Title: Paint it Black 3/9
Pairing: John/Dean
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 3210
Disclaimer: If only John and Dean were mine... *sigh*
Warning: Drug abuse, Sexual abuse, Violence
Summary: Dean's been keeping secrets. His family's not sure how to deal with that.
A/N: Yay! It's finally been beta'ed! Thanks to wickedlilwitch over on Livejournal, who finally recuperated from Unrelated. If there are mistakes, blame her. J/k! Any mistakes are my fault as always.
Chapter Three
Seven Years Ago…
It was always hard to say no to your kids. It was even harder when that kid had been awake for five days straight shaking, sweating and vomiting. He was still sweating, which told John that he wasn't dehydrated, thanks to the IV. He'd even been able to get Caleb to bring him some fresh bags with vitamins, minerals and antioxidants in the fluids.
It didn't help that he was starting to worry about this strategy. Most people didn't know it, but a person could actually die from lack of sleep. That, coupled with how exhausting the fever and shaking had to be, was taxing the hell out of Dean's system. His son was young, healthy and strong… but even the strongest heart could give out under these circumstances.
He and Dean had both long since abandoned getting dressed every day. They both usually ended up soaked with Dean's sweat and other, far less sanitary body fluids. It was easier to just slip off their boxers, take a quick shower and slip on a fresh pair if they needed to. People talked about how painful withdrawal was, but nobody ever mentioned that it was also pretty damn disgusting.
Right now, he was spooned behind the boy, soaked with Dean's sweat and holding on to his wrists so he wouldn't keep scratching like he was trying to rip his skin off. The boy's legs were trembling. John had long since realized that there wasn't much he could do about any of it. Well, there was one thing.
"Please, Dad. Please. I'm so damn tired. Just give me enough to sleep. Just for a couple o' hours. Just like half a tablet or somethin'."
"I got rid of it all," he said, kicking himself once again for doing that. "And I'm not leavin' you alone to get more. I… if it's not any better tonight, I'll take you to the hospital, okay? They'll give you somethin' to let you rest." He gripped the boy's wrists with one hand and placed the other over the boy's heart. It was beating too fast.
"Dad…"
"I know. I'm sorry kiddo. So… did I ever tell you about my last hunt?"
Dean snorted softly. "Only 'bout six times."
"How about that 'shifter down in Memphis?"
"At least a dozen."
"Damn. I guess I need new material."
"Tell me somethin' about Mom."
The question made the breath catch in John's throat. He'd given up on hoping that thinking about his wife would hurt less with time. He forced a deep breath into his lungs. "Yeah. Okay. The first time I ever saw your mother…"
SPN*SPN*SPN*SPN
John was pretty sure Dean was delirious. It was the first time he'd fallen asleep in almost six days. It wouldn't be the first time exhaustion and prolonged fever led to delirium. John had fallen into an exhausted sleep next to him, the silence and stillness of his (finally) sleeping son putting him right out. He woke up to Dean rubbing himself against John's thigh, making the most delicious noises. The heat of Dean's hard on against his bare leg, even through the boy's boxers, almost made him hyperventilate. Shit.
"Please fuck me," Dean whispered against his jaw. The boy's skin felt damp, but it wasn't the sickly wetness of fever.
John felt suddenly lightheaded. He'd known that Dean was bisexual before the boy had figured it out himself, knew that he occasionally went out to fuck men rather than women. But for some reason he'd always pictured Dean as a top, and the idea that other men had actually been inside his son was both turning him on and pissing him off. He tried to push the boy away. "Dean…"
Dean's arms around him were like fucking bands of iron and the boy wasn't budging. "Please. I can be good for you."
"Son… it's me… it's your father."
"Need you. Please."
Dean somehow managed to elude all John's attempts to create more distance between them and pressed their groins together, seeking friction. John groaned when he felt Dean's hard cock slid against his own, and realized for the first time that he was just as hard. Dean's entire body somehow ended up pressed against his despite all his efforts. All that hot soft skin and hard muscle pressing against him undid his resolve. The feeling of their erections moving against through the thin cotton of their boxers as Dean rolled his hips shorted out his higher thought processes. Wanting to have sex with your son and actually doing it were two different things. One was sick, the other was evil. This was wrong on so many levels. A violation of his son's trust. The kid had no idea it was him… But John's panic was being suffocated by lust. Before he knew it they were kissing. John wanted to stop it, knew he should stop it… but it felt so damn good and the boy's mouth was so damn sweet.
His son was still making the most amazing noises. He never wanted it to stop, even though he knew it inevitably would, knew how it would, and that he'd never forgive himself when that happened. The hands on Dean's thighs meant to push him away were suddenly pulling him closer. The boy kissed him again and this time he didn't hesitate to kiss back. Every nerve in his body tingled as they rutted and tongue fucked each other desperately. It was the most alive he'd felt in so damn long. He came too soon, and Dean came right after him with a sound that was somewhere between a whimper and a groan. The boy went lax against him, falling asleep almost immediately and leaving John alone with his guilt.
