Title: Burning
Author: pixel2817
Pairing: Dean/John
Rating: NC17
Disclaimer: Anything you recognise is owned by some big scary corporation, anything vaguely original is mine
Warnings/Squicks: incest, kink, voyeurism, D/s, spanking, fisting
Beta(s): don't have one
Summary: No spoilers, just some introspection, smut and a little angst. Set pre season-one.


I'm going to hell one of these days. I figured out a long time ago that the choices I've made and the things I've done in the name of vengeance; mean that there ain't no way the pearly gates will be opening up for me. So the way I figure it, if I'm gonna burn, I might as well enjoy my pleasures while I still can.

And there's nothing in this world, or the next, more pleasurable than being with my sweet boy; my lover, my slut, my beautiful son. I know exactly how wrong this is, but I can't bring myself to care any more. It'd be easy enough to assume I took advantage, forced him into something he didn't want. Truth is I always wanted him, from the time he was little more than a boy.

Wouldn't have acted on it, at least that's what I tell myself. Took the feelings, buried them deep inside so he'd never know, never have to face the fact that his father's a twisted fuck. But he figured it out; he always says he just knew, that he could sense the way I felt, though that seems fanciful to me.

Fifteen he was, the first time he made a move on me; plastering his lips to mine as we cowered in some rain-slicked gully, waiting to kill the monster of the week. I was too stunned to do anything, that first taste of him sweeter than I'd dreamed it could be. When I realised I was enjoying it way too much; I shoved him away so hard he landed flat on his ass. And when we got back to the motel, I bent him over a chair and took my belt to him.

First time I'd done that. I may not have been up for father of the year, but I'd never raised a hand in anger to one of my boys. I figured I could beat it out of him; scare him so bad he'd never try it again. Looking back I should have known it wouldn't work. Sure he yelled and screamed and cursed; but not once did he tell me to stop.

Told myself I was doing it for his own good, trying to stop him from doing something he'd regret. Tried to ignore how right it felt to see him bent over for me, tried not to listen to the little gasps and moans I was ripping from his body. Most of all I tried to pretend that the whole damn thing didn't have me so turned on it hurt.

It wasn't ‘til he stood back up, and I saw he was just as hard as me; that I truly understood how fucked we both were. I'd about beaten his ass bloody, but his eyes held lust and a kind of desperate need. Even now I can hardly believe I had the strength to walk away that night.

Well maybe ran would be a better way of describing it, I packed us up, drove four hours in grim silence and dumped him with Pastor Jim. Then I found the nearest bar and dived head first into a bottle. Didn't work, no amount of alcohol could drive that image from my mind; every time I closed my eyes I saw Dean, flushed and needy and wanting something I couldn't afford to give him.

He'd always been more Mary's son than mine; he'd inherited her sweet, loving nature and her stubborn sarcastic mouth. So it really shouldn't have surprised me that he'd gotten this side of her too. I've never been able to talk about this side of her to Dean. Mothers are forever madonnas to their sons; and I figure if I try to tell him how things were I'll get a punch in the mouth for my trouble.

He doesn't want to hear about the way she was for me, doesn't want to know about the way I could strap her down to the bed and make her cry and plead and beg for more. Doesn't need to know how much his submission reminds me of hers. No son wants to hear that he got his mother's kinks along with her eyes.

I still didn't give in, once I sobered up I figured out a plan of sorts; keep from being alone with Dean and I'd be able to keep my hands to myself. The next couple of years were hell on both of us, he never gave up trying to get me alone, and I grew harder and meaner as I struggled to do the right thing by him.

Then one night just after he turned eighteen he came to me again. But this time he was quiet and serious; none of his usual teasing, tempting games. He just sat me down and told me he was leaving. That it hurt too much, being around me when I hated him. So he was going to do us both a favour and get the hell out of my life. It was only as he stood to go that I realised he was serious, and his last whispered words; Why couldn't you love me? just about broke my heart.

All the time I thought I was protecting him, and what I'd really done was hurt him so bad that he'd broken. I'd convinced him that I hated him, when the truth was I'd never loved anyone this much. Even what I'd felt for Mary paled next to what I feel for him. The thought of him being gone spurred me into action and before I realised what I was doing I had him in my arms. Kissing him, touching him, whispering desperate words in his ears, pleas and promises; anything I could think of to get him to stay.

