Title: Forced
Author: 427-67Impala
Rating: M
Warnings: Plenty. Not just Wincest, but underage Wincest (Sam is 13), established relationship, non-con (John/Sam), graphic sexual content, torture, hurt!Sam, hurt!Dean, plus a character death
Word count: 32,441
Setting: Pre-series (Teen!chesters)

Summary: John Winchester has never been Father of the Year - especially to Sam, who he blames for Mary's death. He finally crosses the line and comes unhinged when he finds out his boys are sleeping together, and poor Sam cops the full force of his rage, forcing Dean to take his baby brother and hit the road to save both their hides.
The damage is already done, though, and Sammy has some pretty serious wounds - mental and physical. He's just starting to get himself together in the safe haven of Sioux Falls when John tracks them down, determined to finish what he started, and Dean is forced to do something drastic to protect his baby brother.

A/N: Written for the 2012 SPN Hardcore Big Bang on LiveJournal. Accompanying art was drawn by the awesome and talented reapertownusa, and you can see it embedded in the fic at my LJ: meganlouise86. (And you should. It's amazing!)

Yes, I know, I know: John Winchester would never do this stuff. But that's the beauty of fanfiction - in this fic, he does! I love John, but I had this scenario in my head and I had to write it (I clearly watch too much SVU, and too much Criminal Minds). But, like Sam said: "A little more tequila, a little less demon-hunting…"

As we know, Sam and Dean belong to Kripke & co. - I'm just borrowing their toys...

Chapter 1

Norfolk, Nebraska
28 January 1997

The house was empty when Sam got home from school. He shut the squeaky front door on the flurries of snow falling outside, shrugged out of his damp jacket and hurried into the living room to get a fire started in the fireplace.

Yes, 'fireplace'. The house the Winchesters were currently occupying was old - like, pre-WWI old - and it only had fireplaces and radiators for heat. While some people might say it had 'charm' or 'character', as far as Sam was concerned the place was kind of a dump. It had already been abandoned for a year or two before John had moved them in a few months previous, when he'd started using it as a kind of home base for this current hunt, and although they'd jerry-rigged power and turned on the water it wasn't exactly the Waldorf Astoria.

There weren't trees growing through the floorboards or anything, but it was still an abandoned house. The garden was overgrown to the point where it should really be called a 'jungle', and the building itself was clad in weatherboards that had once been a bright white, but the paint was yellowed and peeling. Much like a lot of the paint on the inside, actually.

The inside was just as run-down as the outside, full of furniture that was older than John (and even more worn and scarred), but there must have been a time when it was beautiful. There were high ceilings with plaster roses around the antique light fixtures, ornate moulded cornices, and worn, creaky floorboards that were now dull with dirt. It might still have been nice, except for the water damage and graffiti on the walls.

The Winchesters were only staying in this dusty slice of vintage middle America because John had spent the last few lunar cycles tracking a series of werewolf attacks throughout eastern Nebraska and into west Iowa. Werewolves were not something Sam was old enough to take on just yet, so he and Dean were sitting this one out, and it was cheaper for them to squat in an abandoned house than for John to spring for motel rooms in two cities.

Sam and Dean really didn't mind that their father was gone for days - sometimes weeks - at a time. Sam was occupying himself with 8th grade, and Dean didn't even care that he was working a 'real' job at a local garage instead of hunting. Because if John wasn't home, that meant he couldn't lay a finger on them.

Papa Winchester was an angry guy a lot of the time, and he liked to take that anger out on his sons. He would go off on whichever one was closest, but he preferred that to be Sam - it was no secret that John blamed him for Mary's death, and he would yell and scream at his youngest son after he'd had a bad day or a few drinks. And sometimes even when he hadn't.

When it got physical, as it almost inevitably did, Dean would get in the middle and try to take the worst of it. He did his best to protect Sam, but both Winchester boys always breathed a sigh of relief whenever John found a hunt and hit the road. It was just easier when they were alone.

