FIC: Weapon of Choice: Chapter 8
Jul. 19th, 2006 08:56 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
xantissaTitle: Weapon of Choice
Fandom: Supernatural
Author: xantissa
Summary: A case turning out to be a set up. Sam taken away from him. An enemy he can’t identify. Father that struggles to understand. Dean, alone, fighting to save his brother from power no one can really understand.
Genre: Slash
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: 18+
Warnings: incest, slash, demon possession, violence.
Disclaimer: Supernatural and all it’s characters belong to WB. I do it just for fun, no profit being made from my writing.
Spoilers: Mild for Asylum, Nightmare tiny ones for probably most of the first season.
Thanks for beta to![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
lifesscar
Chapter 8
Dean knew he was dreaming.
Which was strange for him, because he almost never dreams. But the liquid, shifty quality of sensations he was experiencing gave him the kind of certainty one could have only in dreams.
He was having sex. Which was very good, all thing considered. Let it not be said that Dean Winchester shied away from sex. Ever.
With a woman.
Another bonus.
He knew he was inside her, could feel the tight, wet heat of her around his cock, could feel her legs closing over his hips, but the sensation was muted.
There was this nagging feeling, need, to know just who she was.
Her skin was pale, milky white and flushed. Her flat belly was just soft enough for him to want to bite it gently. Her hair was long, falling in a golden wave on the sheets. He touched the soft tresses.
“Dean.” It was barely a whisper, but he knew this voice. He heard it at leas once before. He was sure of it.
Finally, Dean looked up into the face of his dream lover. The moment he saw her face, he jerked back so hard he woke up with his lungs burning with the need to scream. Panting. Scared. Sitting alone in his motel bed.
“Jesus Christ,” He muttered into his hands. “Jesus fucking Christ.”
He just dreamed about having sex with Jessica. His brother’s dead girlfriend. How fucked up was this? He didn’t even know her. He saw her once, for God’s sake!
Besides, she was Sam’s girl. And she was dead.
Shaking his head, hard, Dean decided it was time to get up anyway. The moment he moved, though, various tingles and aches in his body called attention to themselves. Slowly, Dean took stock in his condition.
His wrists were scraped and bruised from tugging at the belt, which was still tied to the headboard. He was sore all over, his body not really used to such intensity. Even his cock was sore, slightly achy from the over stimulation the night before. And of course his ass. Dean decided he was not going to think about his ass. No sir.
He was frankly surprised at the way he was feeling. All the physical signs aside, he felt remarkably well. His plan worked, Sam came to him. He didn’t let him touch the chain the night before, but Dean was sure that it would be different the next time he saw his brother. Because no matter how twisted and dark the feeling, Sam seemed to trust him even in this state.
He flashed to the way those black, scary eyes softened and burned at him in the last moments of his consciousness. He saw his brother then. His Sammy. Saw everything that Sam was in those black, alien eyes. Sure, he was sharper, raw and fucking dangerous. But he was alive. And it was everything Dean needed to know.
Still a bit rattled about the dream he had, Dean got up from the bed not bothering to hide the wince. Yeah, his little bro gave him quite a workout.
He was still exhausted, his limbs felt heavy and eyes gritty and dry. All he wanted to do now was to go back to sleep. But he couldn’t.
Dean opened the bathroom door and stared at the small, clean room. No signs of Sam ever being here. But he could still remember the coppery smell of blood on Sam. His brother killed somebody that night. And Dean needed to know who because he was partially to blame for it. Because his father and him are so reluctant to kill Sam and whatever is possessing him, more people will die. Sam doesn’t have a choice here. He is bound by a spell and by that thing that possesses him. Dean? He doesn’t have an excuse like that.
He stepped into the shower, relishing the warm water beating on his sore muscles, making some of the aches to go away. He washed quickly, disturbed by the arousal he felt when he remembered just what he and Sam did in this shower just a few hours ago.
He washed quickly and left the shower, twisting a towel around his hips and starting to brush his teeth. He was carefully not to look at his neck and shoulders in the mirror. There were at least a dozen marks there. Bite marks, scratches and love bruises from where Sam sucked so hard he made the blood come to the surface.
“Possessive much?” Dean asked in his mind, and then spat the paste out. He leaned down to gather some water in his hands and wash the taste of his mouth. Just as he spat out the last mouthful and stopped the water he felt the little hair at his neck stand. A shiver run down his neck and he knew, was sure, somebody was watching him.
Cursing his lack of any weaponry at hand, he slowly straightened out and looked in the mirror, knowing that most paranormal things would show in mirrors.
There, just over his shoulder he saw the wave of blond, soft hair and pale, beautiful face. Her eyes were wide, intense, almost black and focused on his in the mirror. Her lips, so pink and wet, opened as if she was going to say something to him.
Dean felt a creeping terror in his gut. No. Just no. He was not seeing Jessica here, in this dingy bathroom in this cheap motel room. She had no connection to him.
“No!” He wasn’t aware he was shouting. The only thing he knew was the terror he felt right then. The knowledge that he could not, would not listen to her. That whatever she said would be wrong, would be painful.
