FIC: Weapon of Choice: Chapter 10
Jul. 31st, 2006 10:56 am![[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 tolifesscar
Chapter 10
John knew he needed to make himself as none threatening as possible, and it wasn’t an easy thing for him. He made a conscious effort to leave most of his guns in his car. He wouldn’t go unarmed but he couldn’t afford to be seen as a threat. He needed her to help him.
After much thought, he decided to wait for her in front of her apartment. He didn’t know where she was anyway, but she had to come back home sometime.
He had a lot of practice in waiting on something or somebody, spending hours after hours in his car or crouched behind some headstone in a cemetery.
She lived in an ordinary, quite old apartment building. Getting there wasn’t a hardship. Thankfully, there were only two apartments on each floor so there wasn’t much chance of somebody asking him just what he was doing here.
He set himself to wait, leaning on the wall hidden from view from the stairway.
* * *
Three hours later he had company.
He was sitting on the floor, head tilted back to rest against the cool wall he never heard anyone approaching.
“Meow!”
He jerked upright violently, and looked down at an almost white, long haired cat sitting in front of him. It was big; at least twice as big as ordinary cat and had the most amazing amber eyes. John knew this breed: Maine coon. Caleb once had a huge cat of this breed. A strong motherfucker.
This one was even bigger, but the long hair was making it hard to judge just how big it really was. Although it lacked a collar, John was sure this cat belonged to someone. Those were expensive animals.
“Meow!” The cat sat in front of him, its tail curled modestly over its paws and each time it made a sound it showed off rows of sharp looking teeth. John had a feeling it wanted something from him.
The cat looked at the door and then at him. And in that instant John knew the cat belonged to Sarah Andrews. Time to make friends, it seemed.
“Hi there.” He said gently, leaning towards the cat. “Just how did you get here, eh?”
* * *
John knew she was coming long before he heard her. It was getting dark outside. The cat, that had been cheerfully playing with the zipper of his jacked, occasionally getting a mouthful of skin instead of cloth, suddenly stopped and stared at the stairs. It took John at least five minutes before he heard the first faint footsteps, which meant the cat heard them long before she even entered the building. He wondered briefly just how did cats see the world with their senses so different that humans.
“Meow!”
He stared at the cat that was obviously trying to scream the house down and well stared, because he always had the impression that cats were supposed to be silent. Quiet. And this cat was talking at him constantly, making a whole range of noises that were anything but quiet.
John watched as the woman he saw on the pictures earlier appeared on the stairs, one large grocery bag in her arms, a black bag, packed full, swinging near her hip.
“T, you bastard. How the hell did you manage to escape again?” She sighed at the still meowing cat. “I hope you’ve been waiting here, hungry and cold for hours, because you so deserve it!” She kept talking, but her voice lacked any anger. She had a nice voice, deep and strong. She also looked taller, bigger somehow than on the pictures. She wasn’t a woman that you could pass by without noticing. She was a little on the heavy side, the pictures earlier didn’t show it but it suited her somehow. Tall and strongly built with very feminine curves, she looked like she could deliver quite a punch if provoked. Not a shy flower.
Just like he expected, her hair was one of the most attractive features about her. Long, wavy and thick, shining with dozens of shades of golden blonde color. Made you want to touch it, see if they felt as soft as they looked.
He waited for her to notice him, not really sure if she knew about him or not. For a while she was completely focused on the cat, obviously wanting to kneel and pet it, but the bag was hindering her too much.
Finally, she looked over at him, her eyes held no surprise. Only curiosity as she gave him a quick once over, assessing him obviously. There was a flash of... something in her eyes. An emotion, that made her eyes darken a bit. He noted, quite surprised, that her eyes were the exact color as the cat’s. Amber.
“Here, let me help you.” He offered, reaching out for the overflowing bag.
She hesitated for a moment, but then the cat turned away from her, wove itself around John’s feet and trotted towards the door. Those hours spent playing with the cat paid off as she watched the cat and then, with a barely audible sigh, she surrendered the bag.
He watched her open the door and let the cat in, then he followed her quietly to the kitchen.
“So...” She started unpacking the bag. “You obviously know me. Who are you?” She asked putting some things in the fridge.
“John Winchester.” He didn’t extend his hand because she had already turned her back on him.
“Why were you waiting for me, Mr. Winchester?”
He watched her watch him, watched her amber eyes slid over him again. She was more curious than scared. The question surprised him; basically everything about her surprised him. She was a psychic; she should have known his reasons right away.
“John please, and I need your help.” He said simply leaning on the doorframe, sensing that it could take time.
She rolled her eyes in a move reminding him of Sammy with painful sharpness.
“Figures,” She didn’t seem surprised nor pleased. “I think you are in the wrong place.”
He shifted, straightening, making himself bigger, impossible to ignore.
“It’s important. Lives are at stake here. Not only of people close to me but of innocent people. You have to help me.”
She smiled at him, a bitter half smile. In an instant she lost all the youth, her eyes became old and dull.
“That’s where you are wrong. I don’t have to do a damn thing.” In that moment she was a completely different person. Old, bitter, almost patronizing towards him.
“People will die, are dying!” He was taken aback by the change in her, by the refusal. She didn’t strike him as the uncaring kind. “You have to help me.”
She turned away, back to unpacking the groceries.
He took a deep breath, trying to control his temper. Yelling at her wouldn’t accomplish anything.
“Please, you have to listen to me at least.” If it helped, he was fucking going to beg. He could not let his son down now.
“I’m tired, my back hurts like hell, I’m hungry and frankly, I’m too exhausted to cook. I’m not in the mood to do anything at all right now. So could you please leave?”
He blinked at the sudden outburst. He watched her jerky movements, reading the anger clearly. He couldn’t let her throw him out, not yet anyway.
“I saw a Kebab place across the street. Let me buy you a meal.” He offered quietly.
He saw her eyes flicker over him again and then the moment she decided to refuse even when she wanted to go. She opened her mouth but he cut in quickly: “I won’t ask you for anything while we eat.”
Her eyes fluttered gently in his direction again and she let loose a deep sigh.
“Fine, but I have to warn you. I’m the kind of a woman that takes gifts that are offered without feeling the need to reciprocate. Just because you buy me a meal, won’t make me want to do anything for you.”