Sam was relaxing in front of the newly-kindled fire, reading a book by the light of a lamp when he heard the throaty rumble of Dean's beaten-up old Triumph motorcycle in the driveway. His face broke into a smile, and he jumped up to open the door. By the time he got to it and worked the lock Dean was standing on the other side.

"Dad home yet?" Dean asked immediately, stepping inside out of the snowy Nebraska dusk. He hadn't seen the Impala, but it was better to be safe than sorry so he asked the question anyway.

"Nope. When he called earlier he was still in Iowa. Won't be back till tomorrow morning," Sam replied, smiling wider.

"Good. 'Cause I've been thinking about you all day." Dean grinned, and kicked the door shut behind him before he leaned down a little and kissed Sam on the mouth.

There was another reason the Winchester boys were enjoying their time alone: they had been sleeping together for about six months, and hiding something like that from their father was a lot easier when he was on the road. He had plenty of reasons to hit them already, and the thought of what would happen if John found out… well, actually, they tried really hard not to think about that.

Dean shrugged out of his leather jacket and hung it on a coat hook by the door to dry off, then checked his watch. "I'll be home earlier tomorrow, okay? Should be back by about 6," he promised, and Sam nodded. They were both well aware that their father was unlikely to be in a good mood after the long drive back from Iowa, and these werewolves seemed to really be getting under his skin, so Dean didn't want to leave Sam alone with him any longer than he had to.

Dean went through into the dimly-lit living room and stood in front of the fire, holding his palms out to the flames and rubbing his hands together to get the circulation going. He'd found the 30-year-old Triumph Bonneville in the garage when they'd first 'moved in', and it beat the hell out of walking while John was away with the Impala, but it was just not what you wanted to drive through a mid-west winter.

"The library closes at five tomorrow, but I'll hang out at there as long as I can," Sam said, coming to stand next to him. Dean immediately gathered his baby brother into a hug that smelled like leather and sweat and engine oil. Sam smiled, taking a deep breath and savouring that familiar Dean smell.

"Don't worry about me. I'll be fine for an hour."

"I know." Dean wound his arms around Sam's midsection, hugging his back tight against his chest. Sam let him, and Dean took a second to enjoy the way his little brother's body moulded itself to his. He didn't understand how John could hurt the kid - Dean would sooner die than leave a mark on him. Well, unless Sam asked him to.

"Forget about him. Let's make the most of tonight." He kissed the soft skin of Sam's neck, just where it met his left shoulder. He moaned a little as Dean ran his tongue up along the carotid artery, then pressed those soft, full lips to the pulse just below his jaw.

"Mmmm. You smell good." Dean purred, running his hands along Sam's shoulders and sliding his flannel shirt off.

"I haven't had a shower yet." Sam breathed, letting his head fall to the side and giving Dean better access.

"Good. Don't." Dean kissed him again, fighting the urge to nip the soft, smooth skin. He wanted to mark Sam, to leave some kind of sign that he was his. But John would ask what had happened, and where his thirteen-year-old son had got what was quite obviously a hickey. And that unnecessary attention was exactly the kind of thing they wanted to avoid.

So, Dean checked himself with a little growl and made do with a kiss. Even though he still very nearly sucked a bruise into Sam's neck before he could tear himself away, the younger Winchester groaned in disappointment. He enjoyed it when Dean bit him.

"Can't risk it," Dean breathed, his lips just touching Sam's cheek as he spoke.

"Don't care," Sam whined, "I like it."

Dean growled again, then pulled Sam's t-shirt up over his head and tossed it onto the couch. Those marshmallow lips found their way back to that pulse under his jaw, drawing a pretty little keening noise from the back of his throat, but this time Dean laid a trail of soft kisses all the way down to Sam's left shoulder. He stopped at the end of the trapezius muscle and bit down - not so hard he drew blood, but enough that when he released his grip there were two arcs of teeth marks in Sam's pale skin. He'd have a faint bruise for a few days, and that was just the way Sam liked it.

