littlestarling (littlestarling) wrote,

Chapter 1.

Warnings & Summary.

Gateway Academy in Chesterfield, Missouri.

The boy locked his knees as the primal fear deep down in his brain urged him to run. The world had turned sideways. A drop of blood welled from the cut on his lip, but instead of running down, it was drawn away across the room towards the mass of black shadows that was squatting between him and the stairs.

Dean had a plan. He'd stick to it, but that thing needed to die first. It was raw and mindless. It was meat that had been ripped from a living animal. It was red and lonely and it wanted to slice him into lunchmeat, which reminded Dean that he hadn't eaten.

Dean pumped his shot gun again. He didn't take the time to aim, just pulled the trigger. The spirit retreated away from the salted pits the gun had blasted into the cinderblock wall, leaving in it's wake a dark mark of ocher that looked for a moment suspiciously like Butch the Buffalo, the school mascot.

Dean wiped away the blood from his lips. Yeah, it was time for that ghost to move on. Only thing was, after coming down here, he realized he didn't have a clue how to accomplish that.

Mr. Winchester might though.

"Didn't I tell you to stay upstairs?" John growled from his position on the floor. He pushed himself up onto his elbows. "Next time I'll handcuff you to the door."

Dean's face quirked. He tried not to smile and failed.

"Sorry," he said breaking into a full-fledged smirk in the dim light of the boiler room. He dropped his backpack to the concrete floor with a heavy thud. It was full of school books he had never opened.

Dean offered John a hand up. John took it in a large, firm grip.

"Hey, seriously. Sorry about shooting you," Dean said when John didn't let go of him. "You dropped your tire iron," Dean said innocently pointing with his toe to the crow bar on the floor near their feet.

John growled, and tugged Dean a little bit closer. The hand holding him was almost too firm for strict comfort.

"Here. This works better," Dean said lifting the sawed-off shot gun up between them. John took it out of his hand, pointedly aimed it away from them.

"Loaded it with rock salt." Dean bounced on the balls of his feet.

"Your aim sucks," John said rubbing the bloody, salty welts where the boy's shot had penetrated the thick wool of his jacket. He suppressed a smile. It was a clever idea. After checking the chamber, his voice grew even harder. "You don't keep it fully loaded?"

"Looks like two shots was all I needed." Dean said. "You're not really a math teacher, are you?"

There was a scratching sound in the walls, like something was trying to come through.

"You have any salt in that bag? " John asked. "Or holy water?"

"No." Dean said. "Holy water? That really works?"

"This isn't Hunting 101, boy," John said gripping Dean just above the elbow and hustling him towards the stairs. "Get your ass up there."

Dean tripped on the stairs going up, but John's hand gripping his belt kept him from falling.


John didn't let go of Dean until they reached his classroom.

"Close the door," he ordered. He eased his jacket off of his shoulders just as dawn broke and filled the tall windows with a pale light. John rubbed his eyes. That damned boy. He watched Dean move to the back of the classroom and a memory of smoke and the taste of Dean's wet mouth assaulted his mind.

A week earlier at a bar off the highway...

The sign above the door, grimy and unlit, offered more of a warning to fuck-off than an invitation to come in for a cold one, so John had been mildly surprised to see that kid from his class walk in and head straight for him.

James Dean Hetfield was the new boy at school and a serious smart ass. John's fingers twitched.

The place had been packed with men and thick with the smoke from unfiltered cigarettes. There were no trophies on the walls, no cheerful deer heads wearing baseball caps or winking Natty Bohs lighting up the dark corners, but the whiskey was top shelf and cheap and the management didn't care what went on in the back room.

Dean sat on the barstool next to John and ordered a beer. He'd turned, bold as could be, and slid his knee up between John's legs. "Can I buy you a drink, daddy?" he'd asked leaning back against the bar and grinning from ear to ear.

"You're in my class," John had said.

"Yup," the boy replied.

John had a few whiskeys in him, not enough to make him mean, but enough to make him loose. He liked what he saw, and Dean wouldn't be the first small town teenager to crave the rough hands of a man after playing with boys his whole life. His tee shirt had been white and too small. John put aside his suspicions and stroked Dean's thigh, squeezing it when he felt the muscles twitch under his hand.

"You've been following me around."

"I know that," Dean had replied.

"You're a real smart ass, aren't you?"

"I thought you liked that." The boy had sipped his beer drawing John's eyes to his full bottom lip.

