Daddy Dearest

Daddy Dearest



[Azazel!John and Dean]

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Azazel sucks in Dean’s shaky sigh through a smile of clenched teeth.



Dean stands pinned between the demon’s gaze and the wall—the yellow eyes look so out of place sitting in his father’s skull. Azazel rudely uses John to grin and blink and breathe.



Sam is unconscious in the other room, Dean is dizzy with indecision. They should have seen this roadblock coming.



”You know the best part about possessing your Daddy’s body?”



It was only his father’s voice, not his words, Dean tries to remember. Azazel lifts The Colt out of Dean’s hand, like a parent taking a toy away from a sleepy child. Dean doesn’t even fight it, practically hands the damn thing over.



”It’s not because I know you won’t hurt him, that’s just one of the perks,” Azazel elaborates, turning the gun over in his hands and examining it like he’s fighting the urge to laugh at how disappointingly easy it was to obtain it.



The gun makes a loud, scraping clack against the hardwood floor when it’s tossed out of reach.



Dean jolts when Azazel does more than just hold him steady with a gaze and starts to use his hands as well—a nice full fist of his leather jacket. Dean turns his face to the side; it’s the closest thing to running away that he can do. Azazel drinks up every little bit of the awkwardness that quavers through Dean like an earthquake. 



”The best part,” he starts the growl from somewhere deep in his chest. Azazel doesn’t know how to use John right, Dean notices; that was a voice he had only ever heard his father use when he was livid with him, like when Dean had left Sam home alone that one time. Azazel was using this low snarl because he was pleased.



”…is that your father is still in here,” Azazel raises his eyebrows and taps John’s temple like he was obnoxiously disturbing fish in an aquarium, “watching, feeling.”



”Shut up.”



Azazel makes John’s lips pout into a victorious “oo” but he refrains from making the sound. Instead he opts for, “Don’t like that, huh? Don’t like that Daddy just watched you give up.”



Dean subconsciously looks over Azazel’s shoulder at The Colt. It’s too far away and it doesn’t even matter. Even if it were in back in his hands, Dean could never in his life bring himself to put a bullet in his father’s body, no matter who was occupying it.



John was Dean’s hero. Apparently, everyone knew that.



Dean keeps expecting to be maimed, killed any second now, so each time Azazel moves Dean flinches and the demon just eats it up with a throaty chuckle. This time, Azazel reaches around his own backside to pull John’s regular handgun out of his trousers and brings it up to eye level,



”I would really appreciate it, Dean, if you would get on the floor,”



Even staring down the barrel of death, Dean is Dean under all circumstances. He certainly wasn’t about to shatter now. He would go down fighting with just his words, because words were all he had left,



”Fuck you,” He chokes out in a voice far more raw then he’d expected from himself, “I’ll die standing, not on my knees.”



The demon looks at him with a furrowed brow, fake sympathy. Dean had seen more expressions cross John’s face in the past fifteen minutes that Azazel had been using him than he had seen John make on his own in his entire life.



”You think I’m going to kill you? Why wouldn’t I just use The Colt?”



Dean barely has time to contemplate the question before Azazel presses the gun to his own temple, to John’s temple.



Why was Dean so blind to curveballs? Now he is too furiously helpless to retaliate.



”On the floor, please,” Azazel whispers, just so Dean will listen extra carefully.



The hardwood floor of the cabin is uncomfortable beneath the demin of Dean’s pants. He falls to his knees and puts his hands behind his head, just because that’s how he was used to doing it when the cops would bust him. It’s a submissive position and he always hates being in it.



Azazel circles him as he walks, gun still pressed to his own head, John’s head.



