Title: Pulling the Strings

Summary: When Dean is injured on a hunt and falls into a coma, John takes the chance to play with his marionette.

A/N: Co-written with a friend of mine.

0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0

"Alright, boys, remember what I told you."

Sam and Dean nodded as their father cocked his pistol. "We're looking for a jewelry box to salt and burn the pendant," Dean said with Sam nodding again in agreement. Sam held up the salt while Dean had the lighter fluid and matches and John grunted.

They made sure that no one was around when they walked to the front porch. Sam walked up to the door with a lockpick in hand, Dean and John on look out when he started to work the lock.

It took him exactly four seconds. "You might want to practice some more, Dean. Sam's faster than you by two seconds," John said as he put his hand on his youngest son's shoulder, who just shrugged it off.

"Yes, sir," Dean said obediently, as unquestioning as an innocent child.

John inspected the entrance, furniture sprawled in various directions and glass everywhere on the floor. He signaled with two fingers. "The house should be empty. I'll take the ground floor and basement while you two take the upstairs." John didn't wait for the reply as he walked deeper inside, holding the gun and flashlight steadily.

"Got it. Come on, Sammy. Watch for the glass." Dean beckoned for his brother to follow him and the two carefully tried to avoid the creaky spots on the old staircase.

"Sam," Sam corrected softly as he followed his brother up the stairs, sure to exactly step where Dean was stepping.

"Sorry," Dean whispered over his shoulder, but he didn't exactly seem to mean it.

At the top of the stairs was a narrow hallway with peeling wallpaper.

"It smells like rat turds."

Dean snickered. "And moth balls, too. Come on, let's hurry up so we can go back to the room. I'm starving." His stomach softly groaned at the thought of food, so Sam elbowed him gently in the side.

They gingerly picked their way through shattered glass and ducked under cobwebs, the musty old-house smell filling their noses and putting a gross taste in Dean's mouth.

They passed several doorways, some with no door even on the hinges, but all of those rooms were empty except for some broken, overturned old furniture, and enough cobwebs to knit a sweater. Dean was starting to wonder if they weren't in the wrong house when a sound from the end of the hallway called their attention.

They carefully made their way to the last door. Dean put his hand on the dusty doorknob. "This has to be it. It better be it." It was his ass on the line since he was the one who found the lead to this location. He didn't even want to think what Dad would do if he was wrong and this was a dead end.

"Watch it," Dean cautioned in a whisper. "Ready?"

"Yeah. "

The door didn't even squeak when he pushed it open. The inside was habitable, unlike the other rooms of the house. There was a narrow bed, an old armchair, and threadbare curtains hanging on the window. The boys stepped in and carefully closed the door behind them, just in case.

"There!" Sam pointed to the jewelry box on the edge of the vanity. Dean nodded and signaled for Sam to stay back. "Hold the flashlight steady."

The meager light beamed onto a wooden box with painted glass in the middle of the lid, and delicate flowers etched around the sides. It didn't look very evil, though, Sam thought. Looked like something that someone's grandma would have in her attic.

Dean pulled out his gun from his belt, looking around for any sight of the ghost. Not seeing anything, he slowly made his way to the vanity, footsteps creaking on the wooden floor. He swallowed, mouth dry. He knew that he shouldn't be going at this alone, that they were supposed to call for Dad as soon as they found it.

But Dean wasn't a kid anymore. He had to show Dad that he was a man now, that he could handle a hunt on his own, that he had always been watching and listening to Dad and remembered everything Dad taught him. He would show Dad how good he was at the family business.

As gently as he could, Dean pushed the clasp of the box, slowly to make sure that it wouldn't play any music. Not hearing anything, he lifted the top, and spotted a small sapphire on a thin silver chain. Just as Dean was about to make a grab for it, loud footsteps echoed in the hallway.

Sam and Dean turned towards the door, hardly daring to breathe. The poltergeist appeared before them, looking like a four year old little girl in a pink dress. She wore no shoes, but her hair was tied in two neat ponytails, one on each side of her head, as though her mother had just done it for her.

She turned to Sam, smiling happily.

"Do you want to play with me?"

Sam watched Dean from the corner of his eye, and understood that he was to buy his brother some time with a curt nod.

"Sure," he said, picking up a discarded dirty stuffed rabbit that used to be white.

