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They should have heard him. Sam should have heard him, that was always one of his strong suits, ears like a fucking bat according to Dean, who was always a little too distractable to be a truly reliable watchdog.
But the door is already open before they can even register the sound of footsteps approaching, the shlick of the key sliding into the lock, the soft metallic sound of the tumblers turning in the door, or the quiet squeak of the hinges as it swings open.
It was a rookie mistake, he should have known better, and now they were going to pay for it.
He couldn't blame Dean, not really: he always got too blissed out when they were like this, on another planet, ascended to a higher plane of existence. Sam was supposed to keep his wits about himself. Stupid stupid stupid.
But how could Sam be expected to focus on anything outside of this bed when Dean had every single inch of his cock buried inside him?
So the door swings open, and Sam's on top of Dean, hands on the headboard and legs spread, back arched and face the door, so he knows whoever just opened the door is getting an eyeful.
And he knows there's only one person who'd be opening that door, even if he said he wouldn't be home for another two days.
As soon as Dean realizes what's happening he scrambles, pushing Sam off his lap, his dick making a too-quick withdrawal that he'd punch his brother for under different circumstances. sam lands on the side of his leg on the edge of the bed as Dean reaches desperately for the scratchy bedpsread to cover himself and Sam.
There's a beat where the three of them look at each other, and it's as if the whole world has recognized what a momentously fucked up thing has happened because it's quiet outside, the formerly omnipresent traffic. the silence lasts a brief moment before Dean, of course Dean, ever the peacemaker, starts talking—
“Dad, look,” Dean starts, but John cuts him off by raising his hand in the air, palm flat. Stop.
“Dean.”
Even naked, covered in a dirty bedspread, sticky lube dick and all, Dean still sits up at attention when he hears his daddy say his name. Good dog. Sam's lip curls in disgust.
“Go take a walk.”
Deans eyes dart back and forth like he's considering protesting, but he looks at Sam while he nods. Yes, sir.
He extracts himself from the bed such that he tries to preserve his modesty and it's stupid, really, Sam thinks, it's not like they haven't all seen each other dick swinging every other day for years. but that was different, that was road shit, family shit, that was normal. this—ain’t normal. the shock of the revelation of his closeness with Dean has cast a festering shameful .. over their bodies now, and they have learned to be ashamed.
Dean's gone before Sam can truly register that he's even dressed and it occurs to him vaguely that he is likely disassociating.
John is approaching the bed and some of the anger is slipping away and he's left looking some other way, troubled, worried. He sits on the edge of the bed facing away from Sam and looks down at his hands. The light from the fading afternoon sun is peeking through the slate blinds, deepening the shadows from wrinkles that Sam seems to notice more and more with each passing day.
“Did he hurt you?"
Sam shakes his head.
“And he didn't… force you?”
Sam almost laughs, a breath nearly escapes and he chokes on it, hysterical.
"No, no, he didn't—he would never. You know Dean would never do that.”
“Come into the bathroom.”
“He didn't hurt me, I swear, I’m the one who—"
wanted it, started it, was planning on riding his dick all night before you showed up unannounced
“Sam,” he barks. “I’m not asking, son.” He stands to walk into the bathroom. Sam can hear the flip of the light switch, the quiet buzz of the shitty fluorescent as it flickers into life, and he steels himself and follows.
John is standing at the sink, head down, and he catches Sam’s eye in the mirror as he hovers in the doorway, and his eyes widen, sweeping down Sam’s naked body. As if he forgot he was naked under that sheet. As if he forgot what he walked in on five minutes ago.
He backs away from the sink and gestures for Sam to take his place in front of the sink.
“I need to make sure you aren’t hurt.”
“Dad, I swear, I’m fine!” He starts to turn around to face his father but he feels a hand, rough, strong callused fingers pressing into his shoulder and keeping him in place. Sam’s heart is a hummingbird in his chest. Is John actually going to do what he thinks he’s doing to do? Is this actually fucking happening?
“Dad,” he says, pleading.
“I have to, Sammy.”
John’s hand slides down from his shoulder to his lower back, and the rough glide of his calluses makes Sam shiver. It comes to rest on the dimples of his lower back, fingers spreading and pressing down so that Sam's leaning over the chipped porcelain sink, body responding to the cues without his permission.
Here he is, completely fucking naked, bending over the sink, damn near presenting himself to his father.