”If it makes you feel any better, Daddy’s not scared of this gun. At least, not as scared of it as you are,” Azazel grins horribly and uses the barrel to scratch his hair, “It’s amazing. John’s the one who can feel the metal and he’s calm as the day is long. But you,” Azazel clicks his tongue and shakes his head, “So desperate not to have me pull the trigger—“



”Okay, what do you want?” Dean is on his last nerve and he barely has patience for this. He has already accepted that he has lost this round. If Azazel wasn’t going to kill him then he wanted to take his slap on the wrist and go home with his family.



”Want?” Azazel asks, like it wasn’t completely obvious, “I want what I’ve always wanted, Dean. I want you to stay out of my way. I want Sam to fulfill the destiny that I have laid out for him. I want John to stop hunting me. I want you to stop being difficult.”



The hint of riled annoyance Azazel acknowledges at his own words is a tiny bit uplifting to Dean, even given the situation. Azazel was genuinely irritated with the Winchester family and that meant, at the very least, they had managed to be a thorn in his side. They would go down fighting, always.

Dean’s arms were starting to ache from being held above his head but he smiled through it, ”Well, that’s never going to happen. We will never…never…stop trying to kill your sorry ass.”



”Oh, I know. That’s just what I want in the long term. All I want right now is show you that I am stronger than you,”



Azazel ceases his stroll around Dean, stopping to stand in front of him. He towers over him, yellow eyes baring down at him and making him sweat, like two suns that were too close. Dean refuses to look at him and concentrates on trying to stare a hole through the floor.



”You Winchesters are so dense that you’ve probably already noticed this little problem and you’ve just put it on the back burner. But I want to really show you this time, just to reiterate it, show you your own stupidity, and give you something to think about the next time you barge in on me without a plan. Really, it’s just insulting if you don’t take killing me seriously.”



The bottom of Dean’s stomach drops out when he hears the sharp pop of a metal button being snapped open. He doesn’t want to look up.



”See, the trouble is: I’m so good, it’s hard to top myself. Pretty difficult to send a message stronger than burning your mom on the ceiling. You’ve really forced me to get creative, but don’t worry…I think I’ve got a method that will be fairly memorable.”



The Crisp, metallic sound of a zipper being dragged down its tracks.



Dean doesn’t look up, so Azazel grabs his jaw to yank his gaze upward, his first violent move of the night.



”You and Daddy are going to have a little fun, here,” The demon elaborates. One of his hands still holds the gun to his head so he slips the thumb of the other under the waistband of John’s boxers, running it back and forth until the elastic slips down a little.



”No,” Dean states, and he hates himself because it is not said defiantly, but pleadingly.



”Yes,” Azazel says simply, unfazed by the resistance, already assured of his plan’s certainty.



”No,” Dean’s head is reeling, “No.”



Azazel silences him by cocking the gun with an audible click, entirely serious.



”Be smart, Dean,” Azazel hisses, narrowing his eyes. “A few minutes ago you wouldn’t let your Daddy die to kill me; Now you’d let him die because you wouldn’t suck his cock?”



The hand that grips Dean’s face drops off gently, as if to leave him to his business. The power play didn’t work if it was forced, it had to be done willingly. It was not so much punishment as it was a lesson.



Dean purses his lips tight which makes his dimples show and even Azazel thinks that’s cute.

 

A moment to catch his breath and weigh his options before Dean reaches up to pull down the warm fabric. He can’t even concentrate; his mind keeps fidgeting over the idea of how to make things right when it was over. Would John ever look at him again? Fuck, he already knew what John wanted. He wanted Dean to kill Azazel the moment he’d been possessed. But Dean couldn’t. Just couldn’t.

Maybe it was selfish, to want to keep his dad around. But family was all he had and he wasn’t about to give that up, despite the humiliation of his self-inflicted circumstance.



John is half-hard when Dean finally works the boxers and denim past his hips. Precum is beading at the head, a perfect clear globe of anticipation but, even now, Dean’s stomach is too sick to swallow anything yet so he wipes the slit clean with his thumb.



Azazel hisses, pleasantly.