John found it kind of nice, that she was honest with him. No pretending here, no promises that wouldn’t be kept. Still he had time, to talk, to think, to make her like him. So he watched her carefully as she moved around the kitchen. Her apartment seemed a bit messy, but not too badly. Mostly it was just papers lying everywhere, books of every shape and size on shelves and in piles on every flat surface.
Watching her put on her shoes again, he asked the question that bothered him for some time now.
“Why did you let me in, in the first place?”
She looked away, her gaze loosing focus for a moment.
“You remind me of somebody.”
Her eyelids fluttered and it took John a moment to realize she was looking at his reflection in the window. She was, very carefully, checking him out. And not in a ‘threat assessment’ way.
They were quiet walking to the small restaurant, the silence strangely welcomed. He watched her, aware of her interest. She looked straight ahead, her eyes never straying towards him. Her hair, loose now, was falling in an inviting wave over her shoulders. He found himself wanting to touch them. Small things, like that, made him remember just how long it was since he had been with somebody. She was attractive to him, appealed to him on the most carnal level, but she was also so very young. Much, much too young for him to seriously consider sleeping with her. She was barely Sam’s age, for God’s sake. He remembered the look on her face as she watched his reflection in the mirror. She watched him, but definitely saw somebody else. He knew that expression; he saw it on himself every time he saw a willowy, tall blonde woman in a white dress. Every time looking at another woman made him think of Mary.
“Who was he?” John asked quietly.
She turned her head to him, her amber eyes catching the last of the evening sun making them glow with gold tint. Her expression was unreadable.
“I don’t know.”
Her eyes swept over him again, soft and gentle and yearning for something even she couldn’t name. John knew she had told him the truth.
* * *
“Show me your hand,” She asked after the waitress left with their orders and they were sitting in the corner booth of the small dinner.
Quite baffled, but willing to do anything if it made her talk to him a bit more and maybe listen to him, he extended his hand. It was ridiculous how… exposed he felt when she took his hand in hers. Physically, he was much stronger than her, he knew. Maybe it was the... unexpected intimacy of the act that had him off his game. She didn’t look at him, her gaze focused on his hand as she touched his palm gently, her fingers skimming over the calloused skin very lightly. He felt a sudden surge of heat through his body and it surprised him.
Yes, he had been with women in the time that has passed since Mary died, but he rarely desired them. They were only a way to release the tension when it became too much, a means to forcing his body into more effectiveness. It never meant anything and he preferred paying for sex, because then it felt less like a betrayal.
“You handle a lot of weapons.” She said quietly releasing. “A hunter. A warrior... not many of your kind around any more.”
“Why aren’t you afraid of me?” He asked, not withdrawing the hand, letting it lay on the table palm up, fingers curled slightly.
She looked up at him, her eyes pure amber. He couldn’t look away even if he wanted.
His breath hitched and a feeling of dread crawled on spider legs up his spine. He felt a heaviness on his chest, like a hand over his heart. Just there, heavy and real. She stared unblinkingly into his eyes, golden and silent, and he kept her gaze levelly. His life was in her hands, the presence, pressure, a live threat but he didn’t look away. He saw too much, was hurt by too many things to back down from just a threat.
She smiled at him, a real smile this time and the presence disappeared.
“Physically? I don’t think anyone could hurt me. At least no one has managed to yet.” She reached for the napkins.
John wondered how long this “yet” was. He had a feeling that it was a really long time.
“I must admit that I have never met a psychic that was also telekinetic.” He offered carefully, wanting to know more about her abilities.
She looked at him surprised.
“Psychic?” She asked, obvious bafflement in her voice. “I’m not a psychic. I never was. I could never read minds, never had visions or anything like that. I’m not really telekinetic either. The scope of my abilities is... very limited really. Basically, I can do only one thing.”
“What?” John asked, taken aback. Missouri was never wrong before.
“Kill.” She answered simply. “If something is alive, exists with any kind of energy... I can kill it. People, plants, animals, spirits, demons, souls...” She sounded so sure of herself.
“Demons? You can send them back?” It was... he couldn’t find the words for what it would mean.
She smiled at him almost patronizing again.
“I said kill. Permanently. I am not sending anyone back. They just cease to exist.”
John stared her. Like the Colt. If it was true she could do the same thing the Colt could, with the difference that she didn’t have a bullet limit.
He wanted to say something, ask her about it but the waitress came back with the food. He needed to know more, but he also needed her. He couldn’t let himself piss her off.
* * *
He watched her look up, stare at the stars barely visible in the city.
“I need to leave the city from time to time.” She said gently, with a sigh “I love watching stars.”
They stood in front of her building again.
“My son is possessed by... something. I don’t know what it is, so I can’t exorcise it. Can you help me?” He asked stepping closer to her. He could smell her shampoo and something else, something sharp and inviting, something very feminine.
She tried to avoid him, tried to move away without being obvious.
“I can’t.”
He caught her arm and turned her towards him, trying so hard to control his temper. Because she lied. He could almost smell the lie on her.
“It’s not enough Sarah. It’s my son, my child I’m talking about.” He made a conscious effort to let her go before he did something he would regret.
She looked up at him, looked him in the eyes. Only now did he realize that she actually avoiding that before, preferring to look somewhere else while talking to him.
“I don’t remember. I know I lived before. Many times. I know things, languages long dead. But I don’t remember.” She stared at him earnestly, scared for the first time probably. “I also know I don’t want to remember. If I push my abilities I could remember and I don’t want to. It would change me.” She took his hand, and raised it until the wedding band caught the light of the streetlamp. “I sense that if I remembered... I would become you. Driven by pain and grief...” She looked up into his eyes again, her eyes luminous and liquid “I would be dead inside.” She never said ‘like you’ but it rung clear in the air nevertheless. “And I love life. I love the joy the simple things bring me. I love that I can watch my cat play and laugh like a child, I love that I can get drunk with my friends and talk about the silliest, stupidest things for hours. I want to be able to feel joy and freedom, to live this life, not wallow in pain for the past that can not be changed. I love that I still have a kind of innocence, naivety even about me.” She let go of his hand, her voice almost gentle as she stepped back. “I don’t want to be like you John. I don’t want to see shadows everywhere, to see darkness on the brightest day, look back over my shoulder and look back into the past even as my life passes me by. I’m sorry John. I have lived that life before, and I can’t do it any more. I just don’t want to.”