John nodded his head. "I do," he had replied offering Dean a cigarette. He'd wanted to see what other tricks the boy could do with his mouth. "How did you even get in here?"

"I told the guy at the door that you were my dad." Dean smirked. He took the cigarette and let John light it for him. "You going to send me to the principal's office?"

"No," John said. He put both big hands on either side of Dean's barstool and pulled it and the boy further between his legs. "I take care of discipline cases myself."

John let him take his time. The boy's eyes started low and slowly worked their way up to his face. The bright green of Dean's eyes was almost totally eclipsed by the shiny black of his pupils.

Anyone who might have walked into the men's room that night at the ubiquitous bar in the unnamed part of Missouri, would have been surprised to see John Winchester getting his cock sucked by a boy claiming to be his son, or knowing John Winchester, maybe they wouldn't.


John unbuttoned his shirt, the stinging, salty welts on his chest bringing him uncomfortably back to the present. He shook his head. He was old enough to know better. The Wild Turkey must have made him do it.

Dean sat down sideways in his usual seat by the window and began digging around in his backpack. He pulled out an half empty bag of Doritos, propped up his feet and began to eat.

"You bring enough for the whole class?"

"Nope," Dean said grinning even wider.

John took a flask out of his desk drawer and took a big swig. The whiskey burned all the way down. He had a fresh shirt in his office. The summer school staff would be arriving soon. Classes would start for another day. Golden light slanted through the windows. The sun was higher now.

"Can I have some of that?" Dean asked.

"You're not old enough," John said. "You want to tell me what you're doing here?"

"Same as you, I guess," Dean said stuffing corn chips into his mouth.

"What do you know about that thing in the basement?" John demanded banging his fist on the desk.

"Looks like more than you do," Dean replied but not really answering the question. He balled up his empty bag and aimed it at the trash can in the corner. He sucked his fingers. John continued to stand at his desk.

"I asked you a question."

"I heard it." Dean said.

John didn't reply at first. "Come here," he said at last.

"What?" Dean laughed. "Why?"

"Why don't you come over here and find out," John replied letting the corners of his lip curl up in a smile. He tried to make it inviting.

Dean hesitated. Was the teacher giving him a 'I almost died and now I want angry sex' look or was Mr. Winchester giving him a 'I'm gonna wring your neck' look? Dean took a small step forward. Stopped. He'd had some experience with both looks.

"Scared, boy?" John asked.

"No," Dean said stretching his arms over his head, flashing a tiny bit of pale belly. He strolled nonchalantly over and stopped next to the desk. He licked his lips and raised his eyebrows, waiting.

John let his eyes rest on the sprinkling of freckles across Dean's nose. He traced them with one finger and watched the boy melt. He placed a heavy hand on Dean's shoulder, and Dean took a step closer and leaned into John's warmth, his lips parting. He seemed surprised when John's hand tightened it's grip and turned him around.

John raised his hand and brought it down with a resounding slap on the boy's ass. The sting on John's palm scratched an itch that had bothering him for awhile, so he did it again only a little harder. John loosened his grip on Dean's shoulder when the boy didn't try to get away, and the next smack scooted Dean forward until his thighs were pressed up against the desk.

"Right," Dean said panting. "I almost forgot. You take of discipline cases yourself."

John's black eyebrows jerked up. He supressed a smile. His hand slid from Dean's shoulder to rest, warm and heavy, on the back of Dean's neck. He applied pressure.

"Down on your elbows," John's voice was dark and Dean obeyed, bending down over the desk. Keeping one hand on the back of the boy's sweaty neck, John pulled open his desk drawer with the other.

The school frowned on corporal punishment, so there was no paddle, but there was a ruler. It was heavy plastic and should have a nice sting.

"Oh, shit," Dean said when he saw it, but he didn't try to get away.

"Oh, shit is right," he replied. "Take down your pants."

"No way," Dean said trying to right himself.

John's hand squeezed the back of Dean's neck and used his weight kept him in place. Dean stopped fighting. "If I have to do it for you, it's going to mean double."

"What's double?" Dean asked.

"Fifty," John replied.

"Fuck," Dean said, hands scrambling underneath of himself to unbuckle his belt. "Couldn't I just blow you again instead?" he asked. He waited for an answer, and when none was forthcoming, he pushed his khakis down over his ass. The weight of his belt dropped them past his knees. Without being told, he lifted his shirt up out of the way and settled back down on his forearms over the desk, spreading his legs for balance.

