PG-13, 873words, incest, chan, crossdressing;
I’d planned on something far more epic than this to kick off caspe-wri-mo, but as I’ve spent the better half of today redesigning my bedroom this is all I’ve managed to whip up in the short amount of time I left myself to write with before midnight! So, um, enjoy?
“Dad?” Dean’s voice is just above a whisper as he squints through the dully lit room; there are cardboard boxes and wooden trunks and sheeted objects stacked all around them, and though he’d never admit it aloud, the whole place gives him the hibigeebies. Sammy’s hand is soft and sweaty against his palm and he looks down as Sam looks up with those big baby browns of his.
They’ve been staying in the house for a week now. No hunting, no hiding, just there for some down time, to recuperate- says Dad- to recharge their batteries. The house is in the middle of nowhere, with miles and miles of rolling countryside stretching out as far as the eye can see.
It’s boring. And he’s tired of babysitting a little brother who clings to him like a barnacle all the friggen damn time. There’s hero-worship and then there’s hero-worship and Dean’s tired of having to be the big brother, the protector and confider and the damn entertainer. It’s time, he thinks, for dad to have a shot.
They find John Winchester in the furthermost recesses of the loft. He’s lying on his back, staring up through one of the many holes in the roof with smoke curling around him from a homemade cigarette and looking for the entire world as if he hadn’t a care to contend with.
“Dad?” Dean calls. Sammy’s fingers tighten momentarily before pulling away as he moves to curl himself into their father’s side. John’s arm slips around him easily as he rolls his eyes to look at Dean.
“It’s fine, Dean,” he says, blowing smoke like wisps of cloud through his nose. Sammy grins at him and John growls playing like he’s Puff the Magic Dragon or some shit and he thinks for a moment that Sam sure can be so easily amused sometimes.
“Take the car,” John continues on, taking another drag and Dean is sure he can smell something not-quite tobacco-y mingling with the scent of smoke. He nods, hunching in his coat. He takes a long look at Sammy who appears oblivious to the scrutiny, weighs his options, and leaves. It’s not like he’s never smoked pot before, he justifies, and Sammy needs to learn from someone. At eleven-years-old he was both sheltered and exposed and Dean wishes that he could have kept him as a real kid for a helluva lot longer than Dad allowed them.
John takes another drag of his cigarette and holds the exhale in his lungs for a moment longer before blowing out smoke rings which puff and roll up into the sky above them. Sammy wriggles beside him, scrunching his nose, scrubbing his eyes and John laughs, nudging at his son till Sam moves away with a frown and a cough.
“There’s some pretty interesting things in these trunks, Sammy,” he says, watching carefully, smiling encouragingly. “See if you can’t find something to play with.”
Sam looks doubtful but curiosity tugs him to his feet and to a trunk, and lets his hands scrabble through mounds of fabric and books and antique dolls. His gasp is audible as his hands find the clothes; dresses of colour and pattern with shoes and bows to match. He bites his bottom lip between his teeth and gnaws a moment before lifting out a dress of plain white, adorned with a blue bow and lace collar. He stokes his hands over the preserved colour and holds it up against his lanky frame and twirls.
John’s eyes are intent and watching as he drags deep on the last mouthful of nicotine and hash, Sammy turns to him, and he stubs the butt out against the wood floor beneath him. He sits upwards and curls an index finger towards his son.
“’mere, boy,” he calls and Sam goes, kneeling at his father’s side as John lifts the dress from him, eyes it up against his son and nods his head. Sam smiles, bright and wild and scrabbles his fingers at the hem of his t-shirt to drag it up and over his head. He shucks his jeans and boots with ease and stands; stretching his arms high as John stands and slips the dress over his head.
The material runs like water over his skin; cool and fresh like rain and he smiles and humms a sound of pure contentment as his father zips him in and ties the bow behind his back. A large hand runs through his bangs, stroking the length of his hair as it runs from crown to collar, curling in waves and Sammy leans into the touch.
“Good girl,” John breathes and Sammy smiles, inching onto his tippy-toes as John bends down to kiss his forehead, cheeks, his willing lips as they kiss back and part beneath his father’s mouth.
[ end. ]