask of holy water complete the ensemble. She thinks about leaving a note then decides she doesn't care.
The door shuts with a creak as she walks away. When she starts the engine, the impala sings to her like a whisper of freedom—and it is—because it'll take her to the one person who truly loves her.
Sam will never know that she watches him walk to class, go to the library, come home late at night. She doesn't approach him… but she's still there watching over like a tainted guardian angel.
Sam got out and is free, she wants him to stay that way.
Written for the prompt at SPN Kink meme John/girl!Dean, dubcon, daddycest
It's claustrophobic between them now that Sam's off at Stanford. She finds herself saying no less and less. I'm sorry, not sorry for writing this. Writing this stuff is cathartic for me. It happens, not beautiful not kinky, just twisted and painful. Thanks for reading.