I still don't know exactly what I said that convinced him, but I'm too grateful to care. He was in my bed from that first night, but it took a long time for me to get back all the trust I'd destroyed when I pushed him away from me.

Every time I left, there'd be this look in his eye that said he wasn't all that sure I'd be coming back. I had to work so damn hard to make him believe in me, believe in us.

He'd push and shove at me, test my control in every way, pushing past the few limits I had left. Always wanting more from me; more sex, more pain, more love. It scares me sometimes, how willing he is to please me. It's like there's no line he won't cross, no depths he won't sink to, if he thinks it's what I want.

Like the time he took my fist; and lord knows that was another case of me trying to save him from himself. When he first brought it up I said No in no uncertain terms. I might be willing to hurt him when he needs it, but I'm damned if I'm going to damage him. He went quiet on me, but he stopped talking about it, so I figured I'd got my message across.

No such luck, a couple of weeks later we were stuck in some shitty motel, waiting for a storm to clear so that we could move on. He came out the bathroom, wearing only a towel, but before I could reach for him he asked again, turned out the little shit had been doing research on that crappy old computer we'd picked up. He told me straight out that he wanted it, that he'd got everything we would need and he'd been preparing himself for me.

Then he slapped a tube of some special lube in my hand, dropped the towel and bent over the bed; showing off his perfect ass. I nearly stopped breathing when I saw his hole, stretched impossibly wide round the biggest plug I'd ever seen. Presented with an offer like that, who the hell was I to say no.

I still remember every moment of that night, the way he begged and pleaded with me for more. The look on his face when I folded my thumb and started the last push inside; the way it felt when that tight muscle closed around my wrist. How he thrashed and writhed and tried to make me move, and the sounds he made with every gentle thrust of my fist. He keened and whimpered and moaned, every little noise sending desire rushing through me. And when he came, screaming his release, I followed him over the edge, without ever touching my cock.

Seeing him like that, knowing he is mine completely, is the closest to heaven I'm ever likely to get. It's in those moments, when he breaks for me and lets me see his soul; that I remember what it means to be happy.

Eventually he settled, seemed to get that I wasn't going to turn from him again. We both had what we wanted, and it was sweeter than I'd ever imagined. He was mine, to touch, to fuck to punish; it was my every dirty dream come true.

Don't get me wrong, he doesn't make things easy; he doesn't give his submission, I have to take it. He kicks and curses and fights with everything he's got; until that little switch inside him flips and my boy's ready for his daddy.

Then he's sweet and compliant, becomes daddy's sweet little slut, never happier than when he's getting fucked or spanked. I'll take him over my knee and he'll wriggle and twist until the first blow lands. Then as his butt turns red, he'll start to talk, a litany of pure filth pouring from his mouth. "Please daddy......need you..... want your cock daddy... fuck me daddy.....i'm yours daddy.....your whore.... Your baby.... Please daddy.... Please...."

Who am I to deny him when he begs so very sweetly, and when he's on his knees, that sinful mouth of his wrapped tight around my cock, I know I'm just as caught as he is. He's my weakness and my strength; for him there's nothing I won't do.

Sometimes I even fantasise about the future we could have. That once we've finally killed the demon we can settle down. We could stop hunting, find a quiet town and just live. Deep down I know that's bullshit, there aren't any happy endings in the cards for me, but I still have hope for him.

Some day he's going to have to find another way to live, find someone else to love. Not yet though, for now he's mine and there's nothing that could make me give him up. Every moment with him is worth an eternity of fire and I don't plan to waste a single second of the time we have.


I was twelve when I first figured out that the way I look was another kind of weapon. When I first realised that the right smile and a little flirting could get us a better room or a few extras with our meals. That bending over at just the right time, maybe wriggling my ass a bit, made certain men willing to give me anything I wanted.

I was thirteen, when I realised my dad was hot. I heard some waitress in a greasy spoon talking about him. Telling her friend how cute it was; the way he looked after me and Sammy. How sad it was that he was raising us alone, and how she'd be more than willing to take us on; if it meant she got him in her bed. So when I went back to the table I stared at him, trying to figure out what the hell she'd meant. Then he turned his head just a little, and looked right in my eyes, probably trying to figure out what the hell was up with me. Just like that my world changed; I looked and saw a man I wanted, instead of a father, I saw a potential lover.

