#vetala in samarkan

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S P N, WHEN THE LEVEE BREAKS A M Y M E I S S N E R, SPONTANEOUS COMBUSTION

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john winchester meticulously seeking out that cheesy samarkan font to write the vetala’s name in fake devanagari script so his boys would one day think he was like, culturally sensitive about how to kill one <3 good job king

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Fandom: Supernatural (TV 2005) Warnings: Underage Relationships: Dean Winchester/John Winchester, John Winchester/Sam Winchester Additional Tags: Parent/Child Incest, Voyeurism, Possessive Behavior for dadfucker december 2023 / @dadfuckerfest​ Summary:

John develops a habit when they settle somewhere that's not a motel, and baby baby baby do you like it?

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Is this what you want What you need What you wanted me to be Always loved me strapped to you Lock it down and drive me through [x]

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11.04 | B A B Y

out in the back seat of my brother’s ’67 chevy when you just don't seem to have as much to lose strange how the night moves

[ for @wincestwednesdays - week two, "favourite episode / blood" ]

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Smiling makes more sense to Dean than any of the long meaningful therapizing looks that Sam keeps giving him or, god help him, Bobby's schtick about how being a Hunter means not being a person. Dean still feels like a person, just a fucked-to-hell one who can't stop seeing the long line of his inadequacies straight out the door and on till sunrise. Frank might not know him but Frank knows ... something, about what it's like, about your biggest life loss coming at age twenty-six and the one-foot-in-front-of-the-otherness of everything that comes after.

Frank's also something new and a little odd but Dean doesn't mind odd when it comes with a never-ending parade of pet names that are rolled in that sour candy coating so they're just this side of cloying, a little sarcasm to take the sugar off. He's not into psychedelics much but with Frank he's curious about the old guy's bag of tricks, so he says fuck it one time and drops acid with the geezer. It's, predictably, odd; Frank spools on and on about his routine and all the steps he's employed to keep on truckin' and by the time he's giving Dean that shiatsu massage he'd mentioned, Dean's still curious so he leans into it.

Twelve minutes later he's not altogether sure if his tianshu meridian is any better for the way Frank's rolling his knuckles against Dean's stomach, but sixteen minutes after that, Frank's fucking him nicer than a lot of people do and Dean mumbles, "i'm the one paying you, y'know," and Frank stares at him with one hand cupped at the base of Dean's skull and says, "listen, poodle, at our level of transaction nothing's a one-way street so lie back and let me get my kicks," and that sounds reasonable enough so Dean sinks his hips back further in the cot and lets it all be easy, for once, easy as it gets for somebody like him. His head jostles a little in the cup of Frank's palm with each rolling thrust and Dean opens and closes his mouth and looks up at the ceiling and doesn't see Amy's face and her cat eyes, or Bobby's face and his sadness, or anything at all. Maybe fire, rolling in. Maybe not. "Mom," he says, experimentally, and Frank slows for a minute, then gently moves his hand from behind Dean's head and covers his eyes with it.

"Thank you," Dean rasps. Frank doesn't say anything. His thumb sweeps along Dean's forehead once, twice. Sweet one way and sour the other.

---

going to lebanon : flash creations

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O U R O W N P R I V A T E I D A H O

VIEWS OF THE CITY OF Portland Oregon digressing into the seedy areas of the small city. ARCADES, and yellow storefronts, of PORNOGRAPHIC BOOKSHOPS.

TWO YOUNG MEN LOITER IN FRONT OF ONE OF THE BOOKSHOPS SOLICITOUSLY AND EYE A CUSTOMER.

BOTH POSSESS A CERTAIN PAINFUL DOWN AND OUT HANDSOMENESS OF A STREET HUSTLER.

[ for @wincestwednesdays - week one, "american gothic" ]

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we take care not to touch each other in public, nor do we look into each other's eyes except furtively

(malina - ingeborg bachmann)

JOHN WINCHESTER WEEK  |  DAY 4: JOHN & DEAN

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Fandom: Supernatural (TV 2005) Relationships: Dean Winchester/John Winchester, Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester Characters: Dean Winchester, Sam Winchester, John Winchester, Mary Winchester Additional Tags: HunterCorp Universe, The Winchester Family, Father/Son Incest, Normalized Incest for dadfucker december 2023 / @dadfuckerfest​ Summary:

A family, like a corporation, works at its best and smoothest when everyone understands their job description.