The little girl squealed in delight before she skipped towards Sam, and Dean saw his opening. He quickly snatched the necklace, only for the little girl to immediately turn towards him in an angry gaze.

"Don't touch that!"

John made it inside just in time to see a chair go flying towards his eldest, hitting him in the head and sending the necklace sailing across the room. It landed on the floor next to Sam, who quickly salted the damn thing. He grabbed the lighter fluid from the floor, poured it over the necklace and quickly set a match on the now flammable sapphire necklace.

The poltergeist, screaming and sizzling, burned away into oblivion. As soon as it was gone, the atmosphere of the house changed; it felt lighter and clearer, a good sign that there was no other entity inside. Satisfied, John went to where Dean was lying prone on the floor, his arm bent at an awkward angle, and bent down to check on him.

"Dean?" he patted the boy's back. "Dean. Come on. Get up. We're done here."

Dean did not move.

"Dean? Dean, I told you to get up. Don't be a brat, Dean. We're done with this hunt, it's time to go. Dean, get up. Get up! Get up!" He grabbed one of his shoulders and shook him harshly, Dean's head lolling to the side, eyes still closed.

Sam hurried to his father's side. "Dad? What's wrong with Dean?"

"Nothing, he's just being stupid," he snapped. "Let's go, boy, get your ass up and let's go!" He pulled Dean to his feet and let go of his shoulders, only for Dean to fall again back to the floor with a thump.

Sam grabbed his father's arm. "Dad, stop! I think something's really wrong! Don't do that, Dad!"

But John just shook him off. "Don't tell me what to do, boy! If you think twelve is too high and mighty to get whipped, then you're damn wrong!"

Desperate, John slapped Dean right across the face. Dean didn't respond at all.

"I've had enough of this, Dean. Expect your punishment later." John hauled Dean up in his arms and carried his limp body all the way to the car. Sam opened the back door for John to lay his unconscious son along the seats.

Sam decided to sit in the back with his brother, holding his head on his lap just in case. He'd read some stuff about head injuries, and he wasn't sure but he knew that brains could get bruised and that they could bleed. So he thought that keeping Dean still would be for the best.

Forty minutes later his father was still driving.

"Dad?"

"What."

"Aren't we gonna go to the hospital?"

"What for?"

Sam's heart skipped a beat in shock and disbelief. "What-for Dean!"

"He doesn't need a hospital. He needs to get his hide tanned."

"Dad, he's unconscious!"

"Yeah, and I wanna be, too. But we have to get back to the motel somehow, and you can't drive."

"Dad, please! Please, we gotta get him to a doctor!" He looked pleadingly into the car mirror. The only thing that saved him from exploding with anger were the tightly pinched worry-lines around his father's eyes.

He was afraid, Sam realized. He was scared that Dean was hurt real bad.

"Dean is fine, Sam. He's just taking a nap. And as soon as he wakes up, he's gonna regret it."

When they passed the motel, Sam nearly prayed in gratefulness. Soon after they were in an empty ER waiting room, Dean propped up against John's side.

The doctor who attended him was horrified, but he tried to hide it. Sam felt sorry for him, for the way his eyes were flitting worriedly back and forth between the boys.

"And again, how exactly did this happen?"

John sighed as though he were annoyed and a little ashamed. "The boys were roughhousing with each other, and got too violent. Sam here whacked poor Dean in the head, and he's been out ever since."

The doctor looked at Sam, staring intently at his frame and gauging if it was possible for him to cause such an injury. "Is that true?"

Sam glanced at his father before answering, which he immediately regretted.

"Yes, sir, it's true. I'm-I'm really sorry," he managed to make his voice crack a little, "I'm really sorry! I didn't mean to hurt him! Not like that! We were just playing around, and-and-and I don't know what happened…" He turned his eyes to the ground as though to hide tears.

If the doctor didn't believe him, he didn't acknowledge it. With a sigh, he scribbled something down on Dean's chart, and left, saying he would be back in a bit.

"Good one," John said after he'd gone. "That was almost believable. You been practicing?"

"Yeah," Sam said dully, not even really listening. Dean's face was so white. It looked lost among the papery hospital sheet and pillowcase. It started to hit Sam that he might really be gone, forever. What would he do without Dean? The silence that answered him was deafening and scary. He couldn't fathom his life without his big brother.