The hand on his skin and the brush of denim disappear as John steps back. John nudges the inside of Sam’s foot, encouraging him to spread his legs. His face is on fucking fire, and he buries it in his arms as he acquiesces and widens his stance. The hand returns, right at the top where his back turns in his ass cheek, then another hand joins on the opposite side, and they both slide down to spread his cheeks apart, and holds it there. Sam feels the cool air on his exposed hole, remnants of lube spread in between his ass cheeks evaporating and chilling him. John keeps him like that for what feels like an eternity. The only sounds in the room is their own breathing and the rhythmic drip drip drip of the leaky faucet in the sink. Sam watches them drop, counting them like seconds, as his father silently, seemingly, stares at his naked and freshly fucked asshole.
And then. John spreads his cheeks even more, somehow, and moves his thumb to graze over his sensitive hole and Sam gasps.
“Does that hurt?”
Sam shakes his head.
John is silent behind him, but then he swips the pad of his thumb over him again, and presses, just barely, against the rim of of his hole. Sam screws his eyes up tight, hands clenching into fists. Sweat breaks out at his hairline.
“You boys do this a lot?”
Sam doesn’t know what to say to that. Doesn’t know what answer he could give that wouldn’t make it worse. Definitely can’t tell him the truth: which is to say, yes, they do it a lot, constantly when John is away, more often than you’d think even when he’s around. Been doing it longer than John could stand to know, too, since Sammy got big enough for it to fit and since he begged Dean long enough to wear him down to try. He gives a weak shrug, shoulders shaking.
He’s punished for his non-answer with the rough, dry tip of his thumb pushing into him and he gasps again, the sensation on his sensitive, loose hole sending sparks of pleasure out that mix with the disgust in a curling miasma of shame in his belly. His dick twitches.
“Asked you a question, son.”
His shame is oppressive, a force in the room bearing down on his back and keeping him face down, ass up, in this shitty, depressing motel bathroom.
“Dad,” he says. “Please.”
“You’re wet,” John says, like an accusation, but his voice has gone ragged and Sam can hear his father's breathing now too, even over his own. His thumb is moving again, John forcing it all the way up inside him as far as it can go and Sam’s shaking, legs trembling such that the only thing holding him up is the grip on the sink and his father’s hands gripping his ass cheeks.
He probably is wet—Dean had fucked him early, first thing this morning, before they even got out of bed, the musk of sleep sweat and morning breath mixing in the bed as he pushed into him from behind, spooning him. He’d come inside him with a contented sigh, Sammy, like it was the best thing he’d ever felt, before promptly falling back asleep.
And now his father is using the come as makeshift lube to fingerfuck his asshole and Sam’s skin is on fire, sweat breaking out everywhere and he’s hard now, no denying it, Dean hadn’t let him come yet today and he was so desperate. He wonders if his arousal is evident in the mirror but he’s too chickenshit to look, and he realizes he’s rocking back onto the digit, involuntary, same way he's arching his lower back to give John easier access. Fuck.
Then suddenly, the hands on and in his body are gone. He starts to rise up from the sink but a hand pushes him back down firmly.
He hears the clink of a belt.
The teeth of a zipper being undone.
His heart’s pounding but he can’t move, he can’t do anything but stand there in disbelief as his father steps up behind him and spreads him open once more. He feels the blunt head of a cock at his rim and he’s desperate, trying to pull himself forward, away from John, like he could somehow slip into the mirror in front of him and away from this horrid scene.
“Dad, Dad, wait, please,” he says, his voice cracking on the plea, slipping into a gasp as John breaches him with the head of his cock. It doesn't hurt, he's too fucked open still, but his brain can't accept that this could feel anything like pleasure. John stills then, and Sam manages a deep shaky breath.
And for some reason that’s the moment Sam chooses to look up for the first time since this all started. He raises his head to the mirror and looks at his father, standing behind him, hands gripping his hips, eyes cast down to look at where he's splitting his son open. It’s surreal. John looks crazed, eyes blown open like he can’t believe what he’s just done, fluorescent lights on the bathroom, pallid. Their eyes connect in the streaked glass for a moment and neither of them move.
“Sam,” he says, and he sounds lost, broken. Sammy’s never been the caretaker in their family; that’s always been Dean’s job, patching them up and putting John to bed when he’s drilled too deep into the bourbon. But something takes over him in that moment seeing his own father looking so broken, so fucked up and desperate over him, and he wants to fix it.
“It’s okay, Dad,” he says, and his words are quiet in the tiled room. “It’s okay,” he says again, and he starts to rock back onto John’s cock. John’s eyelids flutter closed in pleasure and the sight does something to Sam, awakens whatever sick thing that resides in him that makes him gag for big brother cock.
