Title: "Non Illigitimi Vincit"
Rating: R
Disclaimer: Please feed me. D:
Contains: Sam/Dean, John/Dean (non!con), ratbastard!John, child abuse, child neglect, underage
Summary: Sam doesn't know which scares him more—Dean's quick, shuddering inhalations as he fights to keep from whimpering (don't wake Sammy, don't let him know) or the look in his father's eyes.
Sam and Dean know that anything in John Winchester's hands can serve as a weapon, from the Zippo lighter he's kept in his pocket since he was a Marine to the worn leather belt he wears every day.
The night after being attacked by the Shtriga, Sam wakes up to harsh whispers coming through the cracked open door. Rubbing at his eyelids with the sleeve of his dingy pajamas, Sam presses his eye against the sliver of light coming from the small motel kitchenette. He can see Dean spread across the table on his back, palms flat against the cold surface and jeans tugged down to his knees. John flicks open the lighter carelessly and holds the flame to the inside of his eldest's thigh almost nonchalantly, until the flesh erupts into brilliant, white-hot blisters, fine blonde hairs burning black and acrid.
Sam doesn't know which scares him more—Dean's quick, shuddering inhalations as he fights to keep from whimpering (don't wake Sammy, don't let him know) or the look in his father's eyes.
"You make me want to do this," John hisses. And Dean just nods, like he already knows.
//
Dean is eleven when he gets caught shoplifting for the first time. Just as he reaches the automatic doors (almost there, almost there), a cashier catches him with one foot outside and a loaf of Wonderbread and a jar of peanut butter stuffed down the front of his anorak, the zipper pulled up to his chin. And of course, he can't tell them that his father spent all of their money on ammo.
He can't tell them that his little brother cried when he had to eat canned SpaghettiOs® for the sixth night in a row.
He can't tell them that he stopped eating two days ago.
So when the store managers lead him through the office door marked "Employees Only" and gently ask why he was stealing food, Dean just smiles weakly to hide the quiver in his jaw and whispers through the lump in his throat, "Youthful rebellion?"
They call Children's Services, anyway. John cleans like a madman, buys enough food for a month, and even makes Sam draw some pictures to stick onto the refrigerator with magnets in the shape of letters (like Sammy had always wanted). When the social worker arrives, John smiles at all of the right times, ruffles Dean's hair, and as he holds the door for her to leave, apologizes for making her come out all this way for nothing. But as soon as the door is shut and locked, John slithers the belt off from around his hips, listening for the rumble of the social worker's car to fade into the night. Dean slips his shirt off of his shoulders, leaving it neatly folded over the edge of the couch, and he kneels on the hardwood floor with his head down. He knows the drill.
Clenching his teeth with every bite of leather against his bare back, Dean trains his eyes on Sam, still sitting on the other side of the living room with his abandoned box of crayons, and forces a pained grin across his features (I'm alright, it's okay, don't cry, Sammy, please). This is his punishment for getting caught.
"You deserve this," John grunts. He accentuates each word with a sharp stroke of the lash, until the leather darkens with blood that pools and clings in between the peeling cracks.
Dean is just thankful that Sam will eat, tonight.
//
Anything in John Winchester's hands can be a weapon, including his own dick. One Halloween, he comes home, tongue heavy with alcohol, and stumbles into Dean's room.
"You're so beautiful," John slurs, pressing slim, writhing hips into the mattress with force enough for his palms to drain bloodless and white. Sam covers his ears and pretends that the walls are thicker.
Sam is sixteen when he starts leaving the door unlocked for Dean to slip in during the night, leaving their father to sleep alone in his firstborn's bed. With slight, scrutinous fingers, Sam traces the swollen bruises that blossom across Dean's throat, caresses the scarred ridges across his back, and kisses the plains of smooth, pink blisters across his thighs, reclaiming his brother. Trailing his lips farther down, Sam sucks away the last traces of John from Dean's body.
Unhesitatingly, he presses one of Dean's hands against the front of his shorts. Dean pulls Sam up to brush a kiss to the corner of his mouth, eyes slipping shut in something like relief ("You make me want to do this").
To the unrelenting rhythm of their father's snores, Sam slowly lowers himself onto Dean's cock, and Dean gasps deep and slow, pupils blown and infinite against the green of his irises ("You deserve this").
Hips arching, Dean buries his face into the side of his brother's neck, and Sam does the same. They come like that, blinded by each other ("You're so beautiful").
Everything in John's hands turns to filth,
but everything Sam touches turns to gold.
//end.