"Go get something to eat, son," John suddenly ordered, handing him a few singles. "It's late. The chairs in the waiting lounge are softer than the ones in here. Or you could sleep in the car. You want the keys?"

"Okay." Sam didn't even look at his father. "Night."

John only grunted in reply as he handed his youngest the keys to the Impala.

As soon as the door closed behind Sam, John broke. He fell to his knees at Dean's bedside, leaning his forehead on Dean's hand, not caring that the IV was digging awkwardly into his temple.

"I'm so sorry," he whispered hoarsely. "Dean, I'm sorry. I… I shouldn't have let you go alone like that. I just… I guess I lost sight of what's important. Again. You forgave me last time. Can you forgive me again?"

Dean said nothing, not that John was expecting him to. His heart monitor beeped steadily, the sound ringing in John's ears.

He sat up and ran his fingers through his son's soft hair. He had such soft, fair hair. Not blond like Mary's, but lighter than his or Sam's. A nice blend of them two, Mary's more delicate features and John's masculine sharpness melted together to form a face of nearly androgynous beauty.

And he was beautiful, Dean was beautiful. Unnaturally so, distractingly so. He always had been. It wasn't easy to tear your gaze away from those compelling green eyes, beguiling and deep. You could see the center of forever in those eyes, you could wander through a dark forest and be less lost than when looking in those eyes. Sometimes John saw himself reflected back, but mostly he saw Mary. Mary looking back at him. Mary, angry and judgmental, Mary furious and sad. She probably would've expected a lot more from him. But he tried not to think about it, it was too uncomfortable. How dare she remind him of his failings? It felt that way. That he didn't want to be reminded of his failings, how dare she criticize his bad decisions when she was safe in the depths of Dean's eyes?

The sound of Dean's steady breathing was soothing to John. He watched the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest. Too-thin chest, really. You might even call him slender, though he definitely had wiry muscle, unadvertised strength hidden in those long limbs. But he didn't eat as much as a kid his age would, since there wasn't much at all to eat. He always gave his food to Sammy anyway. He thought that John didn't know. But he did know. He did know that his kids were half-starved to death. He did know that he couldn't clothe and house and feed his own kids. He did know that he was a shitty father, that his boys deserved better.

Especially Dean. He tried so hard. He was so good. So beautiful. He deserved to be taken care of, really taken care of. Fed up and clean and living in one place so that he could be the popular jock at school with a string of girlfriends. He didn't deserve to be dragged around place to place in worn-and-torn clothes and muddy shoes falling apart at the seams. The dirt and wear didn't diminish his beauty; no, his youth kept it in place. But still, just to look at him now made John wonder how gorgeous the kid would be if he were treated right, if he weren't worried to death over it all.

Seeing Dean so pale was so strange to John; usually he would be lightly kissed by the sun. Dean felt warm, even if he looked cold. Even with the chalky white skin it still felt soft. He was still baby-faced and would soon grow out of it but until then Dean was beautiful. John almost wanted to capture his likeness and make a porcelain doll. Delicate and beautiful, just like Dean.

How John craved the innocence that his eldest still had. No questions - Dad's word was law. And Dean respected that. Sam was starting to doubt him, disobey and rebel, but not Dean never Dean no when he rebelled it was always for Sammy's sake, for Sammy's happiness and joy dedicated to his schooling. That selfless love, though an inconvenience to John, only made Dean seem that much more good, that much more angelic and innocent and perfect.

Dean's obedience to his father made him the best tool John has and ever will have. The perfect little soldier willing to die for others, a noble hero who accepted that there must be self-sacrifice. John couldn't afford to lose him, lose all the work he invested in his ultimate weapon. Sam could never take Dean's place, too free-willed and curious about the world and the normality that they could never have.

Dean was perfect. A perfect soldier and a perfect marionette, willing to follow whatever path the puppeteer devised. It was almost too easy with Dean. Too easy to pull the strings of such an obedient, innocent child. He was not gullible in any matter-unless it concerned his father. He was not unsuspicious in any matter-unless it involved his father. Because if Dad suggested that they share a shower, it was only to save water, not for some sick perverted reason. If Dad asked Dean to sleep in the same bed with him, it was for warmth or economize on motels, not because he was looking for a chance to feel Dean up or anything.