Dean tries not to think about when he was twelve years old and his Dad taught him how to load a gun. Or all the approving smiles he gave when Dean told him that Sam had successfully been tucked into bed. Or the first time he allowed Dean to ride up front with him in the impala. He tries not to think about how, once, when he was fourteen, he came in and patted Dean’s hair because he thought he was asleep.

Dean prolongs the inevitable by stroking John—Azazel. Pumping him slow and reluctantly, trying to get him fully erect. The loose, workable skin begins to pull taut as it lengthens and Dean works him until the demon warns him not to stall.



The gun glints in the dim light of the room and that’s all the motivation Dean needs. Cautiously, carefully, Dean swallows the tip.



He tries not to think about the scent of John: a mixture of leather, dirt, car, his own musk, and how whenever Dean used to smell that aroma it meant that everything was okay for a while because nothing could hurt them when his dad was around.



He tries not to think about how that beloved scent is making him ill now, smelling it while doing something so nauseating.



He tries not to think that his dad is watching him, right now.



Azazel’s free hand grabs the fabric of his shirt collar, encouraging. Dean works his tongue on the underside of the crown and actually startles when he hears his father’s voice groan. Under no circumstances should he ever have had to hear him make that sound.

Azazel tightens his grip on Dean’s jacket, warning him what will happen if he stops, so Dean figures he just needs to get it over with. He swallows down a few more inches and bobs his head. Dean was by no means an expert, but he’d had enough women perform this favor on him that he knew what to do to get it over with as quickly as possible.



Dean swallows deeper and bobs a little faster, which excites Azazel to the point where he gets greedy. He holds Dean steady and fucks his throat with one, slow push. Dean’s esophagus convulses and he tries to keep himself from gagging, gripping onto John’s jeans, coughing airlessly so that his nose starts to run.



”Come on, son, you can take it,”



If there was anything that Azazel could have said to incite Dean to the point of tears, that would have been it. Azazel was not his father and Dean was not his son. Dean chokes back the tears, though—literally chokes them back—and Azazel pulls out of him and Dean sputters and drools on the floor.



”Now that the preliminaries are out of the way,” Azazel sighs, bored with Dean’s coughing fit.

Dean watches the feet walk away from his line of vision, staring at the drooled-on floor and wiping the rest of the saliva on the back of his sleeve. However, this would prove to be an unfortunate moment to do so as the next thing Dean experiences is Azazel behind him, shoving him forward. Dean only has one hand to catch himself with as he hits the floor, face smashed down, ass held up.



Dean almost starts to say “no” again when he feels his own jeans behind ripped off his hips, but everything was pointless. Instead, his protest comes out as a distressed sigh that hangs on the letter n.



”Open up,” Azazel teases, rudely, spitting on his fingers and working the fluid onto Dean’s puckered ring of muscle. If nothing else, Dean’s body was resisting just as much as his mind. Dean doesn’t answer, because his backside does that for him, refusing to be stretched.



Dean swallows his own voice as Azazel drives two thumbs into him, the rest of his hands splayed over his cheeks, digging in, prying him apart. Breaking him in more ways than one.

It takes a few tries to persuade John’s dick inside of his son, but with a little more spit and a lot more force, Azazel snaps their bodies together in a merciless thrust.

Dean wasn’t the praying type, but he prays to god that his scream didn’t wake up Sam.

Dean had never attempted to lift his face from the floor after the demon had initially shoved him there, but the searing ache of it all stimulates him to jump up, lifting himself on wobbly forearms only to be immediately shoved back down as Azazel falls over him with all of his weight,



”Easy, boy, easy,”

Dean wants to scream, to cuss, to retort, but given his current condition he couldn’t find it within himself to be too loquacious. Anything more intelligent than a throaty gurgle was almost unmanageable.



”Daddy’s here,” Azazel mocks.



