Dean woke to the sound of somebody stumbling into the ratty motel room. Curses were spewed as the person bumped into various items that were scattered across the room. Dean gripped the .45 that was under the pillow, readying himself to fire at the intruder if he needed to. The bedside lamp clicked on, illuminating the sickly green walls and stained bed sheets. He glanced over at the intruder, seeing that it was just his father. He was stumbling around and discarding his clothes. Dean rolled to his side, facing away and pretending to sleep. He could smell the smoke and alcohol that clung to his father's skin and spread around the room like an aura. The bed shifted and he felt his father's arm wrap around his waist.
"Where's Sammy?" Dean thought to himself before remembering that he was at Stanford trying to live a 'normal' life. His father shifted closer, his stubble scratching along Dean's back and neck. He felt his father's lips against his skin. It sickened Dean to even think about what was happening. John's hands moved along Dean's chest, one hand lifting the t-shirt and the other hand pushing past the elastic of Dean's pants and boxers. John's rough, calloused hands caressed Dean's cold, smooth skin.
"Dad! Stop!" Dean cried out as his shirt was being discarded. His struggling proved to be useless against the strength John maintained. It only made the fact that Dean's twenty-two year old body was defenseless against John's forty-two sink deeper into Dean's mind.
John mumbled incoherent words as he flipped Dean to his back. One hand pinned Dean's hands above his head while the other worked on removing the rest of his clothing. Dean could feel John's lips continue to graze over his skin, chills running the length of his spine. He felt his pants and boxers being removed with a swift motion before warmth covered his cock. John's head bobbed up and down along Dean, his tongue flicking over the slit repeatedly. Dean choked back both sobs and moans.
He was then flipped onto his stomach. It happened as quickly as a wendigo moves in the forest. He placed his head on his arms when he felt John line up with his entrance. With no preparation or warning, John thrusted into Dean. He held back a scream, biting into his arm until he tasted the familiar iron.
John's thrusts were fast, deep, and rough. Tears spilled from Dean's eyes as he moved his mouth along his arms to unbitten areas to mark them instead of screaming from the pain he was in. He felt John violate him more with each buck of his hips. His fingernails dug into Dean's back, inching their way down slowly until they reached his hips. When they did, John roughly gripped his hips as the moans and gasps of pleasure filled the room.
A harsh pull on Dean's shoulder made him lift his head and cry out, letting the floodgates open as he sobbed. John's thrusts started to become more erratic, his hands hitting and gripping the flesh on Dean's back. Each of John's moans ripped Dean to the core, the simple fact of knowing that John was enjoying what was happening. Dean knew that the emotional damage was far worse than the physical.
With a few more thrusts, Dean felt John cum inside of him before collapsing to the side. Dean felt used and dirty when he got up a few minutes later to the sound of John's snores. He glanced down at the man who used to be his father, seeing the blood that had run down his legs and spotted in large quantities on the bed. He managed to walk to the bathroom on weak and sore legs, locking the door behind him.
He turned the shower on with nothing but the hot water running. Steam was already starting to fill the room when he carefully stepped in. He wasted no time with scrubbing himself raw with one of the dingy motel washcloths and the cheap soap that came with it. He managed to rub every inch of his already broken body raw. All he was trying to do was wash the memory and the evidence down the drain.
He leaned against the shower wall, letting the now-cold water spray against his sensitive skin. Tears fell down his cheeks as he started sliding down the wall to the fetal position.
"Help me," he softly cried as he started rocking back and forth. "God, don't let him hurt me again." He wasn't sure if God even existed, let alone was listening to him. It seemed that bad things always happened if your last name was Winchester. All he wanted was a normal life where there were no demons; he could have a normal life where he could sleep without rape coming to his mind. With the shower still spraying on his broken body, he fell into a deep sleep.