He watched her, speechless, as she disappeared into the building, her words ringing in his ears like a blow.
But it was okay. He would come back. He was a Winchester after all. And they were nothing if not stubborn.
* * *
John finished drying off in the tiny bathroom. Unlike his sons, he never liked prancing about in only a towel. Maybe it was a left over from his army days, or simply a different generation thing, but he was never really comfortable with being naked.
He dressed, still careful of his injured shoulder. The damage must have been much more extensive than he thought if three weeks later it still hurt like hell. Or maybe he just didn’t give it time to heal and the injury got worse. He knew he needed to rest but how could he do that with Sam in this kind of trouble? It just wasn’t an option.
With a sigh, he pulled his old, ratty sweats on and an equally old tee. The clothes definitely had seen better days but hell, he was alone. It wasn’t as if somebody would see him like this and those were the softest, most comfortable clothes he owned.
John looked in the mirror. He could barely recognize himself. He looked old, tired. Helpless and kind of scary. It was a miracle Sarah hadn’t slammed the door in his face and called the cops. He stopped that train of thought. He didn’t particularly want to think about her last words anymore.
His inability to help his youngest son was tearing him apart. There was also guilt. Some for the fact that, however unknowingly, he played a part in what happened to Sammy, but mostly because of the rift he caused in his family. Now, looking back over the years, he understood that he could have dealt with Sam’s attraction differently. That he didn’t need to cut him off so completely. With a sigh, he reached for his toothbrush when he smelled it.
Smoke.
Cigarette smoke.
There were probably hundreds, logical explanations why his bathroom suddenly smelled of cigarette smoke but he decided to go for the most dangerous one.
Someone was in his room.
He reached for the gun he never parted with. He took it everywhere, even to the bathroom. He might get caught with his pants around his ankles, literally, but never unarmed.
Pulling the safety off, carefully he opened the bathroom door a crack.
What he saw made his stomach clench and heart falter.
For Dean’s descriptions of how Sam now looked, John wasn’t prepared for the changes in Sam. In his mind he knew it wasn’t his son but it didn’t help the rush of love and pain he felt at seeing Sam here, in his hotel room.
His younger son was sitting, lazily sprawled across the small, motel bed. His back rested against the wall, one jean clad leg falling to the floor, one foot flat on the bed, knee bent and elbow resting on it casually. Between his long fingers was a gently glowing cigarette. Mesmerized, John watched it make a slow ark in the
The shaggy hair fell into his eyes, obscuring them; the shadows in the room hid his son’s face almost completely. There was something fundamentally different about Sam. The way he sat there, sprawled, ridiculously sure of himself. Sammy was always self conscious about his body, about his height.
He looked different now. Dangerous somehow. Dark. Angry. John snorted mentally at the last thought. Sammy was angry ever since he reached fourteen; he was always angry about something. If there ever was an example of teenage rebellion than Sammy was exactly it. Sometimes John wondered how the hell he had managed to survive those years with Sam constantly in his face, with his son almost flaunting his unhealthy attraction for Dean. But he was his son damn it. John couldn’t even face the thought of loosing Sammy. Not like this. Not to the darkness he dedicated his life to fighting. Still, he wouldn’t get fooled. He knew what possession was. Knew that most families, parents never saw it in their children, the demon using the memories and character traits to fool the loved ones. He wasn’t going to let this demon fool him into believing it was actually Sam.
The sound of the hammer of his gun cocking was loud as a thunder in the otherwise quiet room.
The slow movement of the glowing tip of the cigarette was halted for a second, before Sam changed its trajectory and let it fall into the ashtray on the bedside table.
He moved slowly, his long body twisting with a kind of grace John has never seen in his son before. He turned and John had to rely on his experience not to crumble and fall to his knees. Knowing something, hearing it from Dean... it was nothing compared to the reality of facing Sam’s changed eyes like this, of watching the thick black lines cut through his face giving him an odd, alien look.
The black eyes, dead and flat, fixed on him and he had to fight down a crawling shiver of disgust. Jesus, it was his son!
“How did you get in here?” John asked, trying so very hard to keep the sheer terror out of his voice.
Sam turned to look at the windows with sigils drawn over them and the line of salt white on the floor.
“You really think that’ll protect you?” There was an odd mixture of curiosity and amusement in his voice. It was so matter of fact, as if those sigils were never any kind of obstacle for him. And those were powerful symbols.
Before John had the time to form any kind of response, Sam turned his dead, black eyes towards him again and slid his gaze to the gun still held securely in John’s hands.
“And this?” He unfolded his long figure from the bed, standing tall and dark against the shadows of the room. “Just as useless.”
Acting more on instinct than on any kind of actual thought, John raised the gun and leveled it at his son. He knew it wouldn’t kill the demon, nor really hurt him either but he needed to at least feel in control, needed something familiar to ground him.
“What do you want?” John asked trying to sound more in control than he really was.
Sam cocked his head to the side, his eyes still dead and flat.
“What’s the matter DAD?” He slurred the last word, making it sound like a low hiss reverberating through the dark room. “Aren’t you pleased to see what has become of your son?” there was a distinct mocking quality to Sam’s voice. It made John wonder just how big the rift between his youngest son and him was.
“You are not my son.” He said firmly, not willing to play the demon’s games.
Sam’s mouth twisted in a bitter parody of a smile.
“Oh, really?” One move of his son’s hand and he was two feet in the air, both arms stretched outwards on his sides. Force, like a lead weight kept his arms twisted in an unnatural angle, muscles staining to resist the pressure.
The room was still quiet; the only sound was his harsh breathing. Sam stood tall and dark in front of him, no expression on his face, his skin pale and almost luminescent. John felt as if lead weight pulled him, pressed at him, forcing him into position, molding him as Sam wanted. His gun slipped from his fingers and floated towards Sam.
His youngest son didn’t even look at it, never taking his eyes from John’s face. The gun clicked as the safety was put back on, and then, still hovering in the air, between John and Sam, the gun disassembled itself piece by piece. As if it was on show for John.