I guess most people would have about died to feel that way about the man who'd fathered them, but lets face it, normal isn't ever going to be a word we use to describe our lives. I'd fall asleep each night and dream of him, his hands on my body and his voice whispering in my ear. At first I thought it could only be a fantasy, I mean I might be a twisted little freak, but there was no way he could feel the same. But sometimes I'd catch him looking at me, his gaze lingering a little too long; and one day I recognised the look in his eyes, the hunger. He felt the same way I did, and that was all the invitation I needed.

Of course it wasn't that easy, the first time I kissed him he freaked. Tried to beat the idea right out of me. Trouble was the feeling of hard leather on my skin turned me on, instead of warning me off. He ran then, disappeared for two weeks straight and when he came back he was a different man.

He held himself apart from me, making sure I never had a chance to be alone with him. It was fucking torture, but I'm nothing if not stubborn. I pushed his buttons at every turn, disobeyed orders and defied him to his face. When that didn't get me what I wanted, I took to going out, rolling back in the small hours, stinking of cigarettes, alcohol and sex. I'd make sure he'd be faced with the marks on my body, the bites and welts and scratches left behind by my parade of faceless fucks. It never worked, no matter how affected he was, or how jealous he became, he still wouldn't give in.

At eighteen I'd had enough, for the first time I really thought I might have been wrong about him. And I just couldn't take it any more, seeing him every day and not being able to have him. I was driving us all insane, so I figured it'd be better on everyone if I just went away.

The second the words left my mouth, it was like he crumbled, and then his arms were around me and his lips were pressed against mine. He promised me the moon that night, promised to love me and keep me, then took me to his bed and made my every fantasy come true.

I can feel him spooned up behind me; my lover, my father, my daddy. His breath hot on my neck, the deep rumbling of his snores vibrating through my body. His grip so tight around me, like he's afraid I'll vanish on him if he doesn't hold on tight. Not that I'd ever be the one to walk away, I worked too damn hard to get here to ever think about giving this up.

Sometimes I still have a hard time believing that I can really have this, have him. He ran from me so long, hurt me so badly, that I sometimes worry that'll all be taken from me. That he'll wake up one day and decide that what we have is wrong.

Don't think this'll be the day though, not sure either of us will be up to going anywhere. Last night was incredible even by our standards, don't know what exactly set him off, but it was one hell of a ride.

Started when we got back from the hunt; it'd been an easy enough kill, thing only managed to get in one good swipe of it's claws before a barrel full of rock salt blew it all the way back to hell. On the way back to the motel I could feel his eyes on me, glued to the spot on my neck where the claws had left a bloody welt.

I expected yelling when we finally stopped, the patented John Winchester lecture on not being fast enough or strong enough. Sharing his bed doesn't make him any easier on me when it comes to the job. He just cleaned me up, not talking at all, was damn unnerving and I began to think I must really have pissed him off. An angry John is hotter than hell, but there's always been a limit to how far I can push him without getting burned.

We don't always need the games; some nights it's enough to just be together. To fall asleep wrapped in each other's arms and wake to the feeling of the other's body moving lazily against your own. But sometimes I need more, it's like I feel myself burning up inside. Always reaching out for something I can't quite touch. It aches and twists and burns; makes my temper short and my tongue quick.

I spit and push at him, acting every bit the pissy bitch I used to accuse Sam of being. He always seems to know just how much I can take, drags it out ‘til I'm sure that I'm gonna break, before giving me what I need, what we both want. Then he slams me back into place, puts me on my knees like a good little boy. Makes me beg and plead for my daddy, makes me fall apart before he puts me back together.

It'd been building for days, my need and his temper. So I guess that getting myself hurt was the final straw, though I sure as hell hadn't expected what came next. He all but shoved me into the bathroom, and when I came back in, he was dressed to go out. Tight jeans and a black shirt clinging to the hard lines of his body, made my breath catch in my throat and my cock start to rise. He's forever telling me that I'm beautiful, but the truth is I'm nothing compared to him. He barely looked at me, just tossed a pair of sinfully tight jeans my way and told me to get ready.