He exhaled slowly, leaning back into his big brother, and Dean smiled wolfishly and did it again. He bit a little harder, leaving more teeth marks just to the right of the first. Sam groaned and arched his back a little, grinding his body maddeningly against Dean's.

Dean paused for a second to pull his own shirt off and sighed when he felt Sam's shoulders pressing against his bare chest. His back was still warm from the fire, and Dean wrapped his arms around Sam again and pulled him back tight against his bare torso, enjoying the lingering heat in his skin. Sam clasped his hands over Dean's and a strangled little moan fell from his lips when Dean bit him again, leaving two more red crescents on the left deltoid as he undid Sam's jeans.

Sam turned around in the embrace and kissed Dean on the lips, reaching down between them to undo his big brother's jeans. He ran his hands down Dean's toned chest and stomach, over the ghosts of old bruises on his ribs from John's last drinking binge the week before, then hooked two fingers under the waistband of his boxers and slid them down. Dean was already mostly hard when Sam sank to his knees in front of him.

Sam felt one hand rest gently on the back of his head as he leaned forward and wrapped his lips around his big brother's cock, looking up at him from under his lashes with those big hazel eyes. He saw Dean's smiling lips part slightly as he sucked in a long, slow breath.

Dean exhaled slowly and let his head loll back, running a hand through that golden-brown, floppy hair, resisting the urge to push Sam forward and force himself deeper into the wet heat of his mouth. He let Sam do his thing, rubbing that hand gently up and down the back of his neck, then down over the back of his shoulders before he let it rest on the smooth, pale skin at the base of Sam's neck.

Sam might be young, but he was a fast learner, and talented: with just a little effort, he could reduce his big brother's vocabulary to his name and a series of small moans. Dean was usually happy for him to do it, too, but this wasn't what he wanted tonight. This was… well, honestly, Sam gave the best blowjobs Dean had ever had. But, amazing as they were, that wasn't what he'd been thinking about all day.

He didn't really want to, but after only a couple of minutes he buried his hand in Sam's soft, silky hair and pulled back gently. Sam resisted for a second but then sat back onto his heels, looking up at Dean questioningly.

"Sorry, sunshine - you're too good at that." Dean sighed regretfully, and grasped him by the shoulders and pulled him to his feet. "I love your lips, but…" He trailed off as Sam stood up on his tiptoes to give him a kiss.

He reached around and grabbed Sam's ass with both hands, through the black cotton of his boxers, squeezing tight and lifting him up higher. He loved Sam's lips, but he liked his backside even better - that was what he'd been thinking about all day.

Sam smiled when he felt Dean's hands on him, and he wrapped his legs around his big brother's waist. Dean responded by turning around and pushing Sam's back against the wall, pressing his chest and hips against him to keep him there. His baby brother's hard-on was trapped between them, pressed against his stomach, and he could feel the heat even through the cotton boxers.

He let Sam down off the wall and he tugged on Dean's hand, trying to pull him to the floor in front of the hearth, but the older Winchester resisted.

"Aw, you wanna do it here?" he groaned, obviously not thrilled with that plan.

"Sex in front of a roaring fire on a snowy night doesn't do it for you…?" Sam asked breathlessly, quirking an eyebrow.

"I've been under a car all day, and the floor is as hard as a rock," Dean complained, and grabbed his hand to lead him into the bedroom. Sam groaned but he followed anyway, his bare feet slapping the cold floorboards as he skipped to keep up with his big brother.

"You really have a lot to learn about romance, Dean." He tried to sound put out as he wriggled out of his boxers, but when Dean pulled him down onto the bed there was a smile on his face.

"Want me to bring you roses and candy next time?" he asked, and rested his hands on his little brother's quads as Sam straddled his thighs.

"Would it kill you?" Sam gave him a pointed look and leaned over to retrieve a condom and the tube of lube from the nightstand. The only light in the room was what spilled in from the hallway through the slightly open door, but Dean could see that little smile was still on his puffy, well-kissed lips - he was just teasing.