In a rush of self preservation, he slammed his fist into the mirror. The glass shattered into a thousand pieces falling around him like a silver rain. In the sudden silence of the room he could hear his own breathing, hard and raspy like a frightened animal.
He opened his eyes to stare at his still tightly clenched fist, blood dripping sluggishly from the myriad of tiny cuts.
“Shit.”
He needed to get some coffee.
* * *
John closed the folder he was looking through as the waitress came with a coffee refill. It wouldn’t do to have her remember him because he was staring at pictures that were very obviously taken from afar and without the knowledge of the person on them.
He thanked her and then returned to his research. There wasn't much useful information there. Just name and address, age and place of birth. Some family history.
And three, bad, grainy pictures of a young, 22 years old woman.
She was attractive. Pretty even. Not as beautiful as Mary was. Not really beautiful at all. She was too simple, too average for it. But she had this something, that made you look twice.
She seemed tall, but he couldn’t really tell from a picture. She had blonde hair, shoulder length. That hair was one of those extra attractive features of her. Extremely thick, shiny, wavy and so very, obviously natural. He couldn’t really tell her eyes from the pictures. His first and foremost impression was that she was so damned young, barely Sam’s age and so... simple.
He expected something else. Maybe some dark, unearthly beauty, some power, strength to be visible in her. Anything, that would prove what two separate contacts had said to him.
She was a powerful psychic. That wasn’t right. From what he had gathered so far, she was THE most powerful psychic.
It was strange, that even those psychics he knew, including Missouri, agreed on that. They were usually a smug bunch, arrogant even, not really keen on admitting that there was somebody stronger than them. But the very suggestion that they could go anywhere near this simple girl, had them turning tail and cutting the connection instantly. Even Missouri, so honestly concerned about Sam, couldn’t bring herself to even speak this girl’s name.
Sarah Andrews.
Right now she was his best bet at getting some help for Sam. At getting some info at least. So, he was going to approach her and ask for help, beg, threaten, bleed even, if it got him something to help Sam. To save his son. He would do anything she demanded of him.
And here lay the problem. From what he gathered, she was not going to want to speak to him. She was known for her power and that she refused to get involved. Ever.
So, he studied the file with it’s meager contents trying to work out the best approach, the best tactics to at least get her to listen to him. Nothing came to mind.
He couldn’t lie, this he knew for sure. If Missouri could read him so easily, then what could she do? Besides, he didn’t have anything she could possibly want, which didn’t leave him much room.
His cell vibrated then.
He looked at the caller display.
Missouri.
“Yes?” He said, quite surprised to hear from her this soon.
“John?” At the sound of her voice, John straightened out, his hand going to gun hidden under his coat.
His friend sounded awful. Her voice was shaky and unsure. She sounded like she was bleeding. Hurt. Almost confused. And he couldn’t remember ever hearing her like this. Vulnerable.
“Missouri? What happened? Are you all right? Talk to me!” He insisted, gripping the phone tightly, feeling his heart pound and sick feeling in his throat. God, not her too. He had so few friends. He couldn’t afford to loose one. Especially not now.
Some more heavy breathing and then a cough that made him wince in sympathy. An angry, dry sound that made him imagine whole chunks of flesh being ripped out of the lungs.
“Missouri?”
“Just give me a moment, will you?” She snarled at him, but it was weak and strained, like she barely had the strength to breathe. “I’m fine.”
He didn’t believe her, but the fact that she was still talking reassured him.
“Just tell me what happened. Do you need help?” He tried to stay calm and collected, but damn, he knew her for almost 22 years.
“Yesterday, I was thinking about your boy.” She said quietly, her voice still raspy and breathy, but steadier now. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry for being such a coward. You wouldn’t hesitate to help me. And I did. I’m ashamed for myself.”
“Missouri…” He started, surprised. He honestly didn’t blame her. It never even occurred to him. He knew her enough to know, that when she said she couldn’t help then she couldn’t. It wasn’t for lack of want, just abilities. He knew she loved his boys as if they were hers. “There’s nothing to be sorry about. I understand that you can’t...”
“I can.” She interrupted, with surprising force. “And I did.”
Another cough, much worse than the one before. It took her almost three minutes to stop the painful coughing and by the time John was starting to worry if she would suffocate or at least lose consciousness.
Then her words hit him.
“Missouri, what did you do? What the fuck did you do to yourself?!” He barely controlled his voice, not wanting to draw too much attention to himself in the little dinner.
“Mind your tongue, boy!” She scolded him and he sighed in relief. If she had strength for this, she couldn’t be that bad. He hoped.
“Tell me. What did you do?”
“I... I tried getting something from... her.” Still, she wasn’t able to speak that girls name. But the hitch in her voice told John very clearly, just who she had in mind.
“You told me you couldn’t get into her head.”
He heard her swallow dryly.
“I can’t. But I tried to get to someone close to her. Someone that knows her.”
John could hear the pain in her voice, the strain but right now all he cared was the information she could possibly have for him. And that knowledge, that even for a second, she was capable of ignoring his friend’s pain, made him hate himself that little bit more.
“Did you manage?”
Another pause and then a dry rattle in her lungs as she spoke again.
“Yes. I didn’t get much before I was thrown out but... the only way she’ll help you is if you make it personal. Nothing else will convince her. There is nothing you can say or show her that will change her mind. Make it personal.”