“I am more your son now than I have ever been.” The voice was deeper, lower than Sam’s. Husky and heavy like molasses. It touched something deep inside of him; it made a strange wetness to come to his eyes.
“No.” He whispered. “This is never what I wanted for you.”
Sam’s eyes never moved from his, black and endless, not expressing any kind of emotion.
“Isn’t it? I’m a perfect soldier now, just like you always wanted.” The pressure on his arms and chest intensified, causing him pain as his muscles strained to counteract. His chest tightened, pain shooting down his spine as his back bent backwards into an uncomfortable angle.
“No. I just wanted you to be strong. I just wanted you safe.”
Something flickered over Sam’s face, the black eyes almost showing an emotion, but it passed quickly, his face empty and eyes hollow once again. Only his lips, curled in a bitter grin expressed anything.
“Then you failed, didn’t you? Because your son no longer exists.”
“No! You lie. He is so much stronger than you!” John snarled, even when his arms were jerked back and his injured shoulder screamed in pain, white hot sparks of agony shooting up his neck and down his torso, almost paralyzing that half of his body.
Something changed in Sam then, his lips curled into a snarl.
“What the hell do you know about me and him? Huh? He’s a stranger to you. You threw him out, remember? You haven’t talked with him for years and you claim you know anything about him?” the younger man raised his hand and John screamed in pain as he was pulled in opposite directions, his tendons and muscles screeching in protest, his heart thundering in his chest. The pain enveloped him, encircling his chest in band of steel that kept getting tighter and tighter, making it hard to breath. “As a father you failed him so completely...” He murmured as an afterthought and the pressure intensified, forcing John to pant in an effort to chase the back spots from in front of his eyes.
“Do you want to know something?” Sam leaned towards him, so close that John could actually smell the scent of his skin that hasn’t really changed since he was just a baby and John used to give him baths. “He could do this even before he left for college.”
Another twist, more pressure and John barely managed to choke back the scream. God, it hurt. His feet kicked, searching for any kind of purchase but they only found air. He wanted to speak, to say something but the pain made it impossible to even think.
“And you never even knew.”
Through the haze of rushing blood and hypnotic black eyes, he heard a click and the sound of door opening.
A sharp intake of breath and then, familiar, surprisingly calm and almost gentle voice came.
“Sam. Stop it.”
Shockingly the painful pressure lessened. John was still hanging almost two feet in the air though.
He managed to pry his eyes open, not really sure when he closed them. Just over Sam’s shoulder he could see Dean. His older son looked scared, his eyes flicking from John to Sam’s still form. Slowly, like approaching a wild animal, Dean reached out to Sam. His hand closed over Sam’s outstretched arm, fingers curling around the strong wrist.
Sam’s eyes never left John’s face.
“Let him go.” Dean said gently, pulling Sam until the younger man turned slightly towards Dean. “Please.” Dean whispered, guiding Sam closer towards him. Pulling him, Dean’s other hand reaching to Sam’s neck.
Dean shifted his stance, his body open and inviting and tilted his head sideways a little. He pulled Sam very slowly to himself, guiding his brother’s face to his neck, inviting an embrace. There was so much love in the way he waited for Sam, so much emotion, so much incredible trust it made John’s heart break.
He watched as his demon possessed Son complied like a child, curling his large body around his older brother, his face disappearing in the crook of Dean’s arm. John watched as Dean’s hands slid over the leather covered back, watched him pet Sam gently, his eyes closed and breathing steady. He knew, he trusted that Sam would let him do this. And Sam, even in this state, more powerful than anything John had encountered before let Dean control him. Let himself be pulled away. Complied.
“Let go.” Barely a whisper, a kiss pressed to Sam’s temple almost, but not quite brotherly in its gentleness and he felt it. John felt the pressure dissipate, felt himself be lowered almost carefully to the ground. When his feet touched the floor, the force disappeared completely.
John stumbled, his knees buckling and ended up sitting heavily on the bed, watching his sons embrace.
Sam was still eerily still in Dean’s arms but complacent in a way that he never was with John. He watched, mesmerized, as Dean’s finger stroked the too long bangs, threaded through the silky hair in a gentle, soothing massage as if Sam was something fragile and infinitely precious. Watched Dean’s body shift to accommodate the bigger frame of his brother, watched Dean fold himself around Sam as if trying to protect him from the world outside their embrace.
“Thank you.” Dean whispered, gently rubbing his stubbled cheek against the side of Sam’s head, his fingers still caressing his brother’s scalp, his other hand pulling him even closer into the embrace.
John saw Sam’s jaw move and knew he said something but he couldn’t hear the low murmur. He only saw the way Dean seemed to loose the last of his tension in the shuddering exhale of breath.
“I know Sam. I know.” Dean opened his eyes and looked right at John, his eyes dark but soft. They crinkled at the corners as his eldest smiled at him with only his eyes.
John was always aware of the special bond between his two boys but never this acutely. He never actually saw it with this kind of clarity. Sam and Dean, they always had a special relationship. The way Dean could reach Sam when even John couldn’t. Long before the conflict between John and Sam started, Dean was always the one who could reach Sam when everything failed. John closed his eyes, remembering when he realized the connection between them, this incredible bond for the first time.
//
It was just a freak car accident; a drunk motherfucker slammed his truck into their car. He and Dean were okay, only minor injuries on them. There was glass everywhere, his ears were still ringing but it was unimportant. The only thing John was aware of was Sam howling in pain on the backseat.
“Sammy, just let me see. Let Daddy see.” John tried pleading, begging his son to let him see. But his son only cried harder, his fingers curling around his stomach and twisted away from his touch, face contorted in pain, wet with tears.
“Please Sammy.” He begged, afraid to use force, but he needed to see.
Jesus Christ, Sam was BLEEDING, his little hands red with the thick liquid and, oh God but the blood was DRIPPING down and Christ, John was so scared, so fucking scared right now.
He had no idea just how bad Sammy was hurt and he wasn’t letting him SEE and John was too afraid of aggravating the injuries to pull Sam’s hand forcefully away.
There was glass everywhere, people screaming but it was all in the distance, all in another world. “Sammy, God...” he reached for his youngest son, but he squirmed away, curling himself into the tiny space in the back of the car. “Jesus just... Sammy, Please!”