Whatever's broken in Sam, whatever snarled up evil that runs deep and makes him crave the flesh of his own blood—he must come by it natural. Dean first, Sam, always, and now John: must run in the family.
His father starts fucking him.
It’s rough, a bit too dry, old lube and come can only do so much to slick him up, but whatever discomfort he’s feeling is outshined by the overwhelming sensation of his rim being stretched, his body being filled over and over again. He should hate this. Mentally, he’s a mess, his thoughts a mix of panic and disbelief and shame, but his body doesn’t care that it’s his own father’s fucking him. His body just knows that it has a hard, thick cock filling it up and it feels like everything he's ever wanted. Feels incredible. John’s bigger than Dean, which means he's the biggest Sam's ever taken—and the fact that he fucking knows that personally now is enough to make his stomach flip and twist in a way that threatens to bring his breakfast back up.
John’s properly fucking him now, skin slapping and belt still clanking with the rhythmic motion. Sam buries his face into the sink again and just takes it, spreading his legs even wider and grunting quietly every time John bottoms out, gritting his teeth in pleasure and pain. He’s so big he swears he can feel it all the way in his chest, or maybe that’s just the edge of the sink digging in as John slams his hips into him over and over. He opens his eyes again, briefly, to look behind him between his legs to see his father’s boots, familiar, the same boots he used to help unlace for his father when he came home from a hunt too exhausted to even undress. The memory is so sharply dissonant from what is currently happening that his mind recoils at the memory and he has to shut his eyes tight once more. Even so, he can feel how hard he is, can feel how his cock is dribbling a steady stream of precome. He wonders if John can see it too.
John moans, bending over too, covering Sam’s body with his own, making him feel small. When was the last time John held him like this? Had he ever held him like this, after Mom died?
“Fuck,” he gasps, burying his face into the back of Sam’s head, into the very hair that he’s always bitching at Sam to cut. “I see why your brother likes this so much,” he says on the upstroke and Sam suppresses what might have been a scream at that and oh fuck, he’s getting close, and he wants to come but he also absolutely does not want to come, especially not hands-fucking-free on his dad’s cock. He already thinks he’s a girl.
John is babbling now, a quiet, steady stream of chatter that makes Sam think he must be getting close too. So fucking tight. Feel so good. I’m so sorry, Sammy. Dean's the same way when he's about to come—like father, like son. His thrusts are speeding up, getting unsteady, and Sam’s on the razor’s edge himself, hovering on the precipice and held back by his insistent disbelief that this can’t be happening.
John gives him one especially hard thrust that makes Sam’s teeth rattle, threatens to shove his head into the mirror above the sink, and he says, like it’s not going to warp Sam’s psychosexual landscape for the rest of his life: “Sweetest pussy I've felt since your mother,” and that’s it, game over, the knife of shame slices through Sams’s gut and turnss him inside out, and he comes, dick untouched, squealing, just like he feared, like a fucking girl. He’s afraid to open his eyes to look to see how much he came but it felt massive, earth shattering, and he’s still in the aftershocks when John stills inside him, coming with a grunt.
There's no afterglow. John pulls out as soon as he gives his last thrust and Sam nearly falls flat on his skinny ass, baby deer legs under him, still reeling. He manages to catch himself on the sink, fingers gripping so tightly his knuckles are turning white. The room is spinning around him and he can’t hold back the vomit this time, emptying his guts into the sink in front of him. Acrid bile coats his throat.
He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and risks standing up. He’s shaky on his feet but he doesn’t fall. He runs the tap and the yellow bile swirls down the drain and away. He realizes he's alone now. He didn't even hear his father leave. He's not sure how long he stays standing in the bathroom, hunched over, but it's long enough that the sweat has cooled on his skin, chilling him.
He grabs the scratchy, still-damp towel from the hanger and wraps it around himself. Preserving some modesty he surrendered long ago. When he makes his way back into the bedroom, Dean is there, sat on the bed, shoulders slumped, hands clasped before him. He looks up when Sam approaches the bed.
“Sammy?"
He hears the word like it's echoing out from the bottom of a tin can, distant, reverberating in his skull. His vision is narrowing and the room is going dark around the edges as he makes his way to the bed on shaky feet. He pulls the covers up around his head and buried himself into the pillow. A moment later, he feels Dean lie down next to him. Sam can feel the tears streaming down his face and soaking into the pillow.
They both lie there, not touching, not sleeping, as the twilight falls around them.