He loathed that cryptic stuff all the psychics he knew seemed to have down pat. Like ‘make it personal’ would be of any help to him.
“How?”
“You’ll have to figure it out for yourself.” She answered with that sickening rattle in her lungs again.
“And you? How are you feeling? You said you were thrown out. Are you hurt?” He asked quickly, sensing she wanted to disconnect.
“For what’s it worth, she wasn’t trying to kill me. I am so insignificant to her, she wasn’t even really aware of me. She swatted at me, like you would at annoying fly. Without thought nor intent. I will be all right, you worry about your boy now.” With that she disconnected.
John looked at the grainy pictures again.
Missouri was one of the strongest psychics he knew or heard about. And she was like a fly to this woman? The implied that the scope of her abilities was beyond his comprehension. He couldn’t imagine something like this, nor did he believe that someone possessing this much power would be living as a semi poor student, in a cheap neighborhood.
The door bell rung and another customer entered the dinner. John looked up, half hoping Dean would still show up for their scheduled meeting. He refused to think about the unease he felt every time he thought he would need to go to Dean’s room. Afraid of what he might find there.
So, it was more than shock when he looked up and saw Dean moving slowly in his direction.
At the sight of his eldest son, his fork slipped from his fingers and hit the almost empty plate with a clatter.
The previous evening Dean had the ‘just fucked’ look. But today. Today, he looked like was either mauled by a bear or fucked within an inch of his life and then some.
He had dark circles under his eyes, like he hadn’t slept all night. And it disturbed John more than it probably should have, but Dean never had problems sleeping. He was one of those men that if he got still long enough, he would fall asleep no matter where or in what position. Nothing could disturb him. So now, seeing him with those dark circles under his eyes and pale skin, John felt a tight fist close around his heart. If he didn’t hurry the fuck up, he might loose both of his sons.
Dean’s neck was a mass of hickeys, bites and scratches. Teeth marks were clearly visible as if somebody wanted it that way. As if Dean was marked.
His lips were swollen, the lower one especially pronounced now. Dark with blood, with tiny cuts visible even from John’s seat.
Dean moved slowly, in that careful way that screamed of hidden injuries. John wondered what he hid under his clothes, just what kind of marks the demon had left on his body; how badly had he hurt Dean?
John had to close his eyes for a moment, just what did he let Dean do? He basically invited a demon to his bed! Jesus, the stupidity of it all hit him then, making him gasp. Dean could have died that night, could have been damaged beyond repair. And he let him do it. He. His father. John felt his failure with a sharpness he had never felt before.
As Dean sat opposite him, almost managing to hide the wince the move caused, John noticed the angry, red bruises on his sons wrists. Now peaking out from underneath his leather jacket.
They were just bruises, the skin wasn’t even broken but it caused a stampede of panicked thoughts through his mind. Did Dean try to stop and got restrained for his trouble? Was he forced into something he didn’t want? Just how badly was he hurt?
He opened his mouth to ask, painfully aware of the fact that Dean was avoiding his eyes, but shut in without making a sound. The young waitress appeared suddenly and Dean started ordering his usual mountain of food.
At least he still had his appetite.
But he didn’t flirt with the girl. Just ordered and looked away, forgetting her almost instantly, deep in his thoughts.
They sit in silence, for at least fifteen minutes. John not sure what to ask, afraid of the answers he might get and Dean focused on his food with a single mindedness he usually reserved only for hunting. They were both avoiding the issue. Which is ridiculous in itself, because discussing it was the single reason for this meeting.
“Dean...” he starts finally, his voice oddly unsure.
His son freezes in the motion of taking a sip from his cup. It only last a second, before Dean resumes the movement, but it’s enough. John sees it. Sees the fear in his son. The fear that John would condemn him somehow for what he had done. That John wouldn’t understand.
And it hit John, once again, with a bitter force, just how much Dean needs his acceptance. His approval. How dependable he is, how much he needs John and not in a good way. John realized, that by not letting Dean form any other bonds than with himself and Sam, he has hurt him. All those things Sam said to him before leaving, all those screaming matches… they never brought it across so clearly as this morning. As this moment, when he stares at his eldest son, bruised, hurting, determined and so very terrified of his father’s scorn.
In a flash of absolute clarity, John understands his power over Dean. Understands, that with one word he could break him. Hurt him like no creature or other human could. And he doesn’t want this kind of power. He is terrified or maybe horrified by the responsibility it brings. And the knowledge that he has failed both of his sons. One way or another.
“Look at me.” He demands finally, tired of the uncharacteristic way Dean avoids his gaze. Hurt by the shame he sees in his son's body.
Dean was capable of many things. Brave, stupid, thoughtless or ruthlessly planned things. But he was never capable of refusing a direct order from his father.
John sighs at the sight of his sons shadowed eyes, of his closed off face that doesn’t betray any feelings and gives out so much at the same time. John wanted to say ‘I love you.’, ‘I’m proud of you’ or at least ‘I care’ but he was never good at sharing his feelings.
“Are you all right?” He asks as gently as possible, trying to remember it’s his son. Not a soldier. Not now.