More blood. Red and thick and Jesus it was TOO MUCH, too much for someone as small as Sammy was. Only eight years old, he was smaller than most children his age, skinny and bony, he looked fragile on a good day and now, pale, crying, nearly hysterical clutching at his stomach he looked like a broken toy.
John barely heard the other door opening, too focused on trying to reach his panicked son.
“Sammy.” The shaky voice was familiar and he looked up to see Dean crawling from the other side, his face scratched and bruised from the crash, an ugly bruise already forming on his left arm. It must have hurt, to be crawling like this through the backseat but he never flinched, calling his younger brother’s name all the time, never showing the pain and fear he must have felt.
In that moment John felt such pride swelling in his chest it made it hard to breath.
“Dean! Hurts...” Sammy whimpered shakily and John was surprised to see Sammy turn towards Dean, shocked to realize that Dean had so easily penetrated the panicked and painful fog clouding his little brother’s mind.
“I know, I know, Sammy. Just... let Dad see okay?” Dean crouched awkwardly half on, half off the seat his fingers already reaching for the bloodied, clenched hands Sammy kept pressing to his midsection. John prayed that whatever was bleeding that it wasn’t Sammy’s stomach. But there was so much blood, so fucking much, dripping down onto the floor of the car.
He watched Dean’s hands closing over Sam’s and when he saw Dean pull them away, John snapped his first aid kit open. They had no time to loose...
Now, looking at them together he still saw that bond, maybe stronger than it ever was before. He saw the trust between them, the way Dean wasn’t afraid of Sam even in this state. Saw the way Sam responded to that trust, calming and gentling. Letting Dean pull him away, listening to Dean. He wondered if Dean understood the power he had over his brother?
John watched, unable to make even the slightest sound, as Sam finally moved, shifting, raising his head until his lips brushed Dean’s jaw. He watched as Dean’s eyelids fluttered and closed, his head tilted back another inch granting Sam access.
In the silence of the room he could only hear his heart thundering in his chest as he watched his youngest son’s lips slide over Dean’s stubbled chin until they reached the lips. Not wanting to see it, but unable to tear his eyes way from the display he watched as his sons started kissing. Watched as Sam’s lips close knowingly, demandingly over Dean’s. Watched Dean submit to the kiss willingly, completely, an almost submissiveness in his posture. Sam was all sharp lines and darkness, big body, strong hands now moving up Dean’s arms. Dean was all light, life and love so very evident in each move, in the way he shifted his body to accommodate the larger one of his brother. There was a connection between them, the way their bodies just fit together soft and easy that screamed at John. He couldn’t not see the way Dean almost submitted to Sam, the way Sam slowed down, how careful he was. Like shadow and light, they completed each other in a way John has never seen before.
After a moment or maybe an hour Dean pulled back from the kiss. But he didn’t break the connection between them. One of his hands still petting Sam’s hair, the other curled in Sam’s shirt in a way that seemed just painfully comfortable for John. It seemed that as long as Dean was touching Sam, his little brother was ignoring everything around him.
“Let’s go.” Dean suggested gently, still very close to his brother, touching him constantly.
His eldest son moved towards the door, one hand still fisted lightly in Sam’s coat, pulling him along, not letting him loose focus. Still, Sam looked back at John, his eyes black and flat, completely impossible to read. John expected something, maybe a farewell blow, anything violent. But nothing happened, his youngest son just stared at him for a few seconds before letting Dean pull him out the door.
TBC
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 10
John knew he needed to make himself as none threatening as possible, and it wasn’t an easy thing for him. He made a conscious effort to leave most of his guns in his car. He wouldn’t go unarmed but he couldn’t afford to be seen as a threat. He needed her to help him.
After much thought, he decided to wait for her in front of her apartment. He didn’t know where she was anyway, but she had to come back home sometime.
He had a lot of practice in waiting on something or somebody, spending hours after hours in his car or crouched behind some headstone in a cemetery.
She lived in an ordinary, quite old apartment building. Getting there wasn’t a hardship. Thankfully, there were only two apartments on each floor so there wasn’t much chance of somebody asking him just what he was doing here.
He set himself to wait, leaning on the wall hidden from view from the stairway.
* * *
Three hours later he had company.
He was sitting on the floor, head tilted back to rest against the cool wall he never heard anyone approaching.
“Meow!”
He jerked upright violently, and looked down at an almost white, long haired cat sitting in front of him. It was big; at least twice as big as ordinary cat and had the most amazing amber eyes. John knew this breed: Maine coon. Caleb once had a huge cat of this breed. A strong motherfucker.
This one was even bigger, but the long hair was making it hard to judge just how big it really was. Although it lacked a collar, John was sure this cat belonged to someone. Those were expensive animals.
“Meow!” The cat sat in front of him, its tail curled modestly over its paws and each time it made a sound it showed off rows of sharp looking teeth. John had a feeling it wanted something from him.
The cat looked at the door and then at him. And in that instant John knew the cat belonged to Sarah Andrews. Time to make friends, it seemed.
“Hi there.” He said gently, leaning towards the cat. “Just how did you get here, eh?”
* * *
John knew she was coming long before he heard her. It was getting dark outside. The cat, that had been cheerfully playing with the zipper of his jacked, occasionally getting a mouthful of skin instead of cloth, suddenly stopped and stared at the stairs. It took John at least five minutes before he heard the first faint footsteps, which meant the cat heard them long before she even entered the building. He wondered briefly just how did cats see the world with their senses so different that humans.
“Meow!”
He stared at the cat that was obviously trying to scream the house down and well stared, because he always had the impression that cats were supposed to be silent. Quiet. And this cat was talking at him constantly, making a whole range of noises that were anything but quiet.
John watched as the woman he saw on the pictures earlier appeared on the stairs, one large grocery bag in her arms, a black bag, packed full, swinging near her hip.
“T, you bastard. How the hell did you manage to escape again?” She sighed at the still meowing cat. “I hope you’ve been waiting here, hungry and cold for hours, because you so deserve it!” She kept talking, but her voice lacked any anger. She had a nice voice, deep and strong. She also looked taller, bigger somehow than on the pictures. She wasn’t a woman that you could pass by without noticing. She was a little on the heavy side, the pictures earlier didn’t show it but it suited her somehow. Tall and strongly built with very feminine curves, she looked like she could deliver quite a punch if provoked. Not a shy flower.