A night on the town wasn't really what I'd had in mind, so I was sullen and fractious all through the drive into town. I couldn't read him at all, and when we finally parked, I was surprised when he drew me into his arms and pressed an almost chaste kiss to my lips.

He pulled me out of the car, and I followed him down an alley; ‘til we came to an unlit doorway. He knocked and I found myself drawn into an anteroom of some kind. From the outside, it'd looked seedy and abandoned, but here there were bright lights and plush furnishings. When he told me to lose my shirt, I just stared for a second; finally figuring out where he'd brought me.

Oh he'd teased me with the idea before, threatened to parade me through a club so everyone could see what a slut I was for him. I'd just never thought he'd actually make good on the threat. So there I was, standing barefoot and shirtless; wondering what the hell I'd let myself in for this time.

He moved behind me, and I could hear him murmuring against my throat; his voice that low purring growl that always hits me right in the cock. "So beautiful.... Going to fall for me baby boy....gonna show them all you're mine." Then he was reaching round me and I felt soft leather tighten round my throat. I went from half hard to aching in a split second, he'd put a fucking collar on me, and it felt so fucking right.

Then he clipped a leash to the collar, wrapped the length of leather in his fist and gave it a quick tug. Made me stumble forward, following him into the main part of the club. My eyes darted everywhere, I saw leather clad Doms and naked subs. Whipping posts and cages, stages set up for play, some occupied, some just waiting to be used. I'm no innocent, haven't been for a long time, but it was almost too much, I got the feeling I was way out of my depth. The sharp tug on my leash had me falling against his body, and his arms were there; holding me while I got myself together. When he moved us too a quiet booth, I relaxed a little and allowed him to push me to my knees.

The collar was just tight enough, that I felt it with every breath, the soft edge rubbing against the welt on my neck. From my position leaning against his legs I couldn't see him; but that didn't matter, the constant tension of my leash let me know he was there. I took the time to get a better look at the other people, most were done up in fancy costumes, leather and chains decorating their bodies. But a few were like us, just dressed in simple street clothes and somehow they looked more real. Like the others were just playing dress up, pretending to be something they weren't in their everyday lives.

Strong fingers twisted sharp in my hair and I realised that I'd been so distracted he'd asked me something and I hadn't heard him. "Asked you if you were gonna behave boy."

"Yes daddy." The words were compliant, but I knew my voice held a sarcastic edge he wouldn't ignore.

I thought he'd drag it out, threaten and tease, before dragging me home to make me pay. Instead he hauled me up by my collar and before I knew it, he had my pants pulled down to my knees and my body bent me over his lap. One hand pressed heavily into my back, holding me down, whilst the other stroked my bare ass.

I couldn't quite believe he'd done it, not there in the club. I was grateful that my head was buried out of sight in the soft cushions of the couch; ‘cos I just knew I was blushing like some freaking girl. "Gonna have to teach you some manners. Make sure you know to listen to your daddy when he talks to you." I felt my cock twitch at his words, I may have been embarrassed about being so exposed, but apparently my libido liked it just fine. Before I could get any relief, he shifted just a little, trapping my cock between his thighs and I groaned as I realised I wasn't going to be getting off any time soon.

That just made him laugh, and I felt the sound vibrate through my body, turning me on even more. Then the first slap landed and I stopped caring about anything but the feel of his hand. It's not the most painful thing he's done to me; I've worn welts from canes and straps that have hurt so much more. But there's something about getting spanked, being bare-assed over his lap, bare skin to bare skin, that just seems dirtier than anything else we do.

Being there in the club, knowing people were watching us, listening to us; just made the whole thing so much more intense. Knowing that they thought the words we used were just another kink, like the games they played. "Daddy please......need you daddy.......sorry daddy....i'll do better.....sorry daddy.....so sorry..." The words spilled from my lips, as the fire began to spread through my ass. I could feel the calluses in his hand, rubbing against my sensitised skin, helping drive me higher and higher.

"Don't believe you yet......gonna have to convince me little slut....can you do that?.....Make daddy believe you're really sorry?" His hand had to have hurt almost as much as my ass, but he was relentless, smack after smack making me struggle against him, until finally I felt tears start to flood my eyes as I finally broke.