Dean is clearly taken back by this and blinks slowly at John a few times, before he manages to answer.
“Yeah.”
“You sure?” John feels one corner of his mouth turn up. “Because you don’t look so hot.”
And it’s enough. Dean got the message. His face relaxed almost instantly, his body slouched into that familiar sprawl in the booth.
“Just bruises. Mostly self inflicted.” He answers.
“You sure?” John held his sons eyes for a bit longer, making sure he really was okay.
Dean turned his eyes away finally.
“Yeah… it’s just.” He swallowed dryly. “It’s Sam, you know? And... not, at the same time. And it’s... it’s just fucking with my head, that’s all.”
John wanted to say “yes, I understand” but did he really? His sons had an incredible understanding, a relationship he never really understood. Even apart from Sam’s attraction, there was always a bond that could not be broken. Dean was so fiercely protective of his little brother. Sometimes it seemed that Dean was as much a father to Sammy as John.
Besides he has seen and done many exorcisms, but never on somebody he knew or somebody so close to him. It was a blessing that he didn’t have to see his youngest son possessed by a demon. He wasn’t sure he would be able to live through this. It made his admiration of Dean and his sheer strength raise up a notch.
He walked a dangerous line, played a game no mortal ever should, but seemed to manage it so far.
“Just promise me not go too far?”
Dean shot him a look, ready to defend his actions, his need to protect, save Sammy.
“Listen to me first.” John stopped the argument, “if you let... Sam... hurt you while he is under the influence of the demon and then he comes back to us, do you think he would forgive himself for that? You know Sam, probably better than me at this point, would he be able to live with the knowledge that he hurt you?”
Dean licked his lips, eyes slightly wild and determined. When he looked at John again, there was no hesitation in him.
“He can’t feel guilty if he doesn’t know, right?”
John leaned back and exhaled slowly to regain his composure. So this was how Dean was going to play it.
No one really knew what was going on in Dean’s head. Not him, not even Sammy probably. Hurting or not, Dean was going to fake his way through it, leaving both John and Sam none the wiser. It made John wonder how may times Dean had to do it before, to become so fucking good at it.
“What is that?” Dean pointed the folder, obviously trying to change the subject. And John went for it. There wasn’t much else that could be said without both of them ending up hurt and with a lot more information they didn’t want to know.
“I was trying to find someone who would know about the weapon you described, the one that started it all? Well my contacts came up with this.” He pushed the folder towards Dean. “She is supposed to be a very powerful psychic. Probably THE most powerful one, too.”
Dean leafed through the pages, scanning them quickly.
“I’m smelling a ‘but’ here.” Dean prompted.
John winced.
“Yeah, there is one. A very big one also.” He swallowed the rest of his coffee. “She doesn’t get involved. At all. So I have been studying the file and trying to figure out a way to get her to listen to me. Lying is obviously out of question. I don’t have millions to offer. ”
“That’s all?” Dean raised his eyebrows.
“No. I have only one clue how to approach her.” John hesitated.
“What?”
John sighed and then said:
“Make it personal.” He set the cup down with much more force than strictly necessary, his temper flaring. “How am I supposed to make it personal for her?” John wondered, irritated at the obscure clues.
Dean snorted, stirring his coffee.
“Fuck her. You can’t make it more personal than that.”
John looked at his eldest son reproaching.
“Sex is not an answer to everything.” He scolded.
Dean leaned back in the booth, his face loosing the usual smirk. He looked unusually serious. He took the picture in his hand and looked at the woman again.
“She looks young. Probably around Sammy’s age. Doesn’t seem the easy type. If you manage to get her into bed, she’ll do a lot for you. After all, what is a favor or two after letting you inside her body?”
John stared at his son, at the casual analysis of a woman simply from a picture. What saddened him, was that Dean was probably right. He was always, always, right about sex and women. It hurt John to realize that he was probably the reason Dean saw sex as just another skill he had. A pleasurable one, but just a skill. It never held the wonder, the feelings it should. It wasn’t something intimate. Maybe for the first time he realized, that Dean probably hasn’t been intimate with anybody in his life.
“Besides,” Added Dean with his smirk back “You have this haunted hero look going on, and chicks dig it.”
John was not going to think about the awkwardness of getting tips on sex from his son. Thank you very much.
“We shouldn’t meet anymore. Not until one of us knows something important.” Dean announced suddenly.
“Why?”
His son looked out through the window.
“I’m pretty sure Sam is watching me. It wouldn’t do for him to know what you are up to. If he stays focused on me, then you should have a free hand.”
John nods his head, trusting his son’s instincts.
“Only phone calls, then.”
“Let me know how the psychic thing goes. I have something to check out.”
“What?” John caught the strange note in his son’s voice.
Dean stood up.
“Yesterday, Sam killed someone. I need to know who.”
With that Dean left, not even sparing a glance at his father. John didn’t ask how Dean knew it. Too afraid of the answer, probably.
TBC
AN: I realize this chapter won’t have the same effect as the two before, but you know, plot? You wanted some in this story so you have to deal with chapters like this. No sex, no blood and gore... just conversation. Still I hope you’ll leave feedback.