Azazel rides him hard, the hand that holds the gun is the same that shoves Dean’s upper body flat to the ground. The other arm wraps around Dean’s belly, cementing them together. His chin hooks on Dean’s left shoulder, panting wildly in his ear.



Fuck he smelled like John. Just like John.



There is nothing elegant about the way Azazel fucks. Everything is purposefully fast and rough, to make a point. He does, however, have the cruelty to be intimate exactly where he knew Dean didn’t want it—little nips on the neck, tongue in the ear, kisses to the hairline—not to be amiable, but to be disgusting, exploiting the father/son taboo for all that it was worth.



Dean was being a lot more vocal than he would have liked. He expects better of himself, and yet here he was, a wordless string of noises somewhere between the volume of ‘can’t let Sam hear this’ and ‘can’t help it.’



The hardwood is bruising Dean’s knees, but that problem is relieved when Azazel suddenly breaks himself off of Dean’s back, grabs one of his calves, and makes him come crashing down to the floor on his side, emphasis on the hip and ribs. Just as quickly, the demon reaches for the other calf and, just like that, Dean is on his back, both of his ankles seated on Azazel’s shoulders.



”Oh, this is better, isn’t it?” They were Azazel’s words in John’s thick, breathy voice, ”Look at me. Look at him, Dean.”



Dean’s eyes wince painfully and he is absolutely seething, but anger gets him nowhere and the uselessness of it all dissolves his gumption. He tries to speak to the man behind the yellow eyes in a dry, suffocated sob,

“I’m so sorry, Dad.”



Azazel raises his eyebrows when he presses their bodies together once more and feels a specific hardness pressed between their stomachs,



”It’s okay to enjoy it, a little love from John, here,” Azazel sighs in a single breath, mouthing Dean’s neck, “after all, your mother did.”



The fury is back,



”SHUT UP!”



Azazel shuts up by crushing their mouths together, ripping in and out of Dean’s backside with a deliberate attempt to hurt him which, of course, only makes Dean feel worse when he ends up liking it. Fuck, right on his prostate: the little bundle of nerves that betrayed his entire body and mind.



Dean bites and when Azazel pulls away John has a bleeding lip and a smile.



John’s big, calloused hand wraps around Dean’s shaft, and that’s when Dean completely loses it. Azazel starts to help him off and Dean’s stomach is trembling he wants it to be over so bad.



It’s not more than four strokes and Dean is spilling. Azazel keeps pumping deliberately slow, working him through it, fisting him in sync with his thrusts. The endorphins rush to Dean’s head and, for a split second, manage to fool him into loving it. Loving everything.

John.

He gets it now, Azazel’s game.



He could blame everything physical on the demon. But Dean’s conscious submission was entirely on his own. The feeling of being desperate enough to let Azazel do it was what he now has to deal with during sleepless nights at 3 a.m.



Azazel milks Dean until he stops unloading and finishes up himself not seconds later. It’s such perfect timing that both of them can hear the unsaid joke, it hangs in the air:

‘Like father like son.’



Azazel kisses Dean’s forehead and Dean fucking lets him. One last stab in the emotional gut couldn’t make the bleeding heartache any worse than it already was at this point.



”That’s my boy.”



When Azazel pulls out of him Dean is surprised by the emptiness that it leaves.



Dean’s earliest memory is of him falling asleep on his father’s arm and waking up to him gone in the morning. There was, however, a blanket around him, which let him know that his father still cared. Back when Dean and Sam were still his first priority. Before Azazel, before everything.



All snide comments exhausted, Azazel stands without another word. He conceals himself and leaves, taking The Colt and John with him.



For ten seconds Dean doesn’t move, unable to decide if he wants to cry. But he’s Dean Winchester, so he obviously doesn’t. He does what he always does when there’s a problem: he deals with it.



When he gently shakes Sam awake, everything is cleaned up and his clothes are in order. Sam, because he is Sam, knows something is wrong right away, but when he asks, Dean just says he’s fine and they need to go find dad.



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The End