Author's notes: The title refers to the second circle of hell in Dante's The Divine Comedy (this is where the lustful go). This is fairly short and maybe a little bitter-sweet and is written in response to my realization that Jeffrey Dean Morgan is a sexual being.

Tumble to the Second Circle

Dean is sixteen the first time that he slips into his father's bed.

It is one of John's 'bad nights' - a night spent drowning in too much sorrow and too much grief. And inevitably, too much whiskey.

Dean helps his father to bed and tucks him in, something that he's done a hundred times in the past. Something that he expects he will do a hundred times in the future.

John stares up at him through bleary eyes and places a hand on his cheek. Then in a hushed and reverent voice, he tells Dean how much he looks like Mary. Then he tells him how pretty he is.

Dean blinks, confused. His father has never said anything like this to him before. He has never even intimated at it. In this moment of profound confusion, he leans in toward the words instead of pulling away from them.

And John slides his hand to the back of his neck and gently pulls him forward to capture his mouth in a kiss.

When the kiss falls apart of its own accord, both of then lean back, breathing a little heavier than before.

Dean brings a hand to his lips. He can still feel the warmth of his father on them.

He's not sure what he should do, or what he should say.

He opens his mouth to speak, still unsure as to what words will spill from his lips when his father's hands reach up and caress his face with infinite care and tenderness.

His father is crying. He can see the tears blazing silver in the moonlight.

His father tells him that he is beautiful and that he needs him. Then his father whispers one word that will alter the course of everything they are.

Please...

And Dean, who has never been able to deny his father anything, gives him the only thing that he can.

He gives himself.

And later, knowing that his father is at peace, if only for a while, he regrets it not at all.

Dean is seventeen the first time he slips into his father's bed while his father is sober.

It is a bad night, but John is trying to not to succumb to the sorrow or to the grief. He is trying not to succumb to the whiskey.

He goes to bed, intent on seeking sleep as salvation, when Dean comes into the room and closes the door behind him.

He asks his son why he is here, but words lose their meaning when Dean sprawls across him and gazes at him with lovely, dark eyes. It is his Mary he sees, in Dean's face. She shimmers in the moonlight that dances across Dean's skin.

He brings his son to him and almost regrets when Dean solemnly follows. He almost stops, almost ends it all, when Dean's hot whispers tickle his ear. He tells John that all he wants is to make him happy.

And then he breathes out one word.

Please...

And that one single syllable is John's undoing. Because with that one syllable he discovers that he needs this.

And so does Dean.

And later, when John glances down at the beautiful, young man asleep in his arms, he regrets it not at all.

Dean is twenty-seven when he and Sam talk about their father.

It hurts Sam that he is not close to the man. He loves him and he knows his father loves him, but it is as if they live on different worlds.

He wishes things were different.

Sometimes he wishes he had the relationship that Dean shares with their father.

He turns toward Dean and asks the question he's always wanted to ask; the one that is never far from his thoughts.

Why?

In that one word lives a hundred different questions.

Why are you favored?

Why am I on the outside?

Why doesn't he love me like he loves you?

Sam does not need to voice them all. He knows Dean understands.

Dean looks down and remembers countless nights full of warm embraces and hungry kisses.

He remembers silver moonlight and whispered pleas.

But most of all, he remembers the ghost of his mother reflected in his father's eyes. His father's desire for her still manifested in his touch.

You are so pretty, Dean. So much like her.

The memories settle and still and Dean lifts his head.

He cannot answer his brother's question, so he does the only thing he can do. He lies.

He dons his plastic smile and lightly punches Sam in the arm.

Come on, Sammy. He loves us both the same. Don't be paranoid.

Then he gets up and walks away lest his eyes reveal too much.

But Sam, ever the observer, has already seen. He just doesn't understand.

And how could he possibly?

John doesn't.

Dean certainly doesn't.

They only know that this exists.

And that neither of them ever regret.