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Through the darkness of future past, the magician longs to see; one chance out between two worlds ... did you really think you could trap me?

t w i n  p e a k s s u p e r n a t u r a l

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the brother within: #3

3) being liminal, the dog is the guardian of the threshold, and is thereby a protector of hearth and home, of structure and tradition; and, – Daniel Deardorff, The Other Within: The Genius of Deformity in Myth, Culture & Psyche

When Sam was two months old, a wasp flew in the window and landed on his tummy. Mom had fallen asleep for just a minute, Dean knew she needed a minute sometimes so he didn't wake her up, he stood by the crib and watched the wasp's pointy brown body moving in circles against Sam's so-soft onesie. Sam hadn't noticed yet. Dean put two of his fingers on Sam's tummy and the wasp crawled onto them and it felt gross but he held his breath and walked to the window and the wasp flew back out before he even got there. He went back and Sam was looking at him, and Dean said, "you're ohhhh-kay," the way Dad said it sometimes, which meant that it was.

---

Dean started crying and couldn't stop when Mr. Darling sent Nana out to the doghouse when he watched Peter Pan. He never did finish the movie.

---

There comes a time when Sam has an imaginary friend and Dean doesn't much like it. There comes a time when Sam has a secret dog during secret Flagstaff and Dean doesn't like that either. There comes a time when Sam has both a girlfriend and a dog that Dean doesn't know and that's shitty too.

Dean doesn't like dogs in his car. Dean paid attention to that one Aesop's Fable about the manger, but he doesn't think it applies to him, not really. Who uses mangers anymore anyhow? They'd just burn up in the fire and take the baby messiah with them.

---

"Good boy," Dad says, tired, and hauls Dean onto his lap all sprawled and sideways so he can swizzle his fingertips into Dean's hair and then wrap him up in a tight hug. "You're always taking care of us," Dad mumbles against the side of Dean's head, fingers moving behind Dean's ear as he sighs. They both smell like the tomato and rice soup Dean had managed to cobble together out of a tin of Campbell's and some leftover fried rice, and the tang of it isn't exactly the nicest but it's comforting. Like home. Sam's on the other end of the sofa conked out from eating the last tin of pudding, and Dean turns around until he can settle against Dad properly. The rise and fall of Dad's stomach, the occasional thick way he clears his throat -- he swallowed some kind of ectoplasm on the last hunt and it's still working through his system -- and the swish of Dad's fingers through his hair. Dean's getting too big for this, he knows. But for tonight he made it all feel right, he did it all good, and his brother and father are sleepy and quiet and Dean's a good boy.

---

He wasn't gonna fuck a poodle, come on. Not one that looked like that.

---

"You're me but backwards," Chuck says to him at one point. Dean's still stinging from the don't confuse me with your dad remark, especially since technically Chuck is supposed to be basically everyone's dad, otherwise what's the whole frigging point of the Our Father?

"You're backwards," is what Dean says, and Chuck grins and shoots finger guns at him. "You should've kept your dad's dog tags," Chuck says. "You know what I do with lukewarm things. You should commit to the motif."

Dean doesn't ask what the hell Chuck's talking about. Dean leaves it alone.

---

Sam's the one who guts the hellhound. Dean can't do anything but watch.

---

The bunker is the best place they've ever been and Dean doesn't waste time in making it a home, because Dean knows better than to waste time. For a while after that extra forty in Hell he'd counted his age in dog years, because that seemed to make more sense. But most of that wasn't really living. Most of that was a choke chain, and sometimes he still feels it biting into his throat in Alastair's voice, and Azazel's, and John's. He feels bad about that last one and he doesn't. Dad had outlasted him in Hell, after all. If anybody would understand it would be him.

---

Sometimes, Dean thinks, all of their hard work and sacrifice isn't what they're left with in the end. It all comes down to a miracle.

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[[ okay this has no title, no particular plot, it was literally just @coffincanary and me writing what used to be called lizard-brain fic bc we both find it hot lol. i didn't do much to edit so what's here is what you get XD ie: what happened between John and Azazel when he'd been captured and possessed. warnings for noncon, incest, mentions of underage, death, etc. ]]

Pain. That was the broad stroke of what John felt when he waded up to consciousness; a broad band of it around his head, a low throbbing starburst of it in his side, across the small of his back. The demons had taken a few kicks once he was down, no doubt. But he was alive. And where there was life, there was the possibility of escape.

He needed to escape. The boys would be worried; the boys might put themselves in danger to get him back. He needed to escape.

John rolled, before he'd fully gotten stock of where he was, and that proved a miscalculation. Because he was on a kitchen table, of all things, and he rolled right off the edge, crashing into a chair and sprawling out on the linoleum. Nice linoleum. Was this a condo? Why would they bring him somewhere normal?

"Don't go getting any ideas," a voice said, as a person stepped between his splayed legs. "Take off your coat. Stay a while." John looked up, into a face he didn't recognize except for those yellow eyes.