"You've been spanked before?" John asked.

Dean didn't reply. He had his eyes screwed tightly shut.

Yeah, the boy had been spanked before. John felt a sudden hot, irrational flash of jealousy that someone had gotten there before him. Soft cotton covered the top part of the boy's thighs, and John knew he didn't have any right to, but he wanted to pull the underwear down and spank Dean's bare ass.

John knew the boy would let him, but that was for his daddy to do. Dean jumped at the sound of his voice.

"I want you counting," John said picking up the ruler. He started at the top, just below Dean's tail bone where the flesh started to thicken. He cracked the ruler down.

"Fuck! One." Dean said.

John worked his way down the boy's ass, ending with number ten on the bare skin of his thigh, just below when his briefs ended.

Dean's eyes flew open, and his head snapped around. There were tears glistening in his eyes.

Now John was counting to ten. It took everything he had not to strip the boy bare and continue this punishment on a more intimate level. He looked at the angry, red welt forming on Dean's soft thighs, and he wanted to taste it, the tiny bit of iron that would be under his tongue. He kept his hips well back.

"We were at eleven," he said raising the ruler again.


Dean wiped the snot off of his face on the arm of his shirt.

"You understand that you had that coming," John said unrolling and buttoning his sleeves.

"You're bigger than me. You can do what you want."

"Feeling sorry for yourself? Tough shit. Next time do what you're told. Better yet, go home where you belong."

"You suck at this." Dean wiped angry tears off of his face with the heel of his hand. "You're supposed to lecture first, cuddle afterwards."

"Jesus Christ. Come here," he said snagging Dean's snotty sleeve and inching the boy into his arms. John could feel the Dean's heart beating against his chest. It was gradually slowing down. Dean felt cold in his arms, damp with evaporating sweat. John felt the boy's weight shift as he relaxed against him.

Then he felt something else. Dean was worming his hand between their bodies.

The boy was groping John's cock.

John shoved him away. Dean's shit eating grin was back. He walked to his desk, smiling at John over his shoulder. "I saved your life tonight," he said snagging his backpack, heading for the door, "Mr. Winchester."

John watched him with steady eyes.

"I'm going to go jerk off," Dean said. "I'd invite you to join me, but I'm a little pissed off at you right now."

"Dean," John's voice stopped him. "My office. After school."

"Oh, yeah?" Dean's grin widened when he heard the hesitation in his own voice. "Why?"

John smiled at him. "We've got a job to finish."


Twilight. In the woods behind the main school building.

Dean's face appeared like an apparition in a sudden burst of light, his wrist slowly turning as he lit an entire pack of matches to illuminate the contents of the shallow grave. He smiled down in imitation of the rictus grin of the corpse.

"Hello, handsome," he said.

It was the kid who had found the grave. He'd seen the signs in the way the trees were leaning, twisting their new branches away from the hidden burial and towards the light. Natural things were repelled by the unnatural, Dean had recited. It sounded like someone had been teaching the him things he had no business knowing, but Dean wouldn't say where he had heard it.

"Looks almost the same as he did in the yearbook." Dean pointed out. "Shouldn't he be more...uh...."

"Decomposed?" John finished for him

"He's been in the ground long enough."

"He didn't want to," John answered.

Dean looked up, startled. "You can do that? Just decide not to rot?"

"If you're mad enough, or mean enough." John lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply.

"What happened to him?" Dean asked.

"It doesn't matter," John answered. "Salt first, then the gasoline. Stand back where you can't smell the fumes. Light a cigarette and toss it in."

"And watch it burn!" Dean was grinning again. "I always knew that playing with fire wasn't stupid. Never listened to what my old man said anyway."

"I'll bet," John replied.

John smoked and watched Dean salting the grave. The boy was just like all the other 18-year-olds he had come across in his years of hunting; he was fascinated by things that could get him killed. He was tenacious at best, and if John was feeling generous, he would add smart. At worst Dean was a danger slut who needed his freckled ass beaten on a regular basis because he didn't know how to do what he was told.

The sun was almost gone. The boy's hands ghosted over the corpse.

"Get up," John said stomping out his cigarette in the dirt and shoving Dean back. He doused the body in gasoline.