John eased his way out of Dean's embrace and cleaned himself up in the bathroom, avoiding his reflection the entire time. He wanted to do the same for Dean… but something about touching him down there, after what he'd just done, turned his stomach. The very idea made him feel like he'd be committing an even worse violation. So he lay down next to his son and stared at him, wondering where the hell this train had started going off its tracks. He reviewed every time he'd been wrong, every miscalculation, every misstep. It was a damn long list. He fell asleep about halfway through it.
The next day, Dean didn't seem to remember anything about the night before other than think he'd had an embarrassing wet dream. John let him believe it because it was a damn sight better than the truth of what had happened, what he'd done to his own boy. Dean was sore and irritable and still shaky. But he was sober. John was determined that he was going to stay that way. He found him his first NA meeting before the end of the day and dropped him off. He made his son promise to find a sponsor within a week and for the next 90 days, no matter where they were or how busy he was, he made sure that Dean went to a meeting every day.
But John never forgot the night that he'd crossed the line as a father and he was sure that he'd never forgive himself. Never forget looking down at his son afterwards and seeing his lips swollen and spit slick, and knowing he'd done that. It was a burden he was determined to bear alone. Dean had enough to shoulder already. He didn't need to know that his father couldn't be trusted.
SPN*SPN*SPN*SPN
Dean had just come home from his fourteenth NA meeting. He was eating SpaghettiOs straight from the can. John was angry, had spent the entire time driving to pick the boy up and driving them back home trying to calm himself down enough to handle this without yelling. He wasn't sure he'd make it. Dean seemed sense his mood and seemed to be trying to keep out of his way. He tried to remind himself that what he'd done just a short while ago was far worse, but it wasn't working.
"I'm pretty sure you're supposed to cook that," he pointed out.
Dean shrugged and shoveled in another spoonful. "I kinda like it like this."
John nodded and traced invisible circles on the kitchen table. "So… when exactly was the last time you went to school?"
Dean froze, the spoon halfway to his mouth. "What do you mean?"
"I stopped by the high school after I dropped you off at NA thinkin' I'd pick up your school work, let 'em know you didn't fall down a deep dark hole never to be found again and that you would be back in another week or two. You know, the whole father routine. Imagine my surprise when they said they'd never heard of you."
He dropped the spoon inside the half empty can. He ran his tongue between his bottom lip and his teeth. "It's been a while."
"Define a while, Dean."
The boy sighed and looked pale. He wasn't just avoiding John's eyes. He was avoiding looking at him altogether. "Two years."
John gapped at his son, unable to speak. Unable to comprehend what he was being told. "I coulda swore I just heard you say two years."
Dean swallowed convulsively and looked everywhere in the room but John, his eyes darting around like he was trying to map out an escape route. "Yeah."
John covered his mouth with a hand. He'd thought it was a good thing that they let kids register themselves in high school. All he needed to do was give Dean his old records and it helped the kid feel more like an adult… "Wait… where the hell did you get your old records? Obviously, you weren't gettin' from your old school since you weren't even registered."
"I… I forged them."
"God." John buried his face in his hands. The room was so quiet he could actually hear the clock on the wall above the refrigerator ticking. If the memories of all the times Dean came home with stories about school weren't making him sick, he'd probably be laughing. "Maybe it would be easier if I asked what you haven't lied to me about." Dean flinched, and he wanted to feel bad about it, but he couldn't make himself. "Why Dean? What the hell were you doin' when you were supposed to be at school?"
Dean shrugged. "Drinkin' mostly. Especially at first. Smoked a little weed. Did a few other… a few other drugs, mostly laced in the weed. Then last year someone gave me some Oxy, and… at first it was just a little every once in a while. Forty milligrams. Then it was once a day. Then it was twice. They're expensive, so when I… when I got hooked, I spent a lot to time hustlin', tryin' to scrap together enough for a day or two's worth."
John couldn't believe this. When had he become one of those parents whose kids were hanging out in abandoned buildings all day getting high while they were too damn busy to notice? "Did you steal for it?"
The boy bit his lip and nodded. "But not from you," he added quickly. "I never stole from you, I swear."
"Except the Oxy from the kit, right?" John reminded him. He was so sick of the lies and the secrets and the half-truths and the fucking letting him assume things that were six different kinds of off base.
"I put that back, all of it."
"So you think it's not stealing if you take something without permission just 'cause you put it back?" Dean bit his lip again, but didn't answer. "How about prostitution?"
"Dad…"
"Answer the damn question, Dean! Did you sell yourself for drugs?" Just asking the question made him feel like he was going to be sick. He didn't really want to know but he had to.
Dean blinked at tears. "A couple times, when I couldn't get enough money. It was just…" He opened his mouth and closed it again. "It was just… a few blow jobs." He let out a breath that sounded suspiciously like a sob and wiped his eyes with his shirt sleeve. "That's why I took the pills from the kit. I hated… doin' that. I… I didn't wanna… It just got so expensive it was hard to get enough money without… "
"And then there's all the lying."
"I'm sorry."
"Were you at least safe? Did you use condoms?"
"With the… those times I…?"