Azazel smiled, the sight of the hunter sprawled on the ground like a fallen doll deeply amusing. Teeth flicked between his lips, licking over his canines, before he squatted down in front of the hunter. John had been stripped - well, not of his clothes, but of every single one of his weapons. It was interesting to see in how many nooks and crannies he had shoved weapons.

"Aw, not happy to see me? Too bad. We're gonna stay together for quite a bit." Azazel tilted his head, taking in John's expression like the hunter was some sort of very interesting zoo animal. A very bewildered zoo animal. Might be because of his form. Or because of the murder of his wife. Or maybe both. After all, seeing the monster that killed "the love of your life" inhabiting the body of a teenager might be jarring to behold.

"Now, this is quite interesting, isn't it? How's it feel? Guess your wife felt the same way when she saw me at the crib of your sweet baby boy. For some reason, you Winchesters really don't think too far ahead, do you. Just do what's right in the moment, worry about the consequences later. That's what got you captured in the first place, didn't it?" The demon shook his head, letting out a sigh as if John's thoughtlessness was the worst for him. When, in fact, it had gotten him a ticket right into some of the most fun days of his life.

"Oh, don't make that face. You're gonna be out of here soon enough. Your boys should be hot hot hot on your trail right now. My sweet little daughter is gonna lead them here. And you will be out of here in no time. Well, a few day's time, actually." Azazel wouldn't be spending most of it in this body. The body of the local track team captain had seemed like a youthful body, good enough to hold him, but it felt so deeply inadequate when John Winchester was right there, body waiting to be filled by demons -- one way or another. "Until then - I have some very sweet ideas for you. I really, really just wanna see what goes on in that noggin of yours. Explore it, see just who John Winchester really is deep down. And you know, if you just relax, it'll even feel good for you. Heard that one before?"

Even though he knew the answer, John had still shifted around, hands flicking down to certain areas where he concealed weapons, finding each and every spot empty. They'd been thorough.

But the taunts -- those hit, as the yellow-eyed bastard expected. Aimed from so close, inside the grief of Mary's murder, there was no way they wouldn't land and John kept the corners of his mouth pinned down tight as he rose to sitting, staying down, seeming unthreatening and woozy as he took stock of where he was. Big double-hung window; fire escape. One main door, too far away. Possible double-hung in the bedroom, likely a casement in the bathroom too small to get out of. "Don't think this was anything other'n a stroke of luck for you," he said finally, lifting his eyes to meet the demon's. "You've been chasing me as long as I've been chasing you. I'm the only reason we're even breathing the same air now."

His posture went rigid, though, when the demon hit on something that John hadn't thought of in years. Decades. "My boys know better than to throw themselves after danger," he said instead, queasiness circling low in his belly. Sam might want to; Sam might get worked up. Dean would want to come but he'd prevail, the cooler head, despite what other people might think. Dean liked plans. Dean liked order. Things that his father knew about him, that his charmingly devil-may-care attitude wouldn't give away. No, his son wouldn't deliver himself, his brother, or the Colt into yellow-eyes' hands.

John relaxed. He even let the demon see it, as he got unhurriedly to his feet and smiled. "Whatever you got," he said, "it won't be enough."

Azazel purred in delight as he watched the shift in expressions on John's face. The demon could see those memories flaring up, and the fear for his boys. Always his boys. That sweet little weak spot that was so easy to hit if you knew how to. The demon watched as John's eyes darted around the room, looking for an exit, not finding it.

"Oh, are you sure?" The tension in John's muscles told another story. "You know, your boys… they adore you. Especially Dean. They love their daddy. Do you think making a little phone call to them while you're screaming in pain wouldn't make them come running like dogs?" Just ... his words didn't have the intended effect. It wasn't enough to make the demon's smile drop. Just show a small crack in it, a twitch of the muscles. And John Winchester was smiling.

Azazel hung his head, letting out a sigh and shaking it as if John had done something deeply disappointing. "Now, you're really underestimating me. I hung your wife on the ceiling like a pin up girl. Really, one of my hottest works, if you catch my drift. Maybe I should have done more than almost gutting her." Azazel got to his feet, stretching his body. It felt like restraints on his very essence, the smoke curling inside the boy's lungs.

"But you do know, I just love a good challenge, John." The knife flashed. Before John could react, Azazel plunged it into his own throat, cutting his trachea in one clean cut. The body trying to breathe, but instead of air, blood was bubbling in Azazel's mouth, filling it with an iron taste. Not something that could kill a demon, of course. But it'd be enough to kill the boy. Azazel shot out of the boy's mouth, yellowish smoke billowing out into the room until there was nothing left inside of the kid. He dropped to the floor, clutching his throat, choking and gurgling, the sweetest music in the demon's ears.

