ON THE RUN
CHAPTER ONE
Dean stood, leaning forward with his head bowed, feeling spray from the shower head pummel the back of his skull. He watched the water sheet down his chest, steam heavy in his lungs. He shifted his weight to his left palm, splayed flat on the wall, and allowed the right to follow the stream, gliding along the uniform swell of his pectoral muscle to tumble over the white water of his ribcage before dipping into the ravine formed by the union of his right and left abdominal muscles.
His erection was there, proud and strong, waiting for him, and he sighed as he curled his fist around it. Stroked once, twice...the same pace, same pressure he'd used his whole life.
It didn't feel the same.
He closed his eyes, jaw clenching, and leaned his wet forehead against the back of his left hand. Water scalded its way down his back.
He concentrated, struggling to find the right thread of thought, the right memory, the right...anything.
Fuck!
He squeezed viciously, teeth bared, bending his hardness in an attempt to relieve the pressure.
Pushing up, he switched hands, pausing to soap the left. "Like a blind date," he muttered, trying again.
Nothing.
He allowed his hand to slide lower, palm cradling his swollen scrotum, less for pleasure than to alleviate the ache.
"Too young for this," yet there it was.
Damned succubus, but he knew that wasn't it, because this had started days before, and the only thing that gave him hope was the memory of what the succubus had been able to coax out of him. Something he hadn't been able to do for himself in weeks.
"Cowboys don't really sleep with their boots on, Dean."
Bile rose in his throat.
He was flaccid before he even reached for the towel.
"Some hunter."
There was no one to disagree.
"You leave me any hot water, jerk?" The younger Winchester's bearing was simultaneously challenging and wounded.
"Prob'ly." The pang of regret dissolved within a pool of shame.
Sam stalked past him, deliberately knocking shoulders. "I got school this morning, you know."
"Get up earlier then."
"Fricken' crickets don't get up as early as you these days, Dean." His eyes narrowed. "Maybe you should learn to jack off quicker."
Dean rolled his eyes as he pawed through his duffle. "Nice one, Sammy."
His brother snorted and slammed the bathroom door.
Dean found the pair of socks he'd been searching for, sniffed them to make certain they were clean, then perched on the edge of the bed to pull them on. "Tell me we're actually gonna go hunt something today. Room's startin' to feel like a friggin' prison cell."
"Tell me you'll quit putting your brother in a pissy mood right before he goes to school." John sat at the table, reading glasses in place, intent on the mess spread out in front of him.
Dean snorted. "He wouldn't need so much hot water if he'd cut his damn hair, quit lookin' like a girl."
John shot a glare over his glasses. Dean was making his bed, back to his father, and the look was wasted on him. The hunter returned to his research. "You do spend an awfully long time in the shower lately."
"Got a big dick. Takes longer."
John set his pen down with a thump that drew a flinch from his older son, but the younger hunter continued straightening blankets as if nothing had happened.
"There somethin' you wanna say to me, Dean?" It was a familiar challenge, and a warning to either tone it down or face the consequences.
Dean dropped onto the freshly made bed with an irritated huff. "I'm just sick of doing a whole lot of nothing! We're only an hour from Dr. Kim - "
"And I've told you we've got someone else on her. Someone she doesn't recognize on sight. So far she is showing no signs of being a succubus, or any other kind of monster, for that matter. She's human, Dean, until proven otherwise."
"Well why don't we go hunt something else, then? Why this freakin' obsession when there aren't even any bodies on the ground?" Dean's tone was becoming strident as his frustration found its voice.
"You know why, Dean. It may have your DNA, doing God knows what with it, and we need to -"
"What? Get it back? It's been two damned weeks. You don't think they've done whatever the hell they were gonna do by now? Why don't you just admit that we're staying here so you can get your rocks off with Caroline?"
The abrupt silence was oppressive. Dean watched his father fight for control.
Oh, shit.
"In the car, now," the older man finally ground out.
Dean stood, legs suddenly shaky. "Where - ?"
"Training. There's a stadium at Sammy's school."
Dean picked up his bag, reaching inside.
"What are you doing?" The elder Winchester's voice rolled like thunder across the room, and Dean felt the hair on the back of his neck rise.
"Changing." He held up a bundled pair of gray sweat pants.
"Jeans and boots, Dean."
Fuck. Dean sighed, stuffing his preferred work out clothes back into his bag.
"What's that, Dean?"
"I said, 'Yes, sir'," he intoned by rote, then headed out to the car.
After ten laps around the track and finishing his twentieth on the risers, Dean's legs gave out. He knelt, bracing himself on a seat while he dry-heaved onto the grass. 'Least I made it down this time.