I still haven’t figured this story beyond a few more chapters ahead, so positive reinforcement is very welcome. And I am a feedback addict.
Fandom: Supernatural
Author: xantissa
Summary: A case turning out to be a set up. Sam taken away from him. An enemy he can’t identify. Father that struggles to understand. Dean, alone, fighting to save his brother from power no one can really understand.
Genre: Slash
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: 18+
Warnings: incest, slash, demon possession, violence.
Disclaimer: Supernatural and all it’s characters belong to WB. I do it just for fun, no profit being made from my writing.
Spoilers: Mild for Asylum, Nightmare tiny ones for probably most of the first season.
Thanks for beta to
lifesscarChapter 8
Dean knew he was dreaming.
Which was strange for him, because he almost never dreams. But the liquid, shifty quality of sensations he was experiencing gave him the kind of certainty one could have only in dreams.
He was having sex. Which was very good, all thing considered. Let it not be said that Dean Winchester shied away from sex. Ever.
With a woman.
Another bonus.
He knew he was inside her, could feel the tight, wet heat of her around his cock, could feel her legs closing over his hips, but the sensation was muted.
There was this nagging feeling, need, to know just who she was.
Her skin was pale, milky white and flushed. Her flat belly was just soft enough for him to want to bite it gently. Her hair was long, falling in a golden wave on the sheets. He touched the soft tresses.
“Dean.” It was barely a whisper, but he knew this voice. He heard it at leas once before. He was sure of it.
Finally, Dean looked up into the face of his dream lover. The moment he saw her face, he jerked back so hard he woke up with his lungs burning with the need to scream. Panting. Scared. Sitting alone in his motel bed.
“Jesus Christ,” He muttered into his hands. “Jesus fucking Christ.”
He just dreamed about having sex with Jessica. His brother’s dead girlfriend. How fucked up was this? He didn’t even know her. He saw her once, for God’s sake!
Besides, she was Sam’s girl. And she was dead.
Shaking his head, hard, Dean decided it was time to get up anyway. The moment he moved, though, various tingles and aches in his body called attention to themselves. Slowly, Dean took stock in his condition.
His wrists were scraped and bruised from tugging at the belt, which was still tied to the headboard. He was sore all over, his body not really used to such intensity. Even his cock was sore, slightly achy from the over stimulation the night before. And of course his ass. Dean decided he was not going to think about his ass. No sir.
He was frankly surprised at the way he was feeling. All the physical signs aside, he felt remarkably well. His plan worked, Sam came to him. He didn’t let him touch the chain the night before, but Dean was sure that it would be different the next time he saw his brother. Because no matter how twisted and dark the feeling, Sam seemed to trust him even in this state.
He flashed to the way those black, scary eyes softened and burned at him in the last moments of his consciousness. He saw his brother then. His Sammy. Saw everything that Sam was in those black, alien eyes. Sure, he was sharper, raw and fucking dangerous. But he was alive. And it was everything Dean needed to know.
Still a bit rattled about the dream he had, Dean got up from the bed not bothering to hide the wince. Yeah, his little bro gave him quite a workout.
He was still exhausted, his limbs felt heavy and eyes gritty and dry. All he wanted to do now was to go back to sleep. But he couldn’t.
Dean opened the bathroom door and stared at the small, clean room. No signs of Sam ever being here. But he could still remember the coppery smell of blood on Sam. His brother killed somebody that night. And Dean needed to know who because he was partially to blame for it. Because his father and him are so reluctant to kill Sam and whatever is possessing him, more people will die. Sam doesn’t have a choice here. He is bound by a spell and by that thing that possesses him. Dean? He doesn’t have an excuse like that.
He stepped into the shower, relishing the warm water beating on his sore muscles, making some of the aches to go away. He washed quickly, disturbed by the arousal he felt when he remembered just what he and Sam did in this shower just a few hours ago.
He washed quickly and left the shower, twisting a towel around his hips and starting to brush his teeth. He was carefully not to look at his neck and shoulders in the mirror. There were at least a dozen marks there. Bite marks, scratches and love bruises from where Sam sucked so hard he made the blood come to the surface.
“Possessive much?” Dean asked in his mind, and then spat the paste out. He leaned down to gather some water in his hands and wash the taste of his mouth. Just as he spat out the last mouthful and stopped the water he felt the little hair at his neck stand. A shiver run down his neck and he knew, was sure, somebody was watching him.
Cursing his lack of any weaponry at hand, he slowly straightened out and looked in the mirror, knowing that most paranormal things would show in mirrors.
There, just over his shoulder he saw the wave of blond, soft hair and pale, beautiful face. Her eyes were wide, intense, almost black and focused on his in the mirror. Her lips, so pink and wet, opened as if she was going to say something to him.
Dean felt a creeping terror in his gut. No. Just no. He was not seeing Jessica here, in this dingy bathroom in this cheap motel room. She had no connection to him.
“No!” He wasn’t aware he was shouting. The only thing he knew was the terror he felt right then. The knowledge that he could not, would not listen to her. That whatever she said would be wrong, would be painful.
In a rush of self preservation, he slammed his fist into the mirror. The glass shattered into a thousand pieces falling around him like a silver rain. In the sudden silence of the room he could hear his own breathing, hard and raspy like a frightened animal.