Just like he expected, her hair was one of the most attractive features about her. Long, wavy and thick, shining with dozens of shades of golden blonde color. Made you want to touch it, see if they felt as soft as they looked.
He waited for her to notice him, not really sure if she knew about him or not. For a while she was completely focused on the cat, obviously wanting to kneel and pet it, but the bag was hindering her too much.
Finally, she looked over at him, her eyes held no surprise. Only curiosity as she gave him a quick once over, assessing him obviously. There was a flash of... something in her eyes. An emotion, that made her eyes darken a bit. He noted, quite surprised, that her eyes were the exact color as the cat’s. Amber.
“Here, let me help you.” He offered, reaching out for the overflowing bag.
She hesitated for a moment, but then the cat turned away from her, wove itself around John’s feet and trotted towards the door. Those hours spent playing with the cat paid off as she watched the cat and then, with a barely audible sigh, she surrendered the bag.
He watched her open the door and let the cat in, then he followed her quietly to the kitchen.
“So...” She started unpacking the bag. “You obviously know me. Who are you?” She asked putting some things in the fridge.
“John Winchester.” He didn’t extend his hand because she had already turned her back on him.
“Why were you waiting for me, Mr. Winchester?”
He watched her watch him, watched her amber eyes slid over him again. She was more curious than scared. The question surprised him; basically everything about her surprised him. She was a psychic; she should have known his reasons right away.
“John please, and I need your help.” He said simply leaning on the doorframe, sensing that it could take time.
She rolled her eyes in a move reminding him of Sammy with painful sharpness.
“Figures,” She didn’t seem surprised nor pleased. “I think you are in the wrong place.”
He shifted, straightening, making himself bigger, impossible to ignore.
“It’s important. Lives are at stake here. Not only of people close to me but of innocent people. You have to help me.”
She smiled at him, a bitter half smile. In an instant she lost all the youth, her eyes became old and dull.
“That’s where you are wrong. I don’t have to do a damn thing.” In that moment she was a completely different person. Old, bitter, almost patronizing towards him.
“People will die, are dying!” He was taken aback by the change in her, by the refusal. She didn’t strike him as the uncaring kind. “You have to help me.”
She turned away, back to unpacking the groceries.
He took a deep breath, trying to control his temper. Yelling at her wouldn’t accomplish anything.
“Please, you have to listen to me at least.” If it helped, he was fucking going to beg. He could not let his son down now.
“I’m tired, my back hurts like hell, I’m hungry and frankly, I’m too exhausted to cook. I’m not in the mood to do anything at all right now. So could you please leave?”
He blinked at the sudden outburst. He watched her jerky movements, reading the anger clearly. He couldn’t let her throw him out, not yet anyway.
“I saw a Kebab place across the street. Let me buy you a meal.” He offered quietly.
He saw her eyes flicker over him again and then the moment she decided to refuse even when she wanted to go. She opened her mouth but he cut in quickly: “I won’t ask you for anything while we eat.”
Her eyes fluttered gently in his direction again and she let loose a deep sigh.
“Fine, but I have to warn you. I’m the kind of a woman that takes gifts that are offered without feeling the need to reciprocate. Just because you buy me a meal, won’t make me want to do anything for you.”
John found it kind of nice, that she was honest with him. No pretending here, no promises that wouldn’t be kept. Still he had time, to talk, to think, to make her like him. So he watched her carefully as she moved around the kitchen. Her apartment seemed a bit messy, but not too badly. Mostly it was just papers lying everywhere, books of every shape and size on shelves and in piles on every flat surface.
Watching her put on her shoes again, he asked the question that bothered him for some time now.
“Why did you let me in, in the first place?”
She looked away, her gaze loosing focus for a moment.
“You remind me of somebody.”
Her eyelids fluttered and it took John a moment to realize she was looking at his reflection in the window. She was, very carefully, checking him out. And not in a ‘threat assessment’ way.
They were quiet walking to the small restaurant, the silence strangely welcomed. He watched her, aware of her interest. She looked straight ahead, her eyes never straying towards him. Her hair, loose now, was falling in an inviting wave over her shoulders. He found himself wanting to touch them. Small things, like that, made him remember just how long it was since he had been with somebody. She was attractive to him, appealed to him on the most carnal level, but she was also so very young. Much, much too young for him to seriously consider sleeping with her. She was barely Sam’s age, for God’s sake. He remembered the look on her face as she watched his reflection in the mirror. She watched him, but definitely saw somebody else. He knew that expression; he saw it on himself every time he saw a willowy, tall blonde woman in a white dress. Every time looking at another woman made him think of Mary.
“Who was he?” John asked quietly.
She turned her head to him, her amber eyes catching the last of the evening sun making them glow with gold tint. Her expression was unreadable.
“I don’t know.”
Her eyes swept over him again, soft and gentle and yearning for something even she couldn’t name. John knew she had told him the truth.
* * *
“Show me your hand,” She asked after the waitress left with their orders and they were sitting in the corner booth of the small dinner.
Quite baffled, but willing to do anything if it made her talk to him a bit more and maybe listen to him, he extended his hand. It was ridiculous how… exposed he felt when she took his hand in hers. Physically, he was much stronger than her, he knew. Maybe it was the... unexpected intimacy of the act that had him off his game. She didn’t look at him, her gaze focused on his hand as she touched his palm gently, her fingers skimming over the calloused skin very lightly. He felt a sudden surge of heat through his body and it surprised him.
Yes, he had been with women in the time that has passed since Mary died, but he rarely desired them. They were only a way to release the tension when it became too much, a means to forcing his body into more effectiveness. It never meant anything and he preferred paying for sex, because then it felt less like a betrayal.
“You handle a lot of weapons.” She said quietly releasing. “A hunter. A warrior... not many of your kind around any more.”
“Why aren’t you afraid of me?” He asked, not withdrawing the hand, letting it lay on the table palm up, fingers curled slightly.
She looked up at him, her eyes pure amber. He couldn’t look away even if he wanted.