Dean never said anything. Dean didn't mind, he existed only to follow Dad's orders. It was Sam who always questioned everything, Sam who was corrupting his perfect puppet. But John couldn't deny that Sam was smarter than Dean, understanding and quickly doing research and picking locks faster than Dean could. He supposed that they were supposed to balance each other out, but he was a selfish man. He wanted only Dean, and he wanted to be the only person controlling Dean's strings. Dean was only strings in John's mind. Strings covered with blood and flesh and a sprinkle of freckles on the cheeks. A pretty doll. John's pretty doll.

Dean was his, only his. Not Sam's, no matter how desperately he tried to take his brother away. None of those punks that Dean befriended when they were in an area for more than a week. Not from any of the monsters they hunted. Not even from Dean himself.

He ran his fingers through Dean's soft hair, checking to make sure that they were left alone. He closed all the blinds before lifting Dean's head slightly. "You're mine, Dean," John whispered in his ear. "Only mine. You live solely to serve me."

Dean's face remained fetchingly placid. The neutral expression was a favorite of John's, partly because of its loveliness, but partly because it was like an empty canvas, blank and fresh as new snow and waiting for John to make his mark. Any mark he wanted to. Dean was his doll, his toy, his to do with whatever he wanted. Dean unconscious-asleep-was almost better than Dean awake, because even all of Dean's obedient devotion couldn't control his expressions. If John brushed up against him too brazenly, even Dean's fair brow would rumple. But not if he was asleep. If he was asleep, if he was as blank as a mannequin, then he would stay perfect. He would stay beautiful while John did anything to him, anything at all. If John lit a candle and then dripped the burning wax onto Dean's naked skin, Dean wouldn't bat an eye. If John took his favorite knife and started to slowly, gently slice through Dean's fingers until they were severed from his almost-delicate hands, Dean wouldn't even twitch. That was what John loved. That was what John wanted.

How John wanted to leave his mark on Dean, mark his possessions and forewarn anyone who tried to take his favorite toy away from him. Dean was his and his alone, and everyone should know it. He moved his hands from Dean's hair to his shoulders, grabbing him and digging in with his fingernails. He wanted to stab hard enough to draw crescent wounds and make him bleed. So many possibilities there were to be explored. Dean was a lifeless doll that would take whatever John would do to him.

John pulled on an eyelid, staring straight at a dull green eye that mesmerized him ever since Dean was born. He could see himself, he could see Mary, and how he wanted to make her disappear, for her to stop judging him and let him do with their boys as they see fit.

He ran his tongue over Dean's eye, wondering how it would taste. His mother used to love to eat fish eyes, so it always bounced in his mind what a human eye would taste like. Especially Dean's, who was already sweet as is.

He didn't want to take away Dean's eye; that would be a huge disadvantage while hunting. John settled for swirling his tongue across softly, getting a milky taste. Curiosity satisfied, John left Dean's eye in favor of trailing gentle kisses down his face, stopping at his neck. He searched for Dean's pulse, which was even, before sinking his teeth into his son hard enough to draw blood. John sucked and sucked, grateful that vampires didn't exist for they would never be able to get enough of Dean's sweet blood. He could feel himself getting addicted, but he knew that he couldn't overdo it. He sucked hard, running his tongue on the wound to take away any excess blood before moving on. He wanted to leave his mark on Dean, to tell others to back off since he was already taken.

John stuck his hand down Dean's shirt, warm skin contrary to his pale appearance. He searched around, before losing his patience and pulling off the buttons from the shirt. The clicks of buttons hitting the floor lasted for a second, not that John particularly cared. Smooth, unmarked, creamy skin that was soft to touch - it was like running his hand along silk. His hand went down, to Dean's belly button, before zipping back up to his nipples, already perked up from the cold room. John rubbed them harshly, pinching and squeezing while he watched Dean's face for any indication that he was walking up.

Breathing evenly, Dean didn't even stir.

John grinned as his fingers caressed his unconscious son. He was so still and smooth. He ran his hand down his arms, taking hold of his hands. Guiding them, he had Dean's fingers undo the fly of his jeans and put his hand on his hard dick.

