It started with domestic bliss.
That was the first sign, almost the smallest of hints that Dean was in his downward spiral into self deprivation. Other hints followed; brief, but frequent eye contact and touches so light, they could've passed as accidental. He talked less and stayed up longer, almost all night.
Dean complicated everything. Giving his son what he wanted brought horrendous guilt. The worst of it was, John thought as he pulled the napkin onto his lap and watched Dean set the casserole dish on the hot plate at the center of the table, his son never got better. He would leave tonight, disappear for months and come back as if nothing happened. They would be fine for weeks and even months, but it was an unbreakable loop.
John scooped his food first as Sam came into the kitchen and dropped into a chair. The sixteen year old was vibrant. He lacked an interest in being a hunter, but he had the Winchester aggression that he used on the football field.
"I know it's a little early, but I want to hit up the library tomorrow and start researching universities with the best programs," Sam said. He heaped a third of the food onto his plate and immediately dug in.
"That's a good idea," John said. Sam openly held his gaze, then turned to look at Dean. A thought ticked the center of Sam's forward, making his brows furrow. How much were they actually hiding from Sam? The kid was far too aware of people.
Sam watched Dean closely. "Do you want to go to the library with me? Hot moms drop their children off for tutor sessions, so you can get a few numbers."
Dean chuckled, but the humor never reached his eyes. "Yeah, sure. I have nothing else to do."
He'll be gone in the morning, John thought when Dean's fingers brushed his while passing the bread basket. He couldn't save him. He never knew what was going on in his oldest son's mind. What triggered these bouts of reckless behaviors?
When dinner was over, he helped pile dishes into the sink and waited until Sam was in the living room with the television blaring. He watched Dean move the dishes around. He wanted to say something, anything, to find the connection that would make their plight less empty. He opened his mouth and Dean sensed a conversation coming. His shoulders bunched. In the last ten minutes he hadn't looked up.
John backed off. Anything he said at that very moment would prolong Dean's chance at immediately going into his cycle of recovery, no matter how short it was. It was another unspoken rule. No comfort. No questions. No concern.
He went into his bedroom and undressed, dropping everything into the clothes bin. He rummaged through his dresser until he found his favorite age, threadbare sweatpants. He'd been ready to give them away, except, they were the closest thing to nudity, since the fabric was too thin to hold body heat during the winter. His shirt was equally threadbare, ensuring that he could feel the heat from Dean's palms if he touched him. It was clothes on, all the time. It kept his mind from completely abandoning the fact that their nightly union was taboo.
Eventually, the television was turned off. He heard Sam and Dean talking in the hallway, and then there was silence. He waited. Sometimes it took hours for Dean to decide; and sometimes only minutes.
Tonight was becoming long. He counted from the start everything that plagued him. When Mary was murdered, the biggest aspect of his life was thrown into the hunt. There was always something to chase, to salt and burn. This became routine until a new personal demon popped into existence the year Dean turned seventeen. For the last four years they continued this route. This very skittish creature was utterly beautiful; a true closet submissive, with eyes that sometimes went utterly empty when he was in a manic episode.
The door slid open and Dean stood barefoot in the hallway, wearing sweatpants and a shirt. He didn't move and John didn't tell him to come it. If he stepped out of the room, it meant he'd be okay for another couple of weeks. If he stepped in and closed the door, it would mean they would go through this silent dance that left John frustrated and Dean 'missing in action' for an unknown length of time.
Dean closed the door. In the quiet, he could hear the young man breathing. Jesus. They were going to do this. He was utterly terrified by the amount of sheer joy erupting in his brain. His shaft hardened and pressed against the fabric holding it in. He was addicted to Dean's restless nights. It was wrong. Heaven help him, he knew he was wrong for letting this happen. They needed to find the root of Dean's real problems because he sure as hell wasn't contributing to the solution.
The bed dipped when Dean laid on his side facing away from him. John remained on his back and counted a Hail Mary for five more sins before reaching across the bed to tap his best kept secret's hip. Second most important decision for the night was quickly settled. Dean turned to face him and John stayed motionless. Dean threw a leg over his side, straddling him mid-air as John adjusted his cock so the strained fabric would keep his aching bulge flat against his stomach.
Dean lowered himself and searched for the angle he wanted. John swallowed the moan that quickly turned into a growl of pure pleasure. It was a burning furnace of heat between his thighs. He could flip them, take his child by the hips and demonstrate his long field of experience with the human body. No touching Dean, because that would be a rule breaker and Dean made him aware of the rules through trial and error. Tonight, he wanted no errors.
He despised that rule. The younger man clearly had no idea how to initiate in the hush of privacy.
John opened his legs a fraction wider for comfort. The adjustment forced Dean's hips wider which threw him off balance, drawing him forward. He instinctually breathed in the familiar scent of an auto shop and sun-baked leather car seats. Before he could kiss his parted lips, Dean pushed away from him, gripping his chest for leverage. It killed him.
His eldest son started rolling his hips in long, fluid motion, letting their arousal smolder. John's breath hitched. He bit back all the nasty things he wanted to whisper into Dean's ear; half promises and half unadulterated filth.
He tucked his hands behind his head to keep from responding to the nails now digging into his pectoral muscles. Their hips met with brutal, feverish proposal, yet it would never go farther than this, because that meant bare skin against bare skin. It didn't need to be spoken; Dean was afraid.
He wanted to adjust him, so badly. He wanted to take his hips and guide the movement because, though hard, Dean was careful never to get off. He would buck his hips, trapping John's shaft between his hot thighs and rubbing until that slow building, electric heat sparked in John's pelvis. There was no denying how hungry he was for this. John closed his eyes, letting the wave of pleasure draw through him. He arched in growing protest as he reached his climax.
Dean let his air out slowly and John knew, without a doubt, that Dean starved off his orgasm. He held back.
There was no touching. No cuddling afterwards. There were never any words.
Dean crawled right off the bed and silently left the room. John glanced at the alarm clock. He played with the idea of staying up to follow Dean and see where he went for the following months after they did this, but… he didn't want to risk making the situation worse if Dean spotted him.