He knew, just like he always seems to know when I've had enough, and his hand stilled, rubbing gentle circles of the flesh he'd coloured. His words softer now, but no less possessive. "My beautiful boy....so good for his daddy.....so beautiful.....could keep you like this all the time....would you like that baby?....Be my slut all the time?"

I'm not sure how far he would have gone in the club, or what he had planned but right then a strange voice cut into our private world. All I could see of him was heavy boots and leather pants hung with a whole mess of chains, so I pegged him for one of the poseurs; and boy was I right. "He's a pretty thing. Is his mouth as talented as it looks?"

The drawled words were swiftly followed by a hand reaching down towards my ass, and I instinctively flinched away from the touch. We might not have played at clubs before but I knew enough about the scene to know that you weren't supposed to touch without permission. I needn't have worried ‘cos dad was already moving.

He surged to his feet, I don't think he even noticed that he'd dumped me on the floor, and had the guy up against the wall with a knife at his throat. No teasing in his voice now, just pure killing rage. "You don't ever touch what's mine." I struggled to my feet, trying to pull up my pants, terrified that he'd go too far. I could already see a pair of muscled bouncers heading our way, and we couldn't afford that kind of trouble.

Quickly as it started, it was over, knife hidden back in his jeans and he was hustling me towards the exit. We drove back here in silence, he looked so fucking wound up I didn't dare push him. But when we got back here, he seemed to collapse in on himself, pulling me to him and I could feel him shake as he just held on.

He kissed me so softly and stripped us both down, moving us to the bed. He seemed to almost be worshipping my body, kissing every inch, his hands smoothing and caressing, tender where he was usually so rough. It was a sensual assault, and by the time he was done exploring I was a writhing mass of need. When he finally slipped inside me, I almost cried with relief.

Even then he was gentle, tiny thrusts; just rocking in and out. Drawing out our pleasure ‘til I thought I'd die of frustration, before letting go and coming deep inside me. Then a trembling hand reached down to stroke my cock, coaxing me into following him over the edge.

There were words mumbled against my skin, rambling apologies that made little sense. He seemed so lost and I couldn't understand why, only knew that I wanted to make him feel better. Eventually he settled, drifting off into sleep. Only I'm too busy trying to figure things out to be able to rest myself.

The last few weeks he's been getting more and more tense with each passing day. Calls have been coming in from other hunters, giving tips and hints that seem to set him worrying. I think maybe he's finally got a lead on the demon. The fucking monster we've been searching for all this time.

Can't think why he hasn't told me, unless he's trying to keep me safe. Doesn't want to risk me dying at its hands the way Mom did. Damned if I'm gonna let him face this thing alone, there's nothing could ever make me walk away from this fight. All his mutterings make a little more sense now, the way he'd apologised for treating me bad, for acting like he owned me.

Truth is, he does own me, heart and soul and I wouldn't have it any other way. The thought of being without him fucking terrifies me; leaves me shivering and cold to the bone; I know that I wouldn't survive without him. So I snuggle in a little closer, there'll be time enough to talk in the morning. For now I'm just content to sleep wrapped in his arms. Nothing can touch us as long as we're together.


I can barely stand to look at him. Dean, my brother that I haven't seen in too long, there's so much pain in his eyes. He's finally sleeping, but it's anything but restful, he's tossing and turning, fighting some invisible foe, whimpering and crying out for help. This isn't a son worried about his father, no this is a man broken by his lover's abandonment.

I don't know how to comfort him, it's not like I can tell him I understand, not when he's got no idea that I know about them. They went to so much trouble to hide themselves, sneaking around and making sure I never found out. At least that's what they think, but the truth is I've known for a very long time.

My first memories are of them being close; Dean was Dad's favourite little soldier, the apple of his eye. Then something happened, I'll probably never know what. I just remember that Dad turned cold and harsh, picking at Dean, pushing him away at every turn. While Dean shoved back, partying like it was going out of fashion, a different man or woman every night.

Then suddenly it all changed again, and I was so relieved that the fighting had stopped, that I never thought to question why. Dad was back to treating Dean well, and he'd lost the cruelty and bitterness that had haunted him for almost two years. Sometimes Dean would still act up, he'd get jittery and fractious; so on edge that I thought he'd snap. It scared me a little, but after weeks of worry, he'd just snap back into place, be my Dean again and everything would be right with my world.