He opened his eyes to stare at his still tightly clenched fist, blood dripping sluggishly from the myriad of tiny cuts.
“Shit.”
He needed to get some coffee.
* * *
John closed the folder he was looking through as the waitress came with a coffee refill. It wouldn’t do to have her remember him because he was staring at pictures that were very obviously taken from afar and without the knowledge of the person on them.
He thanked her and then returned to his research. There wasn't much useful information there. Just name and address, age and place of birth. Some family history.
And three, bad, grainy pictures of a young, 22 years old woman.
She was attractive. Pretty even. Not as beautiful as Mary was. Not really beautiful at all. She was too simple, too average for it. But she had this something, that made you look twice.
She seemed tall, but he couldn’t really tell from a picture. She had blonde hair, shoulder length. That hair was one of those extra attractive features of her. Extremely thick, shiny, wavy and so very, obviously natural. He couldn’t really tell her eyes from the pictures. His first and foremost impression was that she was so damned young, barely Sam’s age and so... simple.
He expected something else. Maybe some dark, unearthly beauty, some power, strength to be visible in her. Anything, that would prove what two separate contacts had said to him.
She was a powerful psychic. That wasn’t right. From what he had gathered so far, she was THE most powerful psychic.
It was strange, that even those psychics he knew, including Missouri, agreed on that. They were usually a smug bunch, arrogant even, not really keen on admitting that there was somebody stronger than them. But the very suggestion that they could go anywhere near this simple girl, had them turning tail and cutting the connection instantly. Even Missouri, so honestly concerned about Sam, couldn’t bring herself to even speak this girl’s name.
Sarah Andrews.
Right now she was his best bet at getting some help for Sam. At getting some info at least. So, he was going to approach her and ask for help, beg, threaten, bleed even, if it got him something to help Sam. To save his son. He would do anything she demanded of him.
And here lay the problem. From what he gathered, she was not going to want to speak to him. She was known for her power and that she refused to get involved. Ever.
So, he studied the file with it’s meager contents trying to work out the best approach, the best tactics to at least get her to listen to him. Nothing came to mind.
He couldn’t lie, this he knew for sure. If Missouri could read him so easily, then what could she do? Besides, he didn’t have anything she could possibly want, which didn’t leave him much room.
His cell vibrated then.
He looked at the caller display.
Missouri.
“Yes?” He said, quite surprised to hear from her this soon.
“John?” At the sound of her voice, John straightened out, his hand going to gun hidden under his coat.
His friend sounded awful. Her voice was shaky and unsure. She sounded like she was bleeding. Hurt. Almost confused. And he couldn’t remember ever hearing her like this. Vulnerable.
“Missouri? What happened? Are you all right? Talk to me!” He insisted, gripping the phone tightly, feeling his heart pound and sick feeling in his throat. God, not her too. He had so few friends. He couldn’t afford to loose one. Especially not now.
Some more heavy breathing and then a cough that made him wince in sympathy. An angry, dry sound that made him imagine whole chunks of flesh being ripped out of the lungs.
“Missouri?”
“Just give me a moment, will you?” She snarled at him, but it was weak and strained, like she barely had the strength to breathe. “I’m fine.”
He didn’t believe her, but the fact that she was still talking reassured him.
“Just tell me what happened. Do you need help?” He tried to stay calm and collected, but damn, he knew her for almost 22 years.
“Yesterday, I was thinking about your boy.” She said quietly, her voice still raspy and breathy, but steadier now. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry for being such a coward. You wouldn’t hesitate to help me. And I did. I’m ashamed for myself.”
“Missouri…” He started, surprised. He honestly didn’t blame her. It never even occurred to him. He knew her enough to know, that when she said she couldn’t help then she couldn’t. It wasn’t for lack of want, just abilities. He knew she loved his boys as if they were hers. “There’s nothing to be sorry about. I understand that you can’t...”
“I can.” She interrupted, with surprising force. “And I did.”
Another cough, much worse than the one before. It took her almost three minutes to stop the painful coughing and by the time John was starting to worry if she would suffocate or at least lose consciousness.
Then her words hit him.
“Missouri, what did you do? What the fuck did you do to yourself?!” He barely controlled his voice, not wanting to draw too much attention to himself in the little dinner.
“Mind your tongue, boy!” She scolded him and he sighed in relief. If she had strength for this, she couldn’t be that bad. He hoped.
“Tell me. What did you do?”
“I... I tried getting something from... her.” Still, she wasn’t able to speak that girls name. But the hitch in her voice told John very clearly, just who she had in mind.
“You told me you couldn’t get into her head.”
He heard her swallow dryly.
“I can’t. But I tried to get to someone close to her. Someone that knows her.”
John could hear the pain in her voice, the strain but right now all he cared was the information she could possibly have for him. And that knowledge, that even for a second, she was capable of ignoring his friend’s pain, made him hate himself that little bit more.
“Did you manage?”
Another pause and then a dry rattle in her lungs as she spoke again.
“Yes. I didn’t get much before I was thrown out but... the only way she’ll help you is if you make it personal. Nothing else will convince her. There is nothing you can say or show her that will change her mind. Make it personal.”