His breath hitched and a feeling of dread crawled on spider legs up his spine. He felt a heaviness on his chest, like a hand over his heart. Just there, heavy and real. She stared unblinkingly into his eyes, golden and silent, and he kept her gaze levelly. His life was in her hands, the presence, pressure, a live threat but he didn’t look away. He saw too much, was hurt by too many things to back down from just a threat.
She smiled at him, a real smile this time and the presence disappeared.
“Physically? I don’t think anyone could hurt me. At least no one has managed to yet.” She reached for the napkins.
John wondered how long this “yet” was. He had a feeling that it was a really long time.
“I must admit that I have never met a psychic that was also telekinetic.” He offered carefully, wanting to know more about her abilities.
She looked at him surprised.
“Psychic?” She asked, obvious bafflement in her voice. “I’m not a psychic. I never was. I could never read minds, never had visions or anything like that. I’m not really telekinetic either. The scope of my abilities is... very limited really. Basically, I can do only one thing.”
“What?” John asked, taken aback. Missouri was never wrong before.
“Kill.” She answered simply. “If something is alive, exists with any kind of energy... I can kill it. People, plants, animals, spirits, demons, souls...” She sounded so sure of herself.
“Demons? You can send them back?” It was... he couldn’t find the words for what it would mean.
She smiled at him almost patronizing again.
“I said kill. Permanently. I am not sending anyone back. They just cease to exist.”
John stared her. Like the Colt. If it was true she could do the same thing the Colt could, with the difference that she didn’t have a bullet limit.
He wanted to say something, ask her about it but the waitress came back with the food. He needed to know more, but he also needed her. He couldn’t let himself piss her off.
* * *
He watched her look up, stare at the stars barely visible in the city.
“I need to leave the city from time to time.” She said gently, with a sigh “I love watching stars.”
They stood in front of her building again.
“My son is possessed by... something. I don’t know what it is, so I can’t exorcise it. Can you help me?” He asked stepping closer to her. He could smell her shampoo and something else, something sharp and inviting, something very feminine.
She tried to avoid him, tried to move away without being obvious.
“I can’t.”
He caught her arm and turned her towards him, trying so hard to control his temper. Because she lied. He could almost smell the lie on her.
“It’s not enough Sarah. It’s my son, my child I’m talking about.” He made a conscious effort to let her go before he did something he would regret.
She looked up at him, looked him in the eyes. Only now did he realize that she actually avoiding that before, preferring to look somewhere else while talking to him.
“I don’t remember. I know I lived before. Many times. I know things, languages long dead. But I don’t remember.” She stared at him earnestly, scared for the first time probably. “I also know I don’t want to remember. If I push my abilities I could remember and I don’t want to. It would change me.” She took his hand, and raised it until the wedding band caught the light of the streetlamp. “I sense that if I remembered... I would become you. Driven by pain and grief...” She looked up into his eyes again, her eyes luminous and liquid “I would be dead inside.” She never said ‘like you’ but it rung clear in the air nevertheless. “And I love life. I love the joy the simple things bring me. I love that I can watch my cat play and laugh like a child, I love that I can get drunk with my friends and talk about the silliest, stupidest things for hours. I want to be able to feel joy and freedom, to live this life, not wallow in pain for the past that can not be changed. I love that I still have a kind of innocence, naivety even about me.” She let go of his hand, her voice almost gentle as she stepped back. “I don’t want to be like you John. I don’t want to see shadows everywhere, to see darkness on the brightest day, look back over my shoulder and look back into the past even as my life passes me by. I’m sorry John. I have lived that life before, and I can’t do it any more. I just don’t want to.”
He watched her, speechless, as she disappeared into the building, her words ringing in his ears like a blow.
But it was okay. He would come back. He was a Winchester after all. And they were nothing if not stubborn.
* * *
John finished drying off in the tiny bathroom. Unlike his sons, he never liked prancing about in only a towel. Maybe it was a left over from his army days, or simply a different generation thing, but he was never really comfortable with being naked.
He dressed, still careful of his injured shoulder. The damage must have been much more extensive than he thought if three weeks later it still hurt like hell. Or maybe he just didn’t give it time to heal and the injury got worse. He knew he needed to rest but how could he do that with Sam in this kind of trouble? It just wasn’t an option.
With a sigh, he pulled his old, ratty sweats on and an equally old tee. The clothes definitely had seen better days but hell, he was alone. It wasn’t as if somebody would see him like this and those were the softest, most comfortable clothes he owned.
John looked in the mirror. He could barely recognize himself. He looked old, tired. Helpless and kind of scary. It was a miracle Sarah hadn’t slammed the door in his face and called the cops. He stopped that train of thought. He didn’t particularly want to think about her last words anymore.
His inability to help his youngest son was tearing him apart. There was also guilt. Some for the fact that, however unknowingly, he played a part in what happened to Sammy, but mostly because of the rift he caused in his family. Now, looking back over the years, he understood that he could have dealt with Sam’s attraction differently. That he didn’t need to cut him off so completely. With a sigh, he reached for his toothbrush when he smelled it.
Smoke.
Cigarette smoke.
There were probably hundreds, logical explanations why his bathroom suddenly smelled of cigarette smoke but he decided to go for the most dangerous one.
Someone was in his room.
He reached for the gun he never parted with. He took it everywhere, even to the bathroom. He might get caught with his pants around his ankles, literally, but never unarmed.
Pulling the safety off, carefully he opened the bathroom door a crack.
What he saw made his stomach clench and heart falter.
For Dean’s descriptions of how Sam now looked, John wasn’t prepared for the changes in Sam. In his mind he knew it wasn’t his son but it didn’t help the rush of love and pain he felt at seeing Sam here, in his hotel room.
His younger son was sitting, lazily sprawled across the small, motel bed. His back rested against the wall, one jean clad leg falling to the floor, one foot flat on the bed, knee bent and elbow resting on it casually. Between his long fingers was a gently glowing cigarette. Mesmerized, John watched it make a slow ark in the
The shaggy hair fell into his eyes, obscuring them; the shadows in the room hid his son’s face almost completely. There was something fundamentally different about Sam. The way he sat there, sprawled, ridiculously sure of himself. Sammy was always self conscious about his body, about his height.