There wasn't anything John could do. Azazel shot downward, covering John's face like a blanket, pushing into every orifice on the hunter's face, filling it up and seeping deep into his being, pushing in and in and in, until the smokey essence curled up in John's chest cavity, like a purring cat. Azazel took a breath in John's body. A beaten, battered, body, old and rugged and scarred, just how Azazel liked them. He stretched, flexed his fingers, testing their strength.

"Wow. Just wow." Azazel muttered. John was there, somewhere down there, able to see but not able to feel his own body anymore. How that must feel, Azazel didn't know. He hoped it was horrible. "You know, I should have done this ages ago. I'd have tried a little harder to find you if I knew your body felt this good. You're in peak health, even. A little surprised at your liver - after all that whiskey, I thought it'd be as good as dead."

Azazel twisted his head, looking around the room. Though he wasn't interested in it all that much. It was the insides of John that were the truly intriguing thing. Azazel could already sense it, flashes of memory incorporating into his own almost automatically. He could dive a little deeper, of course. And he would. But those images filling up his mind right now - childhood memories, his boys as babies, as adults and - now, that was interesting.

"Now, what's that? War memories? My my, John. I took you for a lot of things, but that -- you truly surprise me. That's why I love your family. Always interesting, always some secrets. Do they know? Your boys? Mary? That their precious little John got gangraped, advertised as the prettiest little jailbait in the entire camp?" Azazel laughed loud. It felt good to do it with John's voice. "Now, I have to see that for myself. Shall we head a little down memory lane?"

The knife flashed against the boy's throat was a shock, a nauseating one, and John was about to drop to his knees to try and staunch the wound -- pointless, pointless, he knew what a death blow looked like -- but before he could put that into motion, everything went obscured. Noisome smoke that choked him with its sulfur and thickness, and John couldn't do anything as it sank and seeped in. He couldn't move. He couldn't even think of moving; it was like he'd been detached from his body, strings cut, and he was merely a john-shaped blob of consciousness inside a vast landscape.

But he could still feel, which was … maddening. As Azazel -- that was the demon's name, had he known that? no, no, he would've known if he'd known -- stretched his fingers. Breathed with his lungs. Started riffling through his memories.

"Stop," John croaked, but his voice just wobbled out from him in a broad spectrum, not a real voice. He could feel the demon's words within himself and also reverberating through his vocal cords, rumbling over his tongue and out through his lips. Talking about -- oh, thank god, not the boys, but something else. That John had left in the grave with Mary, the only one who knew about it, the only one--

| | "--you're a fucking whore, winchester," mary snarled, curled over his back like a wild animal, her strong strong hand at his throat as she thrust into him over and over and he whinnied in pain and gratitude because she understood, she'd figured it out even without john having to go through the indignity of telling her, she'd figured it out and he could feel the dogtags slapping against his back as she lunged against him, fucking him without mercy or remorse. just like on the firebase, when they'd take him to the commissary supply room and he'd be forced to suck and fuck any and all comers. john bent his head, feeling sweat and tears slip down his nose as mary spat on the back of his neck and then licked it up, biting the side of his throat. "i love you, baby, john, i love you," she murmured, nose pressed neatly under his ear, so his spine shook out in a long loose writhe and he started to breathe again. despite the bitemarks, the red streaks from his own belt, her still buried in his guts, the memories swirling in his brain quieted-- ||

John moaned, or maybe he didn't. Azazel heard it anyhow. "Don't," he pleaded, before he could stop himself, and felt a flash of self-loathing. Fuck, one memory dug out and he was already begging for it to stop? He had to hang on. He had to. Dean and Sam needed him to be strong.

God that memory -- vivid and beautiful and so utterly, utterly humiliating. Azazel wished there was a way of committing it to his memory eternally -- perhaps he could. Saving that forever inside of him, the image of Mary Winchester pounding into John like a dog in rut. He hadn't really pegged either of them to be the type, but that was what kept it interesting, wasn't it? The fact that John Winchester enjoyed getting pounded by his wife, getting off on the fact that he had been raped, that his wife was reminding him off it. And Mary -- less surprising, he had tasted her fervor those years ago, but still.

"Don't?" Azazel echoed out loud, his voice mocking, reverberating through the apartment just as much as it did inside of John. There went all of that sweet, sweet confidence -- the idea that it needed more to affect John Winchester. Yet, here the hunter was, moaning at the memories Azazel had dragged to the forefront. Just what were to happen if he went in deeper?