"You're lucky you're so adorable. Makes it hard to put you over my knee and spank you for crap like that." Dean watched him tear the condom open, unconsciously licking his lips as his little brother rolled it on for him.

"I might like that." Sam waggled his eyebrows suggestively, but couldn't hold back a surprised yelp when Dean abruptly smacked him on the ass.

"If you're not careful, you're gonna find out," he threatened, grinning. Sam couldn't help but laugh at that, and leaned forward to give him a quick kiss. Dean gave him a gentle shove in the shoulder, trying to reverse their positions, but he held on and stayed right where he was. Dean looked up at him with eyebrows raised, silently asking the question: What do you think you're doing?

When they first started a physical relationship, Dean had fully intended to be the one driving the bus. He'd had years of practice in bed, after all (even if it had been with girls), and Sam was a virgin. But it soon became apparent that even though Dean was usually the one on top, he wasn't the one in control. That fact wasn't lost on the youngest Winchester, and he smiled as he squeezed some KY into his palm and stroked his hand up and down Dean's length a couple of times. If Sam wanted to be on top there was no way he was going to say no and they both knew it. So Dean rested his hands on those slim hips and just let him.

He kept his eyes on his little brother's face when he felt Sam get into position, watching as he started to press down. Dean liked this part. He liked the way Sam's head tilted back slightly as his eyes fluttered closed, and the way his lips parted just a little when Dean slid inside. It hurt him a little at first, and Dean could always see the tension in his features for a few seconds at the very beginning.

He stroked softly at Sam's left hip with his thumb, just watching a little smile lift the corners of the younger Winchester's mouth as he relaxed. He was off in his own little world, savouring the moment, just like his big brother. Dean wondered sometimes if he should let this… unorthodox relationship of theirs continue, but that satisfied little smile always chased the doubts away. Nothing that made Sam feel that good could be wrong.

And the way the kid's body pressed around him like this, velvety soft and hot and intoxicatingly tight… well, that didn't hurt either...

Dean was snapped out of his daydream when Sam leaned over and kissed him. He rested his hands on Dean's pecs while he pressed his lips against the older Winchester's, deliberately rolling his hips as he did. Sam was flexible in ways Dean's other sexual partners just weren't, and he felt his little brother's lips curl up into a smile when he sucked in a quick, involuntary breath.

"Ohhh, Sammy, you're too young to be so good at that." Dean groaned, squeezing his eyes shut.

"Practice makes perfect," Sam whispered back. "Plus, I had a good teacher."

He kept moving his hips just like that, slowly and rhythmically, enjoying the way it made Dean moan. The older Winchester moved with him, instinctively, rolling his hips up to meet Sam's. He had just caught his big brother's bottom lip between his teeth when Dean grabbed him around the ribs with those big, strong hands and suddenly reversed their positions.

This time Sam wasn't quick enough to counter it and he was on his back almost before he realised what was happening. Both Winchester boys let out disappointed groans as Dean slipped out, but the older brother took that opportunity to flip Sam over onto his stomach and pin him down with a hand between the shoulder blades before he pushed straight back into that tight, slippery heat.

Sam groaned, grabbing handfuls of the bedspread and burying his face in the pillow. Dean leaned forward, resting his elbows either side of Sam's body as he cuddled up close and kissed the back of his neck. His hair was long enough to cover it, so Dean nipped a little too.

The younger Winchester wasn't the only one with skills - Dean knew things about Sam's body that the kid hadn't even dreamed of, and could play him like a fiddle. For instance, there was a spot just below Sam's right ear that drove him mad and Dean was nibbling at it mercilessly, enjoying the way Sam moaned and keened beneath him.

They were too focused on each other to hear the Impala pull into the driveway a full 12 hours early, or the old floorboards creaking outside their room as John looked through the slightly open door.

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

The next day, Dean was still at work when Sam got home from the library just after 5pm. He hung his jacket up in the entryway before he walked into the living room, books in hand and backpack slung over one shoulder, and found John sitting on the couch by the crackling fire with a newspaper open on his lap. With a half-finished bottle of scotch on the coffee table, right beside an empty tumbler.