He loathed that cryptic stuff all the psychics he knew seemed to have down pat. Like ‘make it personal’ would be of any help to him.
“How?”
“You’ll have to figure it out for yourself.” She answered with that sickening rattle in her lungs again.
“And you? How are you feeling? You said you were thrown out. Are you hurt?” He asked quickly, sensing she wanted to disconnect.
“For what’s it worth, she wasn’t trying to kill me. I am so insignificant to her, she wasn’t even really aware of me. She swatted at me, like you would at annoying fly. Without thought nor intent. I will be all right, you worry about your boy now.” With that she disconnected.
John looked at the grainy pictures again.
Missouri was one of the strongest psychics he knew or heard about. And she was like a fly to this woman? The implied that the scope of her abilities was beyond his comprehension. He couldn’t imagine something like this, nor did he believe that someone possessing this much power would be living as a semi poor student, in a cheap neighborhood.
The door bell rung and another customer entered the dinner. John looked up, half hoping Dean would still show up for their scheduled meeting. He refused to think about the unease he felt every time he thought he would need to go to Dean’s room. Afraid of what he might find there.
So, it was more than shock when he looked up and saw Dean moving slowly in his direction.
At the sight of his eldest son, his fork slipped from his fingers and hit the almost empty plate with a clatter.
The previous evening Dean had the ‘just fucked’ look. But today. Today, he looked like was either mauled by a bear or fucked within an inch of his life and then some.
He had dark circles under his eyes, like he hadn’t slept all night. And it disturbed John more than it probably should have, but Dean never had problems sleeping. He was one of those men that if he got still long enough, he would fall asleep no matter where or in what position. Nothing could disturb him. So now, seeing him with those dark circles under his eyes and pale skin, John felt a tight fist close around his heart. If he didn’t hurry the fuck up, he might loose both of his sons.
Dean’s neck was a mass of hickeys, bites and scratches. Teeth marks were clearly visible as if somebody wanted it that way. As if Dean was marked.
His lips were swollen, the lower one especially pronounced now. Dark with blood, with tiny cuts visible even from John’s seat.
Dean moved slowly, in that careful way that screamed of hidden injuries. John wondered what he hid under his clothes, just what kind of marks the demon had left on his body; how badly had he hurt Dean?
John had to close his eyes for a moment, just what did he let Dean do? He basically invited a demon to his bed! Jesus, the stupidity of it all hit him then, making him gasp. Dean could have died that night, could have been damaged beyond repair. And he let him do it. He. His father. John felt his failure with a sharpness he had never felt before.
As Dean sat opposite him, almost managing to hide the wince the move caused, John noticed the angry, red bruises on his sons wrists. Now peaking out from underneath his leather jacket.
They were just bruises, the skin wasn’t even broken but it caused a stampede of panicked thoughts through his mind. Did Dean try to stop and got restrained for his trouble? Was he forced into something he didn’t want? Just how badly was he hurt?
He opened his mouth to ask, painfully aware of the fact that Dean was avoiding his eyes, but shut in without making a sound. The young waitress appeared suddenly and Dean started ordering his usual mountain of food.
At least he still had his appetite.
But he didn’t flirt with the girl. Just ordered and looked away, forgetting her almost instantly, deep in his thoughts.
They sit in silence, for at least fifteen minutes. John not sure what to ask, afraid of the answers he might get and Dean focused on his food with a single mindedness he usually reserved only for hunting. They were both avoiding the issue. Which is ridiculous in itself, because discussing it was the single reason for this meeting.
“Dean...” he starts finally, his voice oddly unsure.
His son freezes in the motion of taking a sip from his cup. It only last a second, before Dean resumes the movement, but it’s enough. John sees it. Sees the fear in his son. The fear that John would condemn him somehow for what he had done. That John wouldn’t understand.
And it hit John, once again, with a bitter force, just how much Dean needs his acceptance. His approval. How dependable he is, how much he needs John and not in a good way. John realized, that by not letting Dean form any other bonds than with himself and Sam, he has hurt him. All those things Sam said to him before leaving, all those screaming matches… they never brought it across so clearly as this morning. As this moment, when he stares at his eldest son, bruised, hurting, determined and so very terrified of his father’s scorn.
In a flash of absolute clarity, John understands his power over Dean. Understands, that with one word he could break him. Hurt him like no creature or other human could. And he doesn’t want this kind of power. He is terrified or maybe horrified by the responsibility it brings. And the knowledge that he has failed both of his sons. One way or another.
“Look at me.” He demands finally, tired of the uncharacteristic way Dean avoids his gaze. Hurt by the shame he sees in his son's body.
Dean was capable of many things. Brave, stupid, thoughtless or ruthlessly planned things. But he was never capable of refusing a direct order from his father.
John sighs at the sight of his sons shadowed eyes, of his closed off face that doesn’t betray any feelings and gives out so much at the same time. John wanted to say ‘I love you.’, ‘I’m proud of you’ or at least ‘I care’ but he was never good at sharing his feelings.
“Are you all right?” He asks as gently as possible, trying to remember it’s his son. Not a soldier. Not now.
Dean is clearly taken back by this and blinks slowly at John a few times, before he manages to answer.