"Oh, John, you really are the type of guy where no means yes, aren't you? Bet you begged those guys, begged sweet Mary to stop too. But they just don't listen to you, and you like it that way, don't you?" Azazel purred, leaning against the kitchen counter. John's hands began exploring his body, running over it, all those spots that they had pulled weapons out, and deeper, below the fabric. John's warm skin, the small bits of fat under which the muscles reacted to the touch. He made sure to give John just enough control that he could feel it, the fact that the demon was touching him and himself. When Azazel's hands reached between his legs, an incredulous gasp escaped his lips.

"My my, John. Just the memory of her is enough to make you hard?" Azazel groaned as he began palming his dick, John's dick. The slight bulge pressing into his hand, practically asking for contact.

"You've really conditioned yourself to love this. I wonder, just how did you keep your hands off of that doe-eyed boy of yours? Sweet, soft, Dean. Or, are you more of a Samgirl? That boy who looks and acts so much like you -- ever wondered if you could condition him as well as you did to yourself?" Azazel was probing around John's mind, tugging at memories like balloons on a string, trying to find the color he liked. The ones John wanted to hide from the probing demon the most. All kinds of memories, the worst ones, floating around him, just waiting to be cracked open and examined.

"Oh, this is a good one, isn't it? First time they learned about that 17 year old boy lying to be in the army. Bet that's one of your favorites." Azazel leaned his head back, a smirk curling his lips as he began opening up John's belt buckle without even looking.

"Let's see if how that memory makes you feel. You know, you can't lie to me. I see it all, what you think. Those deep dark hiding spots you don't want me to look into. How you keep thinking about your boys -- I could tell you what I'm gonna do to them."

It was one thing to understand, conceptually, what demons were; that they were capable of the unimaginable, the unthinkable. John had studied Hieronymus Bosch paintings like they were a map to the subterranean activities of the supernatural, had witnessed what monsters were capable of if left unchecked, had seen his wife burning on the ceiling in his nightmares for the past couple of decades. But this. This was a level of violation that he was unprepared for.

How could he be? The feel of his own hands on his own body, yet it was like being groped by a stranger who was marvelling at all the responses he could get out of John's skin and muscle and blood. That wasn't new, it was true. What was new was having it happen alone with himself. His groan mingled with Azazel's at the touch to his cock, the humiliating sting of the demon's words. Most of them true, or true enough. "You damn well know what she was to me," he said, low and furious. "I've never thought that way about my boys."

Ahh, but that wasn't quite true, was it? John backpedaled mentally, hastily, fast and hard as he could, and found himself landing where Azazel wanted him. Back there, in Vietnam.

| | they never undressed him all the way, because if one of the commanding officers found them, the squad wanted to be able to regroup and bug out fast. so john was always in his fatigues, his dogtags, and so were the other guys; the rustle of cloth along with the slap of flesh against flesh, the first time happening so fast -- John working the commissary, stocking shelves when three of his unit came in. When they made sure to pen him in, before they told him they knew his secret: he was underage, had conned his way into the Marines. "We can't get to the city for boom-boom," one of them had smirked, a broad brawny redhead named Gardner, "and you're young enough to be like a girl, aintcha, Winchester?"

"You wanna cool it?" John had said, giving each of them a flat stare in turn. "Is it worth getting locked up in Leavenworth for the rest of your life? C'mon. The heat's making everyone crazy. Lemme pass." They didn't, though. They put him on his knees and he sucked cock for the first time; a rough but mercifully quick experience, that left his mouth feeling scummy, throat and lips swollen. And then Gardner had hauled John to his feet and pushed him down over a storage barrel. "I'll be kind," he promised, as the other two guys held John down. That was the most frightening part at the time: these were supposed to be his friends. John had gotten along with them all, and here they were holding him down as Gardner spat in his palm, wet himself, and then rammed into John with so much force his knees had buckled instantly. It didn't matter. They held him up for it, all the fucking and the blood, slapping his face through the wooziness, covering his mouth if the whimpers and cries got too loud. Talking about him over his head, his body and what it felt like for their cocks, his tightness and heat and how he apparently gave it up so good. John, nauseated and in excruciating pain, having a flurry of hope when their staff sergeant caught them, a hope that was murdered immediately when the sarge said, "thank shit -- we don't have any camp whores and this way we don't even have to pay. Morale's in the toilet and this little slut's gonna come in handy." He'd cupped John's tired chin, and John had rasped, "I don't want this," Sarge seemed to consider this seriously, then said, "Yes you do, Private Winchester. You're the kind of boy who always wants it, even if you don't know it yet. If you get back to the World and have children? They're gonna be little fuckslots just like you. Get that in your head if you wanna make it out of this sane, Private. You wanted it. You wanted it all." ||

Little fuckslots. He hadn't forgotten; it had been there all this time, waiting. Dean, Sam. He'd thought of them that way. John groaned, sickness sweeping through him.