But one time, around the time Dean turned nineteen, it was worse than usual. Dean acted so strange, so antsy, that I thought we might lose him. Dad didn't seem to notice, or maybe I thought he just didn't care. Then he decided we should separate, said he'd found a hunt that was too dangerous to take us on. So he sent me to Pastor Jim, and said he was going to drop Dean off with Missouri.

I couldn't get the way Dean had been acting out of my head, couldn't lose the thought that there was something very wrong with him. So I snuck back to where Dad was staying, thinking I could talk to him, maybe get him to actually speak to Dean. But when I got there I hesitated, I knew I was going to be in trouble for not staying where he'd put me. So I pottered round the motel lot, trying to pick up the courage to confront him.

Standing in the bushes by the back lot, keeping myself hidden from passers-by, I found myself near an open window. And that's when I heard it, the thing that has shaped every second of my life since.

"Daddy." That single word, drifting through the open window of their motel room, froze me in my tracks.

My father was Sir to his face, and behind his back was Dad, or more often bastard. Not daddy, even when we were kids I can't remember either of us saying that.

"Daddy, please!" Dean's voice again, I'd never heard him sound like that before, high and reedy, like a man desperate and in pain. I remember thinking that something was very wrong, so instead of heading straight in the door, I edged closer to the window, to try to get some idea of what was happening inside.

I could barely suppress the gasp of surprise I made at my first glimpse of the people in the room, and I pulled back into the shadows so they wouldn't see me. Looking for the second time I realised I needn't have bothered, they were in their own world, too lost in each other to notice anything else.

Dean was splayed out on the bed, naked and sweating, his lean form writhing and twisting on the covers. His arms were stretched taut above his head, tied to the rails of the bed. He pulled against the rope, making every muscle in his torso stand out in stark relief.

The other man was bent over my brother, his face hidden by one of Dean's raised legs. As I watched I saw the man move further up the bed, saw a lit candle in his hand and that tiny light finally let me get a look at his face. My father's face, and I couldn't begin to get my head around it.

My mind raced as I tried to figure out what the hell was going on, had John Winchester finally flipped, or had some demon forced its way inside him? Because this couldn't be happening, my father couldn't be hurting his son like this. All I knew was that I needed a plan, needed to find some way to rescue Dean and fix our dad; but I couldn't begin to think where to start.

My eyes were drawn back to the bed when I heard a pained whimper from Dean; and I watched in something akin to horror, as John raised up the candle, tilted it slightly and let hot wax spill down onto my brother's chest.

Dean's eyes snapped open and he arched up from the bed, mouth stretched wide in a wordless scream. I started to panic then, started cataloguing weapons and distances in my mind, trying to figure out the best way to get to Dean before he got hurt too badly.

"Feel good baby, do you want some more? Want daddy to make you burn? You're doing so well baby, making daddy so proud." I was so sure it had to be a demon because there was just no way that my Father would ever talk like that.

I wanted to rush in, to pull the monster away from my brother and wrap him in my arms. I wanted to cover his bruises and promise that everything would be okay. Then I heard him again. "Please daddy, need you." and I watched in a whole different kind of horror as he raised his head and kissed his tormentor.

I couldn't tear my eyes away as realisation shot through me, this wasn't a demon, and Dean wasn't suffering; at least not in any way he didn't want to. That really was my father and my brother, and everything I thought I knew about them disappeared in the wake of that terrible knowledge.

More wax splattered down; and as I watched Dean shudder and twist on the covers, it was like I was seeing him for the first time. I'd always known he was too damned pretty for his own good; but right then, in that frozen moment, it dawned on me that he was beautiful. His golden skin glowing in the flickering candlelight, his body stretched out for play, and his voice hoarse with lust; nothing I've seen before or since has ever moved me so much.

I watched as Dad put the candle aside and reached down to grab something from the nightstand. I couldn't see it at first, not ‘til he lowered it to Dean's chest and started prying off the hardened wax. It was a knife, a fucking silver athame, from what little I could see of it.