"Hey, Dad." Sam greeted him, and tried not to let his smile falter. He'd seen the Impala in the driveway, so had time to prepare the façade.

He kept his eyes away from the scotch and hurried past his dad into the kitchen, where he snagged a couple of pieces of fruit. If he could just get his snack and make his escape into the relative safety of his bedroom…

"Anything interesting happen while I was gone?" John called, from the living room. His voice sounded even, but it still made Sam jump.

"No, just the usual," he replied, doing his best to sound casual.

"You boys need to learn to clean up after yourselves. Found a pile of dirty laundry on the couch when I got home."

Sam winced. Usually they were more careful than that. "Saw the Impala in the driveway this morning, but I didn't hear you come in last night." God, if he knew how those clothes got there...!

"It was dark. You boys were in bed," John said, still sounding unusually calm. Generally, he had a hair trigger after half a bottle of scotch… maybe he'd finally eradicated the werewolves, and that was why he was in such a good mood.

Sam glanced at his watch and grimaced. Still an hour before Dean would be home. There was still plenty of time for their dad to make a dent in what was left of the bottle.

"So how did the hunt go?" Sam continued, trying to change the subject before John decided he needed to teach his youngest son the importance of keeping the place neat and tidy.

This time there was a pause before John answered, and when he finally spoke he wasn't in the living room anymore. He was standing in the doorway of the kitchen, not three feet from Sam.

"Oh, I found out all sorts of new stuff," John growled, and grabbed a handful of Sam's hair from behind before he could even try to run. John dragged him back into the living room almost before he knew what was happening, and punched him in the face hard enough to knock him into the wall next to the fireplace.

"Dad-" Sam spluttered, but hardly got the word out before he was cut off by another punch, this time to the stomach. He was already gasping for breath when John put a hand around his throat and squeezed, lifting him nearly completely off the floor.

"I always knew there was something wrong in you," John snarled, his face only centimetres from Sam's. He could smell the scotch on his father's breath as he kicked out at him, scratching desperately at the hands clamped around his throat while his mouth filled with blood from his split lip.

"Everything goes bad around you. You got your mother killed when you were a baby, and now…" John trailed off, grimacing like he'd just taken a mouthful of spoiled milk.

Orange dots were starting to dance in Sam's vision as he stared into John's hard, bloodshot eyes, wondering how a seemingly civilised conversation had gone off the rails like this. He'd gone from zero to psycho in seconds, and Sam didn't even have any idea what had set him off.

John suddenly released his grip on Sam's throat, and he stumbled as he tried to keep his feet under him. Before he could get his balance, John backhanded him hard enough to open up a cut over his right cheekbone and send him stumbling through the doorway and out into the entrance hall, where he lost his footing and crashed hard onto the cold floorboards.

As he lay there, dazed and gasping for breath, John kicked him hard in the side then grabbed the hem of his shirt and ripped it up and off over his head. Then, with Sam staring up at him in oxygen-deprived confusion, John undid his son's own belt and yanked it free of his jeans, drawing shrieks of protest from the belt loops as they tore.

"Christ. You don't even know what I'm talking about, do you?" He heaved a sigh, glaring down at Sam as he ominously wound the buckle end of the belt around his hand a couple of times. "That's funny, Sam, because I would've thought taking your brother's cock up your ass was a memorable experience."

Oh God. Sam's heart nearly stopped then, and looked up at his father with wide, frightened eyes as it finally dawned on him just how much trouble he was in.

"That's right. I saw you, you slut." John's mouth twisted up into a hard little smile, and he swung the belt down hard on the left side of Sam's chest.

He barely had time to register the whoosh of the leather strap through the air before it hit his skin, immediately raising a one and a half inch wide welt across his ribs. The blow took his breath away and he couldn't even scream - he curled up into a ball around his injured ribs, with a strangled gasp of pain.