It was simply delicious. John shifting and squirming under the burden of his memories, the feelings, the implications of it. It was like eating a gourmet meal - small bites, short memories but packed so full of flavor that it felt almost sickening. Azazel savored every second he got to watch -- different sensations were mixing. He could see the memory, hear and smell it too, sweat, dirt and blood mixing to the point the demon could almost taste it too. Inside his new meat suit, he felt John -- his emotions, the metaphysical squirming. And outside, their hand on their cock, neither fully belonging to each. John's body was a shared property now.

The demon had given over to slow, long strokes, shivering at the physical and internal sensation of it all as he observed one of John's core memories. Like pieces of a puzzle falling into place, seeing just where in John's life he had gotten so deeply messed up -- well, aside from watching his wife being burned to a crisp.

"Having some realizations, are we?" Azazel purred, sending the sickness flowing off John in waves. Azazel didn't stop the strokes, hadn't stopped them ever since the first soldier had pushed inside John, just continued on, voice a little breathy. "It doesn't even matter what I could do to your boys. What anyone could do. Because you dreamt of doing the worst to them."

It was like holding a rotting apple in your hand. It might look fine on the outside, but if you found that one sweet, soft spot, your finger slid right into the brown, spoiled flesh. And despite how firm John appeared on the outside, on the inside he was covered in those giving patches of rottenness.

"I mean, who can blame you? With those kids? I'd have fucked them ages ago if I were you. You know, start 'em young and all." Azazel grinned with John's mouth, letting his tongue wander over John's dried up lips, wetting them. One of his thumbs were already pressed deep inside John's core, memories being the gateway. He just needed the other in to tear the hunter apart.

"And the worst part is that they would have let you, isn't it? That you raised them to be that way, didn't even want to, weren't even aware of it. But you wanted those boys to be like that." Azazel leaned his head back, a throaty laugh bubbling in his throat. "Dean would spread his legs for his papa in a heartbeat. So much like Mary, but that part he got from his good ol' dad. And Sam -- he'd be the one to fuck you. Your sweet little baby would pound you into the mattress just like your wife. Just like all those soldiers. Make you bleed." Azazel abruptly stopped the strokes. Paused at the head of John's shaft, tilting his head as if he were listening to something particularly intriguing.

"But enough of your boys right? This is all about you, my dear John. What you want. Those sweet little secrets inside that filthy head of yours. Ever been to a confessional? Well, probably, considering everything. Don't worry, this is all between us, our dirty feelings, won't even tell another soul." Azazel pressed the thumb to the spongy head of John's cock, smearing the pre on his fingertip, before pressing it to his own lips. "Tell me. Those dark, dirty dreams, those desires. Everything. If you behave, I might give you a reward. Bet you want to fuck your wife one last time. Or… Maybe you want the Sarge instead. After all, he was one of your most frequent customers, wasn't he?"

Enough of your boys, the demon said with John's own tongue and breath and lips, but that wasn't what was happening because it was like John, the very innermost version of him, had just been perforated a million times over. Left raw and full of holes ready to soak up whatever filth Azazel wanted to plunge him into. Your boys. They would have let you.

The images Azazel painted flashed loud and bright, cacophonous within the cathedral of John's body: Dean, always so gentle and loving with his dad, so caring, so solicitous of what John needed and wanted (Dean, on his back with tears welling in those beautiful green eyes as John fucked him raw, fucked him swollen, told him he was the best second wife a man could have, told him his pussy felt like heaven, told him he might pump a baby into Dean and they could raise it together, told him that if Dean wanted to stick around that was the price, was being Daddy's new little wifey fucktoy breeding boy, and Dean would give it to him, oh yes, no matter the cost)--

--and Sam, the watchful calculating one who tried his best to temper it with compassion (Sammy, embracing the childish name because there was nothing childlike about how he'd hold John down, at the back of the neck, and hammer into him near-silent except for harsh panting, growls, until he was ready to cum and pulled out to wrestle John onto his back and shoot all over his face. Smirking as it caught in his father's eyelashes, striped his mouth, Sammy slapping one hand against John's slack cheek to smear it everywhere)--

-- John groaned, somewhere in his consciousness and the gross flesh of him, as he felt his body touching itself. His cock, and it felt like there was nothing else that existed; his whole being was just those sensitive nerve endings, that sensation, and suddenly the taste. It fed into itself on a feedback loop because as much as John wanted Mary, always wanted Mary, that taste of spunk was far from his wife. It was more like Sarge.

