Kinktober 2022 | Day One – Playing With Fire

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Pairing: John Winchester / Dean Winchester
Rating: 18+
Warnings: Dark Fic, Dark Magic, Satanic Ritual, Fire, Burning, Branding, Scarification, Body Modification, Dub Con, Father/Son Incest, Intentional Injury, Arousal from Pain
Kinktober Prompt – Body Modification
Bingo Squares: @spnkinkbingo – Fire Play | @anyfandomdarkbingo – Satanic Ritual
WC: 883

A/N: @corpsedean requested Body Modification with DeanJohn – I hope I lived up to expectations! This is pretty messed up 🤭

John promises himself he’ll never mention it when he discovers the ritual. 

Finding the name of the demon that murdered Mary isn’t worth what that spell demands as a price. The kind of evil that killed his wife leaves a mark, like a signature, but in order to read that signature, evil demands that you mark yourself with the same kind of horror. You can only mutilate your own soul by doing the same to someone else. Takes two to tango. 

The terrifying thing is, John knows that if he asked, Dean wouldn’t hesitate to pay that price with him. So that’s why Dean can never know this ritual exists. John tears the page from Bobby’s book and burns it. They leave the South Dakota junkyard empty-handed once again, and John breathes a sigh of relief as the Impala kicks up gravel in the rearview mirror, his eldest son sitting disappointed–but whole–in the passenger seat beside him. 

Two weeks later, Dean comes back from a university library four states over with a look of determination in his boyish eyes, and a horribly familiar old book in his outstretched hands. 

“We can find out who did it, Dad,” he whispers, the green of his gaze as hard as jagged jade. Even at eighteen, knowing exactly what this ritual entails, his boy is ready to make that sacrifice in the name of their cause–John’s cause. In the name of his mother, Dean was willing to let his father hurt him, scar him, break him open and irrevocably condemn him. Not just willing. Asking. 

God, what had John turned his little boy into? What had John turned into that he doesn’t turn down Dean’s request, knowing exactly the same things Dean knows. 

–

John recites the Latin as he strikes a match and touches it to the wick of the black taper. The candle sparks to life sinisterly, the flame sputtering and spitting before flaring up and dimming again into a steady breath of heat. Swallowing heavily, John picks up the candle at its base and carries it towards Dean, who’s lying prone in the centre of a pentagram they’ve drawn on the dirty concrete of the basement of the abandoned house they’d broken into to complete this ritual. The boy twitches in anxiety as John stalks somberly toward him, candle flame held away from his body in disgust at what he’s about to use it for. His teeth are clenched so tightly his jaw begins to lock, and John has to crack his neck and suck his lips between his teeth to loosen himself up again in order to speak the next parts of the incantation. 

Kneeling in the dust beside Dean, John forces himself to avoid the part of Dean that the evil he feels inside of him wants him to be looking at. Instead, he trains his gaze on his son’s bare chest, so young, he still barely has any hair marring the expanse of his creamy flesh, the only marks being his smattering of golden freckles, and the jagged scar across the bottom of his ribs where Sam had stitched him up a few years back. A drop of black wax splashes down on one of Dean’s pecs, the muscle twitching involuntarily in reaction, and the boy hisses lightly, then laughs. 

“Never thought you’d be into wax play, Dad,” he jokes, his eyes begging John to humour him and let the mood lighten. To pretend that they aren’t really about to go through with this. John’s lips tighten with as much bravado as he can manage while he tries to pretend his cock didn’t jump in his pants at Dean’s mention of sex games. Grabbing the strip of leather they’ve left out for this purpose, John holds it to Dean’s lips with the hand that isn’t carrying the candle. 

“Bite down,” John instructs, and Dean opens his mouth obediently and lets his father slip the leather between his teeth. “Deep breath, Dean.” John takes one of his own as Dean’s chest rises beneath him and he lets it out evenly as he lowers the candle, flame pointed just above his son’s left nipple, and he touches the fire to the boy’s heart. Dean’s scream through the leather tears into John as if he was holding the fire to his own skin. 

The flesh bubbles up, red and angry, and John pulls the taper back as soon as he finishes the Latin chant. Wax flies between them, splattering over Dean’s nakedness and John’s clothes as he tosses the candle somewhere behind him, the momentum dousing the flame as it skitters across the concrete. John pulls the leather from between Dean’s lips and gently brushes away the tears that have fallen across his cheeks, puddling into mud on the floor beneath him. 

“Shh,” he soothes him, and Dean just swallows hard, nodding, Adam’s apple shuddering in his throat. “Worst part’s over, Dean. Worst… worst part’s done,” John croaks. Can he really say that, though, when the next part of this will scar the both of them in an entirely different way? Sure it will be invisible, temporary. It will heal and wash away…but John knows the memory of how Dean’s body feels wrapped around his cock will haunt him for the rest of his life.