John dragged Dean further away from the grave. He put two cigarettes in Dean's mouth and held his lighter to the ends before taking them both back, pausing to dry the boy's bottom lip with his thumb. He slipped the lit cigarettes back into the nearly full pack and tossed the whole thing into the grave. They both rocked back on their heels as the fire bloomed.

"So long, Billy," Dean said.

John wrapped his arms around the boy from behind and stroked his arms to show him he meant no harm. The fire accelerated, tossing out an orange glow as the sun disappeared completely below the horizon. It had been a long day.

John's hands slid in slow expanding circles low on Dean's belly until they found his cock. The boy arched his back against him but didn't try to get away. Dean's neck tasted faintly of smoke.

"You want a hand job, little boy?" John could see Dean's neck turning red even in the rapidly diminshing light.

"Alright," Dean answered.

John unzipped Dean's pants and slipped his hand inside the thread bare cotton briefs. He worked the boy's cock free from under the worn elastic and wrapped two fingers and his thumb just beneath the head. He slid the foreskin up and down, teasing him with his thumb and getting him all wet until the boy was moaning incomprehensible things and coming in the open air. Dean's eyes never left the fire.

John reached into Dean's front pocket with his free hand and pulled out the dead boy's wallet.

"I wasn't...," Dean struggled to pull up his zipper. "His family. They have a right to know what happened to him."

"No," John said. He let go of Dean and threw the wallet into the fire. "Everything has to burn. No remains."


"You want to be a hunter and you don't even know what a cursed object is? You're going to get your stupid ass killed." John saw the hurt in Dean's eyes. "Come on," he said taking him by the arm. "Grab that gas can."

"Where are we going?" Dean asked.

"My room," John said. "I'm going to give you a good fucking before I send you home."


The next morning.

John quietly opened the door. He had coffee, breakfast sandwiches and a bag of donuts. Dean was awake, naked and lying on his back the way he had been last night, spread out for the taking, whimpering under John's rough hands and straining his neck to get his mouth on John's cock.

The boy's hair was just long enough to get a good grip on.

"Bus ticket to Lawrence," John said dropping the folder on Dean's sticky belly.

"Can't you just give me the money?"

"No." John stared down at him. If Dean balked at going home, he was more than ready to warm his ass up again. He was still hearing the slap of the ruler, remembering the little noises Dean had made, the way he had reached down to touch himself. He could still see the liquid in the boy's big green eyes and the way his bottom lip had trembled.

Hell, John was even prepared to cuddle him afterwards.

"I could use some money." Dean sat up.

"How much?" John looked at the bruises and bite marks he'd left on Dean's throat. He looked too damned young with his hair messed up and his eyes still heavy with sleep.

"Couple of hunded."

John opened his wallet and took out $300 and dropped in on the bed. "Are you sure you're 18?"

"I could come with you," Dean answered, encouraged.

"Yeah. That's the last thing I need."

"I can help!"

"I don't want to see you again, boy. I've had you twice. I'm done. I can't say it any plainer than that."

The expression on Dean's face was unreadable.


John slipped a prepaid cell phone into Dean's pocket as he'd boarded the bus. No boy should be wandering around in the world without a way to call for help.

It was time to put Chesterfield in his rear view. He started his truck and pulled onto the highway. He had better things to think about, like a paying job, but he was thinking about Dean taking a seat by the window and turning himself so that all John could see of him was the back of his head.

Suddenly John remembered something else.

"Always wanted to see Mexico," Dean had said cryptically just before hefting his backpack and climbing up the metal stairs. "It's not that far from San Antonio." He had nodded his head. His grin had been slow and wicked.

"Son of a bitch," John said. Tires squealed and horns blared as he cut across two lanes of traffic to stop on the side of the road. He hadn't earned a penny from this job, except for his teaching salary which was little more than a penny, but there was a $5000 reward being offered for cleaning out a haunting in Texas.

A hard smile slowly split his mouth as the dust settled on the windshield. He opened his journal and went through it. It had been riffled. The newspaper clippings, the details of the job in San Antonio had been torn out.

That goddamned boy had torn a page out of his journal.

John ground his teeth. Behind his closed eyes he could see himself pulling down Dean's jeans and hauling him across his lap. He could see his arm raising his belt, and he could his belt raising welts on Dean's freckled ass.

He should have paid extra for Dean's cell phone and gotten the one with G.P.S.

Chapter 2.
Tags: daddy winchester

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