| | "If I had the chance," the man panted, "I'd yank your guts out with barbed wire to fuck them back into you again, baby boy." His hips slammed forward in a way that made it clear he'd do as much as he could without the chance for that, and John sobbed onto the thin mattress of the cot. Most of the base was gone, out in the ville pinned down by enemy fire; it was barebones, just angry tired soldiers who'd been stretched to their limits. Taking out their frustrations on his body, for … two? three? days now. John didn't even know who the man abusing him was, some corporal who came in with a mixed field unit. His wrists were tied behind him and he hadn't even seen the man's face. But he could see Sarge, standing at the head of the cot stroking his cock, already wet with cum and blood. "Hurry it up," Sarge told the man. "This little whore's got a whole line of guys to satisfy and we need to get as many turns in as we can before Delta Company gets back."

"He seems kinda weak," another voice remarked, Larsson from the sound. "You even feeding him, Sarge?" The sergeant gave a sinister smile, stepping forward to press his cockhead to John's slack, unresisting mouth. "Yeah," Sarge said, "As much as he needs." | |

--and the shit horrible part of it was that John had sucked him. Actively, with effort, moaning like the whore they called him. Azazel made a sound like he'd tasted something unbelievably delicious and said, in that John voice that filled every space, "--and now you're wondering if your sons would do the same thing. Moan and writhe like bitches in heat if they were raped like that. Well--" Azazel's hand went back to John's cock, "--one of them would. And you know which one."

"Leave them alone," John said, his voice worn through. "You have me, leave them."

Azazel had hit a nerve. The memories and what the future could hold, mixing together inside the morose psyche of John Winchester to make him break apart into pieces. Azazel licked the pre off of his fingers, salty and bitter as it spread on their tongue, the taste reaching both of them, staying there even after Azazel moved his hand back to John's slick, glistening cock. It was always family with the Winchesters, that deep inherent codependence from losing loved ones a few too many times.

"Oh but -- John, why would I do that? Sammy's already a part of this. After all, I'm inside of him. And with Dean… well, you know Dean. I wanna have all of you. And you want to have your sons." Azazel purred, lips twisted into a malicious smile as he stroked John's throbbing cock. His claws were deep inside the hunter, and now he'd rip him apart. Piece by piece. See how much John could take. And so, he took hold of John's conciousness, wrapped his arms around it, and pulled both of them down into the recesses of John's mind.

[lovetransaction]

The good Dale is in the Lodge and he can't leave. He's gonna tear you apart. He's gonna taste the iron in your blood. Write it in your diary.

t w i n  p e a k s s u p e r n a t u r a l

[lovetransaction]

.. it will brighten all our way human cas/trans dean, food, gender issues, rough sex

"I want eggs," Cas had said, when he came in and looked around with his head drooped forward, with his mouth open and downturned, perturbed frown crinkling his forehead. "Quickly. Eggs."

Then he'd sat down at the main table in the bunker, instead of going to the kitchen. "You want those on a raft?" Dean had said, for lack of any other response, and Cas stared at the table and said, "If that's how many you're making. I do want a lot of them."

And now he was eating them. Dean brought a few slices of bread just in case but Cas didn't care about that. Cas had loosened his tie and it was hanging lopsided as he ate his eggs, sunny-side up because that was fast to cook and Dean liked cooking them better than scrambled, but Cas wasn't eating that bread and Cas wasn't using a fork. He was dipping his fingers into the plate of ten fried eggs and breaking them open, bringing drippy scoops of yolk streaming up to his mouth. Steadily, staring ahead.

"You don't want some toast, buddy?" Dean tried. It was uncomfortable to watch. He couldn't even sit down, he had such heebie-jeebies; he just hovered next to Cas. Yellow-gold yolk was crusting along the corner of Cas' mouth, because these were free-range eggs that Sam liked to buy at the farmer's market, the colour almost startlingly orange. "Or a fork, or a spoon, or a ... vacuum hose..."

"Tempera paint is made of egg yolk," Cas said, and drew his fingertips along his face. Then he stood up and stepped close to Dean, so close the smell of warm buttery oil and the crackly edges of the whites came with him and Dean's mouth sprang water, against his back teeth. "Take off your clothes, Dean."

"Easy," Dean said, looking at the smear of slowly powdering yellow across Cas' navy blue tie. "Finish your breakfast."

Cas didn't move and his eyes were entirely blue, just a pinpoint of black as his gaze dragged down Dean's body. "I'm hungry," Cas said, and when he looked up at Dean's face his pupils went big and black so fast Dean almost reached for Cas' unused butter knife. But then Cas grasped for the hem of Dean's tshirt and yanked it, so Dean said, "easy," again and took it off himself. Carried on undoing his jeans and shoving them down with his shorts, and Cas' hands were on him immediately, gripping his hips, pushing him back against the table.