"All the damn time, Dean," John said a little more sharply than he meant to. As hard as it was for Dean to talk about prostituting himself, it was just as hard for him to hear it. "Even when it wasn't for… Even when it wasn't to get drugs. Do I need to take you to get tested?"
Dean licked at his lips and picked at the label of the SpaghettiO can. The tears were falling freely now. He finally nodded.
"Oh, Dean," John sighed out. His anger bled right out of him as the realization of how much Dean had endangered himself finally caught up to him, leaving him feeling tired and hollow. What was his son doing to himself? What if he had a disease, something that couldn't be cured? What if he had AIDS?
"Do you want me to leave?" Dean's voice sounded flat and lifeless. Was that what this constant leaving shit was really about? Was he so terrified of John tossing him out on his ass when all his lies came unraveled that he was trying to beat him to the punch? Or was he using it as a thermometer to figure out when John had finally had enough of it all? When his father finally gave up on him, when his love wouldn't be enough to cover the multitude of his sins anymore?
John sighed and moved his chair closer to put a hand on his boy's head. Dean flinched but didn't pull away. That flinch hurt though. He'd never raised a hand to either of his sons. "Dean… I told you already. I will fight for you until my last god damn breath. I swear, I will never give up on you. I just… you have to understand that I can't trust you the way I used to anymore. I don't know when I will be able to again." That was probably the thing that hurt the worst. He couldn't trust his first born son anymore.
It seemed to hurt Dean just as much. The look the boy gave him was heartbreaking. "How can I make this right?"
"You're gonna get your GED, for starters. And you're gonna start bein' where you say you're gonna be when you say you're gonna be there. No exceptions. All the lying stops. The letting me assume one thing when the truth is really that something very different is going on ends. All of it, right now."
The boy nodded. "Okay. Are… does Sammy have to know?"
John was starting to suspect that this tendency to want to hide things – from him, from Sam – wasn't a good thing. Maybe it was even a destructive thing. Jim had warned him. Addicts lie. No matter who they were before the addiction or how trustworthy they'd been in the past. They all lie. He hadn't wanted to really believe it at the time. After all, this was Dean. His responsible, dependable Dean. "We're not lyin' to your brother, Dean. We don't have to tell him every detail, but we don't lie to family."
SPN*SPN*SPN*SPN
One Week Ago…
"I know you both said it was a hunt, but was it Dad? That did this to you?" Sam and Dean were both standing in Sam's tiny kitchen. Even though he seemed like a shell of the man Sam remembered, everything still felt smaller with Dean around.
"That did what to me, Sam?"
The fine hairs on the back of his neck stood up. Sam wasn't afraid of his brother, exactly. Dean wouldn't hesitate to punch him, and punch him damn hard, if he thought he deserved it. And without a shred of remorse later. But Sam knew how to take a punch. Even the ones Dean dished out, though he suspected that Dean could hit much harder. To be honest, he really did deserve it about 95 percent of the time. Sometimes he pushed Dean's buttons just like he pushed John's, and when your family's coping skills consisted of pushing back (John) or throwing punches (Dean) when the right buttons were pushed what could you really expect? So the possibility of Dean hitting him didn't scare him. The edge of warning in Dean's tone and the stony set of his expression right now did and he couldn't figure out why.
Sam cleared his throat. "I dunno… hit you?"
"Dude… unless we're sparrin', Dad has never hit me. Just like he's never hit you."
"Yeah. I know. It's just… I don't understand why you don't wanna talk to him. Or why you just left all your shit behind. Especially the car. You love that car. How could you leave her behind like that?"
Dean looked down at the kitchen countertop and scrapped at the cheep Formica with a fingernail. "He sent me because he thought I could handle it, Sam. And I couldn't. I didn't deserve it any more. Maybe I never actually did."
"Well, last night he told me that you were one hell of a good hunter."
Dean's head snapped up in surprise. "He said that?"
"Yeah. Until he talked to me he thought you hadn't made it, and he still thinks you're good."
"He thought I was dead?" Dean looked alarmed by that.
"Yeah. What else was he supposed to think? You disappeared on him. You scared the hell out of him, but you didn't let him down, Dean."
Dean barked out a harsh laugh. "Well, I let m'self down enough for the both of us."
"He said he just wants to hear your voice."
Dean stole a glance at Sam. It was just one more indication that something was seriously wrong. Something more than just a hunt gone bad, because Dean was an eye-contact kind of guy. When he talked to you, even when he was lying his ass off, he looked you in the eye. But he hadn't really looked Sam in the eye once since he'd been there. "Gimme you're phone, Sammy."
Sam handed him the cell phone and Dean punched in the number from memory. He was silent for much longer than Sam knew John would let the phone ring. He could faintly hear his father's voice on the other end.
"Hey, Dad… it's me." There was a short pause. Dean took a deep, shaky breath. "'M sorry I worried you. I didn't mean to. I just didn't… I didn't think. … No, it's not that. I just… I can't explain it. … 'M sorry." Dean snorted softly. "That's easy for you to say. … I don't know, Dad. … I want to. I just don't know if I can. … Me too. You… you know that, right? 'Cause I do. I really, really do. … Okay. … I promise. Bye."