“Yeah.”
“You sure?” John feels one corner of his mouth turn up. “Because you don’t look so hot.”
And it’s enough. Dean got the message. His face relaxed almost instantly, his body slouched into that familiar sprawl in the booth.
“Just bruises. Mostly self inflicted.” He answers.
“You sure?” John held his sons eyes for a bit longer, making sure he really was okay.
Dean turned his eyes away finally.
“Yeah… it’s just.” He swallowed dryly. “It’s Sam, you know? And... not, at the same time. And it’s... it’s just fucking with my head, that’s all.”
John wanted to say “yes, I understand” but did he really? His sons had an incredible understanding, a relationship he never really understood. Even apart from Sam’s attraction, there was always a bond that could not be broken. Dean was so fiercely protective of his little brother. Sometimes it seemed that Dean was as much a father to Sammy as John.
Besides he has seen and done many exorcisms, but never on somebody he knew or somebody so close to him. It was a blessing that he didn’t have to see his youngest son possessed by a demon. He wasn’t sure he would be able to live through this. It made his admiration of Dean and his sheer strength raise up a notch.
He walked a dangerous line, played a game no mortal ever should, but seemed to manage it so far.
“Just promise me not go too far?”
Dean shot him a look, ready to defend his actions, his need to protect, save Sammy.
“Listen to me first.” John stopped the argument, “if you let... Sam... hurt you while he is under the influence of the demon and then he comes back to us, do you think he would forgive himself for that? You know Sam, probably better than me at this point, would he be able to live with the knowledge that he hurt you?”
Dean licked his lips, eyes slightly wild and determined. When he looked at John again, there was no hesitation in him.
“He can’t feel guilty if he doesn’t know, right?”
John leaned back and exhaled slowly to regain his composure. So this was how Dean was going to play it.
No one really knew what was going on in Dean’s head. Not him, not even Sammy probably. Hurting or not, Dean was going to fake his way through it, leaving both John and Sam none the wiser. It made John wonder how may times Dean had to do it before, to become so fucking good at it.
“What is that?” Dean pointed the folder, obviously trying to change the subject. And John went for it. There wasn’t much else that could be said without both of them ending up hurt and with a lot more information they didn’t want to know.
“I was trying to find someone who would know about the weapon you described, the one that started it all? Well my contacts came up with this.” He pushed the folder towards Dean. “She is supposed to be a very powerful psychic. Probably THE most powerful one, too.”
Dean leafed through the pages, scanning them quickly.
“I’m smelling a ‘but’ here.” Dean prompted.
John winced.
“Yeah, there is one. A very big one also.” He swallowed the rest of his coffee. “She doesn’t get involved. At all. So I have been studying the file and trying to figure out a way to get her to listen to me. Lying is obviously out of question. I don’t have millions to offer. ”
“That’s all?” Dean raised his eyebrows.
“No. I have only one clue how to approach her.” John hesitated.
“What?”
John sighed and then said:
“Make it personal.” He set the cup down with much more force than strictly necessary, his temper flaring. “How am I supposed to make it personal for her?” John wondered, irritated at the obscure clues.
Dean snorted, stirring his coffee.
“Fuck her. You can’t make it more personal than that.”
John looked at his eldest son reproaching.
“Sex is not an answer to everything.” He scolded.
Dean leaned back in the booth, his face loosing the usual smirk. He looked unusually serious. He took the picture in his hand and looked at the woman again.
“She looks young. Probably around Sammy’s age. Doesn’t seem the easy type. If you manage to get her into bed, she’ll do a lot for you. After all, what is a favor or two after letting you inside her body?”
John stared at his son, at the casual analysis of a woman simply from a picture. What saddened him, was that Dean was probably right. He was always, always, right about sex and women. It hurt John to realize that he was probably the reason Dean saw sex as just another skill he had. A pleasurable one, but just a skill. It never held the wonder, the feelings it should. It wasn’t something intimate. Maybe for the first time he realized, that Dean probably hasn’t been intimate with anybody in his life.
“Besides,” Added Dean with his smirk back “You have this haunted hero look going on, and chicks dig it.”
John was not going to think about the awkwardness of getting tips on sex from his son. Thank you very much.
“We shouldn’t meet anymore. Not until one of us knows something important.” Dean announced suddenly.
“Why?”
His son looked out through the window.
“I’m pretty sure Sam is watching me. It wouldn’t do for him to know what you are up to. If he stays focused on me, then you should have a free hand.”
John nods his head, trusting his son’s instincts.
“Only phone calls, then.”
“Let me know how the psychic thing goes. I have something to check out.”
“What?” John caught the strange note in his son’s voice.
Dean stood up.
“Yesterday, Sam killed someone. I need to know who.”
With that Dean left, not even sparing a glance at his father. John didn’t ask how Dean knew it. Too afraid of the answer, probably.
TBC
AN: I realize this chapter won’t have the same effect as the two before, but you know, plot? You wanted some in this story so you have to deal with chapters like this. No sex, no blood and gore... just conversation. Still I hope you’ll leave feedback.
I still haven’t figured this story beyond a few more chapters ahead, so positive reinforcement is very welcome. And I am a feedback addict.
