No More Room in Hell, Boys

John/Sam. NC-17. ~900 words. Pre-series.
Sam clutches the sawed-off in his left hand and thinks about how Dean’s not here.

Sam doesn’t know what to do. His hands and face are numb from the streaming cold rain. The forest around them is pitch black, treacherous. In a thin band of yellow, the flashlight fallen into the mud at his feet, John’s face is ashen.

“The car,” John says. With unsteady hands, he holds the wadded up lump of Sam’s flannel to his shoulder. “Get to the car. Get the green bag, with the black drawstring.” He grits his teeth against a pained noise. “Go, Sam!”

Sam clutches the sawed-off in his left hand and thinks about how Dean’s not here. He couldn’t do anything different if he was, except then Sam wouldn’t feel so fucking alone.

Mud needles through Sam’s jeans like icicles when he drops to his knees. He shoves the gun away, pulls his father’s hands from the wound. The bleeding’s stopped, the flesh blackened as if burned. Too late for whatever charms or poultices they own.

“Sammy,” John says. His voice wavers, already breaking down. He doesn’t sound anything like the strong, stubborn father Sam rails against every day.

Sam hesitates.

“Don’t you,” John warns. A hand comes up fast, too fast, to twist in the collar of Sam’s soaked tee. The seam digs into the back of his neck. “I can ride it out, Sammy, don’t.”

“Can you?” Sam shouts, shoving at John’s hand. “You want me to just leave you here? You want me to tell Dean I just left you?”

John’s eyes glint in the light. They’re both shaking, Sam from the cold creeping deep in his blood, John from the poison crawling through his. He says Sam’s name one more time, a prayer and a plea. The hand gripping Sam’s shirt loosens, slides up to cup the side of Sam’s neck. “You’re going to tell him you did this, instead?”

Sam closes his eyes tight. He hates this life, not the man who gave it to him. “It’s okay,” he says. He leans down, puts a hand uncertainly on John’s injured shoulder. Defiantly, he grits his teeth and reaches further down to strip open his father’s belt. “It’s okay,” he repeats.

John’s grip on his neck tightens and he shakes his head no, but there’s no word squeezed past his lips. Sam’s heart flutters against his ribs. There’s so much heat hovering in the air just above John’s body that he wonders why the rain isn’t sizzling when it strikes skin.

Sam closes his hand around his father’s cock, fingers prickling back to life. John’s hard and thick, already slick with precome. The answering throb between his own legs twists Sam’s insides up in knots. Over the thundering rain, he hears John’s ragged moan.

He tries not to think about what he’s doing, how easily his hand glides over soft flesh or the creeping tingle up the back of his spine. Through his dripping bangs, he watches the flashes of dark skin between his fingers.

“Sam-”

“Is this enough?” Sam cuts in, gravel-rough. It sounds like he’s about to cry and it makes him so angry. “Is it?”

John’s fist thuds into the mud. His other hand is still on Sam’s neck, flexing fitfully, like he wants to let go but can’t.

“It’s okay,” Sam hears himself saying, over and over again as he tugs John’s jeans out of the way. “He’d do the same, Dad, he would. Can’t let you- he wouldn’t.”

His stomach roils as he takes John’s cock into his mouth the first time. He chokes on it, not prepared for the bitter, saltsweet taste or the way John’s hips surge. Not knowing what else to do, he fits his fingers to the strong jut of John’s hipbones, holds on and opens his mouth as best he can.

The head of John’s cock is soft against the insides of his cheeks, the flared ridge and knot of scar tissue from circumcision beneath it thick on his tongue. The quick, frantic breaths he drags in through his nose are shunted back in his face as John shudders, thrusts.

In seconds, his lips feel raw. The taste of sweat is gone from John’s skin, only the tang of precome left when John draws back far enough for it to smear across his tongue. He twists his head, tries to keep his teeth from scraping, and is rewarded with a fresh burst of slick on the roof of his mouth. He’s trembling as hard as his father, now.

John groans Sam’s name like it’s tortured from him, heavy and rough and full of harpy-poison lust. Sam still doesn’t think about what he’s doing, or why, he just shoves a hand inside his jeans, fists it tight over his own dick because it’s either that or rut against his father’s leg. He loses whatever coordination he had left when he comes, barely registering his own pained noise when John’s cock touches the back of his throat.

When Sam learns the taste of his father’s come, John’s fingers are tangled tightly in his too-long hair. One breath, two; John doesn’t move so Sam pulls away slowly, tries not to stare at his father’s softened cock wet with his spit.

Sam swipes a hand across his face, leaves a tiny, itching smear of mud and come behind as he searches for the belt lost in the dirt. “Dean would’ve,” he says, his voice fucked out, nearly lost in the rain. “Dad. He would’ve.”

End

One Response to “No More Room in Hell, Boys”

  1. JenIsaks Says:

    oh I so love wincest with John, this was great, thanks.

Leave a Reply