It was better than anything John had ever tried. Conscious people were too unpredictable, too hard to control. But sex toys and blow up dolls were too fake to bring him pleasure. And it wasn't just that he needed pliable skin; he'd considered corpses, once, but they were just too cold. No, he needed soft, warm, living flesh, with minimal movement but still the expanding-contracting-breathing that cannot be stopped even when someone is unconscious.

John rubbed himself slowly against Dean's limp hand, not wanting it to be over too quickly. His teeth chattered with the effort of holding in his groan. Dean was as lifeless as doll, and so John grabbed his other hand to join the first. Soon enough he wrapped Dean's hands around his dick as tightly as possible and began to hump into them, shaking the bed slightly.

The squeaking of the bed wasn't as loud as the heart monitor, which remained steady. Dean was breathing evenly and had no idea of what he was doing. John could feel himself teetering over the edge, so he stopped, though unwillingly. He quickly dashed to the drawers, ripping them open and searching for something he could use to ease his way. Finding nothing, he started on the cabinets, where he spied a bottle of that clearish gel stuff they used for ultrasounds. That would do for the task at hand.

He went back to Dean, still sleeping, and squirted some of the gel onto his hands. It didn't burn, so he assumed it was safe. He took a seat at the end of the hospital bed, facing Dean. He slid off Dean's jeans with ease and tossed them aside, not caring where they landed. He pulled off his shoes, lifted his legs and placed them on his shoulders. John studied Dean's entrance, how it seemed to beckon and call to him. The ultimate mark of ownership. A mark that no one will see at first, but will realize when they want to mark Dean as their own.

He placed some gel on Dean's hands and used them to rub the gel around his shaft. John groaned, lifting Dean up so that be could give him a deep kiss on the lips. Just as he pried Dean's mouth open and had his tongue poke at Dean's lifeless one, John pushed himself in. The gel was even better than the lubes on the market. He pushed himself all the way in, purring into Dean's ear, "Only I can give you the pleasure you crave, Dean. Remember that."

John began to move, moving in and out of Dean, taking off his own shirt and placed Dean's sleek hands on his own nipples. John hissed at the cold, but continued to play with Dean's hands and continue thrusting, letting out soft grunts of pleasure.

He placed Dean's arms around his neck, licking the wound that showed ownership. He moved back to his mouth for another kiss, this time Dean started panting heavily with his eyes still closed. John gave it no mind as he continued to pound into his son, going faster and faster.

As Dean moaned wantonly, John covered his mouth to prevent them from escaping, much to his chagrin. Suddenly, the heart monitor started beeping louder and more sporadic, concerning John. He doesn't want anything to happen to his investment. He paused for a moment, still deep within Dean, and turned his head.

John chuckled when he saw that Dean was sporting an erection on his own. His legs were jerking around, his arms were trembling. John couldn't help but snicker at the sight - that Dean was getting sexually aroused even if unconscious. It only added wood to the fire within John's soul, the burning desire to possess Dean.

John then moved Dean's legs from his shoulders to around his torso, running his fingers along his inner thighs. He then reaffirmed Dean's arms around his neck, biting into his shoulder as he continued to fuck his son, to mark him as his personal possession that only he could have. Dean continued to tremble in his father's arms, moaning softly into John's ear. John only gripped him tighter and moved with vigor, trying to make this pleasurable for both him and Dean. For only he could give Dean this amount of pleasure, only he could make him moan and tremble even while sleeping. John bit Dean's ear, causing him to shudder. He moved to kiss his son's neck, sucking hard enough to form hickeys all over, before landing on Dean's luscious lips.

John let out moans of his own into Dean's shoulder, caressing his slim frame as he pushed himself as deep as he could go. He fondled Dean's toning chest, Dean's perfect ass, Dean's beautiful face, Dean's soft hair. He moved fast and hard, licking Dean's delicious skin, tasting his sweet blood, making him sing with passionate desire.

For Dean was his and only his, Dean his beautiful marionette, his perfect soldier, his obedient lover, his porcelain doll.

0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0

Sam turned over for the umpteenth time, scrunching up further in the backseat of the car. Damn seat wasn't good for sleeping, and anyway it was freezing. If it wasn't so dark, Sam probably would've been able to see his breath. Even huddled into his coat, his fingers were like ice against his chin where he'd tucked them in an attempt to warm up. And then, to top it all, Sam's stomach started to growl.

It was no use. There was no way he'd be able to sleep here.