Back, and down, Cas following him with dirty fingers and dirty face, his eyes intent. He leaned in close and stuck his yolk-streaked fingers between Dean's legs, finding his clit and rubbing hard, two fingertips, while Dean gasped and said, "--come on, man, you couldn't use your other hand?" He whined when Cas twisted three fingers into him, body jolting against the table, and Cas made a sound in his throat that was either interest or satisfaction or evaluation. He was easier to read as an angel. Dean didn't want to dwell on that.

Cas reached up to grab Dean's jaw, cinching it hard, his own jaw set firm with his underbite jutting as he stared down at Dean and fucked him mean with those fingers. "Rebirth," he said, "and new life. But also your brain on drugs. Did you know American children can't be trusted with eggs that are literally called Children Surprise?" He took his fingers out, sucked them clean of the glistening wet that overlaid the streaks of yolk, and shoved them back into Dean, fucking and fucking with them.

"There's no prizes inside me," Dean said gruffly, his voice catching on a particularly deep lunge of Cass' hand, the jut of his thumb against Dean's clit again. Cas took his hand away, trailing his wet fingers down to Dean's asshole and stroking there before holding his sides and pulling him up. They were face-to-face and Cas was just looking at him. The egg yolk had dried, no longer orange-paint gluey; now it almost looked like gold on a religious painting, arcing over the left side of Cas' upper lip. Like it had been outlined there deliberately.

Cas breathed, a look of aggrieved concentration crossing his face, and turned Dean around, pushing him facedown against the table this time. He heard Cas' belt, his zip, the particular music of buckle and cloth, and Dean's mouth opened panting against the tabletop. Pavlov's dog when it came to that sound; trained to it from his youth. Cas' hard dick slid through his wet folds and Dean spread his legs out more but then Cas bypassed his dripping cunt, already worked open, and Dean made a sound when Cas pressed to his ass and held his hip steady with that fucking wet-spit-yolk hand as he forced the head of his cock in with the other. He pushed in without pause, without considering the way Dean tensed up automatically, caught off guard, before forcing himself to relax and take it, the way Dean breathed, "--easy!" against the table as his hands slapped down against it and groped immediately into fists.

Cas lurched forward and Dean hissed. "You're human right now, Cas," he said, half angry and half pleading. "You can't heal me when you're done. You have to fuckin' ease up." Instead of splitting Dean open over his cock without anything to help things along. But Cas started to thrust, saying nothing, switching to hold Dean's hip with his clean hand as he pumped and shoved himself in further each time until they both felt when the blood made it warmer and wetter. "I fixed it," Cas said, and Dean said, "ahhh--" and turned one of his fists on its side. Cas had never been good at listening when they fucked. This was nothing new. Knowing that he'd be limping out of here when it was over, that was the new part (but not new at all, in the bigger scheme of things, not if you looked at it honest).

Dean gritted his teeth and relaxed, and pushed back into it, and rode against and with Cas until he started to feel the slightest warm curlicues of heat low in his belly, a tightening and arc of pleasure, and he felt something drip thickly onto his back. Movement to the side and he turned his head to watch Cas grab a handful of sunny-side-up eggs, heard Cas eating them. Felt more yolk drip onto his back. "Are you fucking kidding me," Dean mumbled, and Cas said, "I wanted eggs."

He slid his oily hand around to Dean's front, below his navel, cradling. "I wanted eggs." Cas' hand pushed in, meaningful, sprawling.

Dean shoved up on his forearm, twisting so he could scowl at Cas, flakes of ice crystallizing in his blood. "Man," he said, "fuck you." They stared at each other for a moment, Cas' hand still spread out over Dean's shivery skin, and then he turned it and slid down to Dean's clit. Watching. Intent and pupil-blown until Dean's angry breathing skipped, turned sideways, melted into puddles of orange.

"I can't heal you," Cas said. He straddled up close, his cock buried all the way inside of Dean's body, finally fucked open enough for this not to hurt the way it had started out. "I don't need it," Dean said, and put his face against the table again. Cas was still for a moment and then started fucking him, rolls of his hips, abandoning that for thick, deep strokes. He dragged over another fistful of egg. Dean opened his mouth.

[lovetransaction]

Fandom: Supernatural (TV 2005) Rating: Mature Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: John Winchester/Mary Winchester Additional Tags: Pegging, Object Insertion, Married Sex @spnkinkevents​ bingo card fill: object insertion

Summary:

When she was a Campbell, Mary had been a resourceful and determined hunter. So she's not about to let some speedbump derail her sex life when there's a perfectly obvious solution.