As the wax was cleared away, I saw a long line of blood appear on Dean's chest, glistening in the faint light. It called to me, drew me in, and I hated that I could only watch as my Father leaned in and licked the blood away. The touch of his tongue on heated skin made my brother whimper and moan; and it was almost more than I could stand.

I watched as tongue followed knife all over my brother's body. Watched blood appear and disappear, heard his pleas get louder and more desperate. Heard my Father's low growl echo round the room as he abandoned the knife and settled between my brother's thighs.

I saw him reach down and angle their cocks together; and then he began to move, faster and faster, grinding their bodies together. Frottage is the fancy word for what they did, but it seemed so much dirtier than that. Father and son, moving blindly together, lost in passion and driving need, I couldn't take my eyes off them.

I didn't really notice how hard I'd gotten, didn't notice that my hand had crept inside my pants. Didn't feel the way I was tugging on my cock, twisting and pulling, desperately trying to match their frantic rhythm. I followed them into release, finding myself sticky and sated and desperately lonely.

Inside the room dad released Dean from his bonds and cleaned them both up, before settling down on the bed. I watched as Dean curled into him, plastering their bodies together again. Listened as Dad whispered to his boy. "You were so good for me baby....so beautiful......love you baby...always love you." And I felt myself begin to hate him, as Dean whispered back. " Love you too Daddy....need you....thank you daddy....you take such good care of me...my daddy....mine."

I finally realised they didn't need me, didn't need anyone but each other and I felt jealousy rise up and burn through my body. I stumbled away, headed back to Pastor Jim's and did my best to forget what I'd seen. But when I closed my eyes it was all I could see, only it wasn't my Father I saw with Dean, no the hands that touched my brother in my dreams were my own.

I told myself it was just overactive hormones; called myself, and them, every disgusting name in the book; but the next time they headed out alone, I followed close behind. That time I got to see Dad fuck my brother. Got to see Dean on his knees, and listen to him beg to be fucked. Whilst I stood outside, alone again, untouched and angrier than I'd ever been in my life.

That set the pattern for the next couple of years, they'd sneak off and I'd follow. I got to see Dean fucked and sucked and whipped. Got myself a sexual education, porn stars could only dream of. And every time I saw them I hated my Father a little bit more, and every night I closed my eyes and dreamed of Dean. Dreamed of my hands marking that golden skin, my body driving into his, and my name on his lips when he begged.

They didn't understand, they couldn't because they'd no idea that I'd discovered their dirty little secret. They just knew I got angrier day by day; that I fought with Dad every chance I got, blaming him for everything, because he had what I wanted. I knew I hurt Dean as much as Dad, he hated the way we were around each other, but I couldn't control myself at all.

Eventually it got too much, I knew I was on the verge of losing control, of reaching out and just taking what I wanted. So close to telling what I knew, to yelling it out for the world to hear and destroying us all. So I ran, packed up my things and ran away to school.

I threw myself into it, pretending I didn't care about how much my leaving must have hurt Dean. Pretending I wasn't still dreaming of him every night, wasn't still burning for him. I met Jess and tried to drown myself in her. She was sweet and beautiful; but she wasn't Dean. I tried my best to make her happy, and for the most part I think I did. At least she never had to know what a twisted little fuck I really am.

So here we are together again and I'm just as lost as the day I ran. My brother's lying on the bed, literally bleeding out from a broken heart, trusting me to help him. My Dad's missing, off in the night somewhere, tracking down his demon. I buried Jess this afternoon, stood over her remains and cried crocodile tears; as I tried to hide the way I really felt. Not wanting anyone to know that I was happy she was dead because it meant i got have Dean back, or that i was happy to see him so vulnerable and broken; because I knew this might be my best chance to take him for my own.

She's not even cold in her grave, and all I can think about is getting in my brother's pants. I've dreamed of this, waited years for this moment, for an opportunity to make him mine. Unlike Dad, once I have him crying out for me, I'll never let him go, never put the damn hunt before his needs. No once he's mine, it's going to be forever, and Dad will be the one left out in the cold.

I suppose the way I feel about him, the things I want to do to that luscious body, mean that I'll burn in Hell some day. I can't bring myself to care though. If that's the price for wanting Dean, for owning him, then I'm happy to pay it.