John crossed to him. "That was twenty." He held out a water bottle. "Small sips."
Dean took it, grateful, and sipped when he could stop panting long enough to swallow. "Piece...of...cake," he huffed between breaths.
John grunted. "Jacket and flannel off. Push-ups next. You got one minute."
Dean struggled to remove the sweat-soaked garments. His entire t-shirt was a shade darker than when he'd put it on that morning. His jeans clung to him. He flopped onto his back, arms spread wide on the cool grass. "How many?"
"'Til you're done."
"Shit."
"Keep it up, boy, and I'll keep addin' on. We've got - " he checked the watch on his wrist - "another five-plus hours to kill until Sammy's done with school."
Dean dropped an arm over his face. This has gotta be some sort of child abuse. 'Cept I ain't exactly a child anymore.
"Minute's up. Take a drink, and let's go."
"Winchester push-ups, I assume."
John's grin was savage. "No better." He waited until his son was in position. "Down and hold….up. Down and hold…..up. Down and up for five. Diamond position. Down and hold….up."
This continued, pauses holding Dean's chest suspended just off the ground for varying lengths of time, hand positions changing, and alternating between one- and two-handed styles, all cycling repetitively until the young hunter's arms collapsed.
John could see the tremor's in the boy's triceps and shoulders.
"Gonna need help wipin' my ass for the next week."
John scowled. "Wall sit. Now."
Dean groaned, arms visibly shaking as he forced himself to his feet. "I hate wall sits."
"And I hate insubordination. Now move."
He'd fallen and been ordered back into place three times before his father decided to move on. "Hand targets. Let's go."
Dean rolled his eyes. "Seriously? I can barely move!"
John, on the other hand, moved so fast that the words were still hanging in the air when Dean found himself pinned to the wall, his father's face close enough to flavor Dean's existence with the fragrance of coffee and toothpaste. "Did you roll your fucking eyes at me?"
The man's lips barely moved, and the sound was as deeply terrifying as a growl heard from behind while standing in a night-dark wood.
Dean swallowed hard. What the hell are you doing, Winchester? "N-I mean: Sorry. Sorry, sir."
John shoved away from his son, pointing to the open field. "Get your gloves on."
Dean gave him an inquisitive look, not daring to ask about the change in plans. He wasn't normally afforded the luxury of gloves when he worked the targets.
"We're sparring."
Dread uncurled itself languorously in Dean's chest.
"Take the grappling gloves." A merciful concession, leaving John the heavy ones.
Fine tremors worked through Dean's limbs, and he wondered if he should even bother trying, knowing he was going to get his ass handed to him either way.
But he was a Winchester, and Winchesters never give in. "This is when it counts, Boy," his father's gruff voice reminded him. "The trainin' you do when you feel like you can't move anymore, that's the trainin' that does the most good."
So Dean lifted arms trembling with fatigue, determined to prove something to both of them.
John circled, light on the balls of his feet, moving like the boxer who'd trained him. Dean held the center, watching for an opening, letting instinct and nearly two decades of practice guide him.
He dodged a jab, blocked a cross, and turned his hip into a knee before catching a hook to the body that sent him to the ground, winded. In a flash John had his son face down on the turf, arm around his neck, straddling the boy's hips with the younger man's spine arched. "You ready to tap, Son?"
A cruel hand jerks his head back, replacing the cloth that he had somehow rid himself of, fisting it at the back of his skull, pulling it tight, keeping his spine bowed painfully -
"No!" John instinctively loosened his grip, the panic in Dean's voice startling him. The man beneath him turned feral, bucking and twisting, teeth bared, and John scrambled away, curling to cover his face with both arms as Dean followed, eyes inhuman, swinging viciously.
"Dean! Stand down!"
The boy stumbled back before falling to his knees, chest heaving, blinking sanity back into his eyes.
John uncoiled. "What the hell was that?"
Dean looked away, shaking his head. "I don't know, sir. I don't know."
His mind screams and he panics and the man above him pulls harder on the bridle of Dean's gag -
"I'm sorry."
John stood, unlacing his gloves as he assessed the creature before him. "Too much adrenaline, maybe. Let's call it a day."
They held their silence all the way back to the motel. "Go ice down," the elder Winchester ordered. "I'll grab some food and pick up Sammy."
"Yes, Sir." Dean stifled a groan for already stiffening muscles as he unfolded himself from the car.
"Nice job out there today, Cowboy," and with that one word, the young hunter was right back where he'd started -
"Cowboys don't really sleep with their boots on, Dean," -
weak, worthless, and ashamed.