Sam huffed and pouted his way to the hospital's cafeteria, counting and recounting the bills Dad had tossed at him earlier. Five bucks, much more than he'd usually get. Dad was so distracted that he gave Sam too much. Well, it wouldn't be fair to use it all on himself. He'd get Dean something too, for when he woke up.

Because he was going to wake up. There was no question in Sam's mind about that. He had to wake up. He just had to. Or then Sam would just have to go with him, wherever that might be. He didn't care.

Trying to turn his mind to less morbid thoughts, Sam peered through the glass on the pastry display. Most of the stuff was gone, though there was a dry looking carrot cake, and a few scones and muffins that looked pretty good, even if they had been sitting there all day. He asked for a blueberry one, and while the guy behind the counter was getting it out for him, Sam spied a smallish piece of apple pie, sitting pretty on a paper doily, almost like it was heaven-sent or something.

"I'll take that, too," he told the cashier, handing over the cash. "Thanks."

He tucked the bag with the muffin under his arm, and carefully carried the precious pie to Dean's hospital room, holding it with both hands. He'd been getting clumsier when he'd started getting taller, and there was no way he was gonna drop this. Pie was Dean's favorite dessert, and he didn't even get to have it very often. So this was Serious Business.

Navigating the rubbing-alcohol hallways carefully, and protecting the pastry from any passers-by lest they carried some awful disease that could be transferred to his brother, Sam eventually found the room that he'd left before. He set down the pie on the chair in the hall so that he could open the door carefully, just in case Dean was conscious or Dad was sleeping.

Sam opened the door.

Dean was not conscious.

Dad was not sleeping.

The paper bag fell to the floor, and Sam was distantly glad that the pie was outside, because he surely would have dropped it in shock.

Twelve though he might be, Sam was not completely ignorant of sex. He had at the very least a vague idea of this or that, aside from what they learned about the "Reproductive System (Chapter 28)" in school. He did not know all of the particulars. He had never done anything himself. But he was pretty sure that a guy wasn't supposed to do anything like that with his son.

He was pretty sure that Dad should not be thrusting in and out of Dean like that, moaning and groaning with abandon, the way they portrayed prostitutes on the T.V. shows that Sam wasn't supposed to watch because Dean thought they were gross and misleading.

Dean was still unconscious, he must have been, because he wasn't moving. Not to get away, and not in reciprocation. Not at all, beyond the shaking that Dad was causing with his reckless thrusts. He still breathed, though heavily, and his heart monitor was beeping like crazy.

It must hurt, Sam realized, and once that registered, his shock broke into fury.

"What the fuck are you doing?!" screamed a voice he barely recognized for his own. "Get the fuck off of him! Help! Someone help m-"

John shot lightning fast across the room, pants around his ankles, and grabbed Sam in a headlock, tightening around his throat with one arm, and covering his mouth with the hand of the other.

"Shut up. Shut the fuck up. If you say anything, I will kill you. Do you understand me?"

Sam nodded as best he could, tears already welling in his eyes.

John closed the door carefully so that it wouldn't bang loudly, and then dragged Sam backwards and pushed him into the chair beside Dean's bed.

"You didn't see anything. You didn't see anything at all, got it? And you're not gonna say anything, either. If anyone finds out, I'll know it was you, and then you will face the consequences. So shut up, or I will shut you up, and it won't be pleasant for you. Got it?"

Sam nodded again, and then John took his hand away.

"I knew you were a smart one, Sam." John smiled, as if proud of his youngest.

"You disgust me," Sam spat, horrified at what he had just witnessed. "I hate you! I hate you, you sick bastard!"

John continued to smile, unfazed by Sam's insults. "Jealous, Sammy? Jealous that I got to Dean before you?"

"What the fuck?! Dad! Who-who the hell are you?!" Sam felt like he was going to throw up. "You ain't my dad! I don't know who the fuck you are!"

"You know me, Sam. You know me better than Dean. We both crave the affection and loyalty that we don't give another, and you see yourself in me."

"What?" Nothing was making sense to Sam. It was as though he'd fallen into another dimension where everything was crazy and he didn't understand whatever fucking language his dad was talking. "What?!"

"I don't mind sharing, Sammy. Just this one time." John grabbed Sam's wrist and pulled him forward, escorting him to the bed where the panting Dean lay.