"I don't know how you made him do it, or why," John grunted and swung the belt again, this time catching Sam across the left shoulder. There was the sharp snap of leather striking skin, and this time he let out a cry of pain - that blow had been harder, drawing blood. When John kicked him in the ribs again, throwing him over onto his back, the wound left scarlet smears on the entryway floor.

"But it stops, now. I'm going to make sure it never fucking happens again." John whipped Sam across the chest again. And over and over again after that. When Sam would curl up, he'd hit him across the back and shoulders. When he tried to crawl away, John kicked him some more - in the ribs, in the kidneys, and even a couple of glancing blows to the head. He kicked hard, too, putting his entire body into each shot.

Sam was only semi-conscious when John grabbed him by the hair again and dragged him out of the entryway and into the front bedroom. He didn't even realise they were moving until John pulled him roughly to his feet and tossed him face first onto the big old bed. The ancient box springs squealed in protest as he landed hard, limp as a rag doll, and John shut the bedroom door behind them. Sam heard a click as he turned the lock.

He groaned, trying to turn over onto his back and get the pressure off his injured ribs. He was bruised and bleeding from more than a dozen different lacerations all over his body, at least a few of which were on his face - he could see the blood on the floral bedspread when he opened his eyes. It stood out amongst the green leaves and the yellow petals of the roses.

"Tell you what, Sammy - since you like cock so much, I'm gonna give you some."

Sam froze, wide eyes staring at the bedspread. Surely he hadn't heard that right. Those words hadn't just come out of his father's mouth.

Without his belt it was easy for John to pull his youngest son's jeans off. They were on the floor almost before Sam could muster a scream for help, but the house was so far back from the street and the neighbourhood so empty that he knew with a cold, stomach-twisting certainty that it didn't matter. No-one was going to hear him anyway.

Sam had no choice but to stop screaming when John put a knee between his shoulder blades and knelt on him. He couldn't breathe, and he had to let John pull his underwear off too. The crushing pressure on his back didn't let up until John had gagged him with his own boxer shorts, shoving them so far into his mouth that Sam nearly choked.

"Shut up. Nobody's coming to save you, you little whore." John viciously twisted one arm up behind his back, bringing fresh tears to Sam's eyes. He struggled to suck in enough oxygen through his bloody nose, and the musty scent of the long-stored bed linen filled his nostrils.

Through the heartbeat thudding in his ears and his fast, ragged breathing, Sam heard the sound of a zipper being undone. He knew what was coming next and he bucked hard, almost on instinct, desperately trying one last time to get loose. But he just wasn't strong enough, and John responded by twisting his arm further up between his shoulder blades, pressing him down harder onto the bed.

Sam cried out and arched his back, trying to take some of the pressure off his wrist, but John twisted it further still. There was a sudden explosion of hot pain in his wrist and he screamed again, but the sound was so muffled by the gag that even someone just outside the door might not have heard it.

Red dots appeared in the darkness behind Sam's closed eyelids as he struggled to breathe through the pain, but he got the message loud and clear. He forced himself to stop struggling, and after what seemed like an eternity John finally released some of the pressure on his arm.

Sam relaxed a little and tried to take a deep breath, but the gag got in the way and his bruised ribs protested viciously. He felt John leaning over him and did his best to stay as still as he possibly could, even though his skin was crawling and every fibre of his being wanted to fight like hell to get away.

"You deserve this," John whispered, his lips just centimetres from Sam's ear. He didn't sound angry so much as he sounded… pleased. Like he was enjoying this.

Even as he turned away, squeezing his eyes shut and biting down on the gag, Sam listened desperately for the sound of a motorbike in the driveway, or the front door opening on its squeaky hinges, or even the phone ringing - anything. But all he heard was John spitting into his palm, and his stomach twisted; obviously, that was all the lube he was going to get.

A hand clamped down like a vice on the back of Sam's neck, pushing his face into the bedspread, and a knee roughly pried his legs apart. He didn't get a chance to adjust or to stretch out - John just pushed down hard on his back and forced his way inside, as deep as he could go, and Sam couldn't even get enough air into his lungs to scream.