Suddenly realizing what John meant, Sam tried to wrench his arms away. "No! No! No, stop! Stop it, Dad! Please! I don't wanna do it!"

John tugged on Sam's wrists tightly, making him wince with pain. "Don't lie to yourself, you want this just as much as I do. You wish to own your brother, be able to manipulate and control and pull on his strings as I do."

"No, I don't, you bastard!" Sam sobbed, scouring his mind for some of the insults he'd learned off Bobby. "You sick son of a bitch, you asshole, you dick, you monster! You're fucked up! You're psycho! You're crazy! Le'go of me, you freak! Let go, let go!"

"I may be crazy, but I can take comfort in the fact that we share the same insanity."

"No! I'm not like you! I'm not like you, you fucked up piece of shit! I never will be! Never! Never, you hear me? I'll shoot myself if I ever am!"

"I'll let you have a taste, Sam. Just one small taste but that's all."

"No! No, no," Sam twisted and pulled and wept, but John was too strong, and he couldn't get away. He pushed Sam's head down towards Dean's groin. "No no no no please, no, Dad, no, Daddy please don't make me do this, please…"

"You shouldn't lie to your family, Sam. We specialize in deception but you should never lie to your family."

"Dad, no! Daddy, Momma, Uncle Bobby, someone help me! Please please please I don't wanna do this, I love my brother I never wanna hurt him! He always take care of me so I never wanna hurt him ever! Stop, Dad, stop stop stop!"

Sam gagged on his tears and John took the opportunity to mash Sam's face into Dean's erection. Dean, though unconscious, could apparently feel it, because he moaned, and Sam's mouth fell open in shock.

Against his will he got a mouthful of hot skin and salty sweat and bitter semen.

"Ain't that good, Sammy? I knew you'd like it."

Sam tried to retract his head, but John made sure to keep a firm grip so that he couldn't escape. He picked up Dean to put him in his lap, sliding him over his still-hard dick while keeping Sam in place. He bounced Dean in his lap, groaning at the sensations Dean continued to give him.

"Don't be such a brat, Sammy! 'Specially not when I'm bein' so nice to you, sharing with you and all."

Sam tried to reply, but that only increased the vibrations in his mouth. He sobbed onto Dean's cock, which, as he comforted himself, at least didn't hurt Dean.

With Dad making Dean bounce in his lap, Sam could feel Dean's dick touching the end of his mouth. It was hard, and still tasted bitter, but then it seemed to get harder and hotter, and his balls contracted, which even Sam knew was a sign that he was gonna ejaculate. He tried to pull away more fervently this time, not wanting to have to swallow it, but John's hold remained firm.

"Nuh uh, Sammy," John groaned as he continued to move inside Dean. He kissed the back of Dean's neck, and Sam could see bite marks and hickies all over. "You know the rules. Always swallow. And you'll only be able to get one taste, you should savor it."

Sam wailed from the back of his throat, which caused Dean to spill into his mouth, choking Sam. John came from watching them, and pulled Dean's hips roughly into his lap for the final few thrusts.

After he caught his breath, John pushed Sam out of the way, and gently, as if he cared, gently lay Dean back down and covered him up with the hospital gown and blanket. The heart monitor slowly went back to normal speed. Sam threw up on the floor next to the bed, unable to move from his hands and knees because his legs were shaking so badly.

"Gross," John scolded him. "Do that somewhere else. That's nasty, when your brother's trying to sleep right here. Clean that shit up, and if you're gonna hurl again, you better do it in the bathroom."

"Okay," Sam said, because his brain would not supply anything else. "Okay."

Mechanically, Sam went to the cabinets, found paper towels, and wet them a little in the sink. Then he mopped up his mess and wrapped it all up into one big wad of paper and threw it away. He rinsed out his mouth, and then threw out the muffin, too, which John must've stepped on, because it was totally flat with dirt stains on the white bag.

"Remember, Sammy," John said as he pulled up his pants. "Don't say a word. And even if you do, there's always the fact that you were a part of it. You did it, too, Sammy. Imagine what it would do to Dean; you wouldn't want him to know would you?"

"Okay," Sam said, because his brain would not supply anything else. Then he went outside and sat on the chair quietly, patiently holding the pie for when Dean woke up.

0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0

A/N: Thanks for reading!