He looked different now. Dangerous somehow. Dark. Angry. John snorted mentally at the last thought. Sammy was angry ever since he reached fourteen; he was always angry about something. If there ever was an example of teenage rebellion than Sammy was exactly it. Sometimes John wondered how the hell he had managed to survive those years with Sam constantly in his face, with his son almost flaunting his unhealthy attraction for Dean. But he was his son damn it. John couldn’t even face the thought of loosing Sammy. Not like this. Not to the darkness he dedicated his life to fighting. Still, he wouldn’t get fooled. He knew what possession was. Knew that most families, parents never saw it in their children, the demon using the memories and character traits to fool the loved ones. He wasn’t going to let this demon fool him into believing it was actually Sam.
The sound of the hammer of his gun cocking was loud as a thunder in the otherwise quiet room.
The slow movement of the glowing tip of the cigarette was halted for a second, before Sam changed its trajectory and let it fall into the ashtray on the bedside table.
He moved slowly, his long body twisting with a kind of grace John has never seen in his son before. He turned and John had to rely on his experience not to crumble and fall to his knees. Knowing something, hearing it from Dean... it was nothing compared to the reality of facing Sam’s changed eyes like this, of watching the thick black lines cut through his face giving him an odd, alien look.
The black eyes, dead and flat, fixed on him and he had to fight down a crawling shiver of disgust. Jesus, it was his son!
“How did you get in here?” John asked, trying so very hard to keep the sheer terror out of his voice.
Sam turned to look at the windows with sigils drawn over them and the line of salt white on the floor.
“You really think that’ll protect you?” There was an odd mixture of curiosity and amusement in his voice. It was so matter of fact, as if those sigils were never any kind of obstacle for him. And those were powerful symbols.
Before John had the time to form any kind of response, Sam turned his dead, black eyes towards him again and slid his gaze to the gun still held securely in John’s hands.
“And this?” He unfolded his long figure from the bed, standing tall and dark against the shadows of the room. “Just as useless.”
Acting more on instinct than on any kind of actual thought, John raised the gun and leveled it at his son. He knew it wouldn’t kill the demon, nor really hurt him either but he needed to at least feel in control, needed something familiar to ground him.
“What do you want?” John asked trying to sound more in control than he really was.
Sam cocked his head to the side, his eyes still dead and flat.
“What’s the matter DAD?” He slurred the last word, making it sound like a low hiss reverberating through the dark room. “Aren’t you pleased to see what has become of your son?” there was a distinct mocking quality to Sam’s voice. It made John wonder just how big the rift between his youngest son and him was.
“You are not my son.” He said firmly, not willing to play the demon’s games.
Sam’s mouth twisted in a bitter parody of a smile.
“Oh, really?” One move of his son’s hand and he was two feet in the air, both arms stretched outwards on his sides. Force, like a lead weight kept his arms twisted in an unnatural angle, muscles staining to resist the pressure.
The room was still quiet; the only sound was his harsh breathing. Sam stood tall and dark in front of him, no expression on his face, his skin pale and almost luminescent. John felt as if lead weight pulled him, pressed at him, forcing him into position, molding him as Sam wanted. His gun slipped from his fingers and floated towards Sam.
His youngest son didn’t even look at it, never taking his eyes from John’s face. The gun clicked as the safety was put back on, and then, still hovering in the air, between John and Sam, the gun disassembled itself piece by piece. As if it was on show for John.
“I am more your son now than I have ever been.” The voice was deeper, lower than Sam’s. Husky and heavy like molasses. It touched something deep inside of him; it made a strange wetness to come to his eyes.
“No.” He whispered. “This is never what I wanted for you.”
Sam’s eyes never moved from his, black and endless, not expressing any kind of emotion.
“Isn’t it? I’m a perfect soldier now, just like you always wanted.” The pressure on his arms and chest intensified, causing him pain as his muscles strained to counteract. His chest tightened, pain shooting down his spine as his back bent backwards into an uncomfortable angle.
“No. I just wanted you to be strong. I just wanted you safe.”
Something flickered over Sam’s face, the black eyes almost showing an emotion, but it passed quickly, his face empty and eyes hollow once again. Only his lips, curled in a bitter grin expressed anything.
“Then you failed, didn’t you? Because your son no longer exists.”
“No! You lie. He is so much stronger than you!” John snarled, even when his arms were jerked back and his injured shoulder screamed in pain, white hot sparks of agony shooting up his neck and down his torso, almost paralyzing that half of his body.
Something changed in Sam then, his lips curled into a snarl.
“What the hell do you know about me and him? Huh? He’s a stranger to you. You threw him out, remember? You haven’t talked with him for years and you claim you know anything about him?” the younger man raised his hand and John screamed in pain as he was pulled in opposite directions, his tendons and muscles screeching in protest, his heart thundering in his chest. The pain enveloped him, encircling his chest in band of steel that kept getting tighter and tighter, making it hard to breath. “As a father you failed him so completely...” He murmured as an afterthought and the pressure intensified, forcing John to pant in an effort to chase the back spots from in front of his eyes.
“Do you want to know something?” Sam leaned towards him, so close that John could actually smell the scent of his skin that hasn’t really changed since he was just a baby and John used to give him baths. “He could do this even before he left for college.”
Another twist, more pressure and John barely managed to choke back the scream. God, it hurt. His feet kicked, searching for any kind of purchase but they only found air. He wanted to speak, to say something but the pain made it impossible to even think.
“And you never even knew.”
Through the haze of rushing blood and hypnotic black eyes, he heard a click and the sound of door opening.
A sharp intake of breath and then, familiar, surprisingly calm and almost gentle voice came.
“Sam. Stop it.”
Shockingly the painful pressure lessened. John was still hanging almost two feet in the air though.
He managed to pry his eyes open, not really sure when he closed them. Just over Sam’s shoulder he could see Dean. His older son looked scared, his eyes flicking from John to Sam’s still form. Slowly, like approaching a wild animal, Dean reached out to Sam. His hand closed over Sam’s outstretched arm, fingers curling around the strong wrist.
Sam’s eyes never left John’s face.
“Let him go.” Dean said gently, pulling Sam until the younger man turned slightly towards Dean. “Please.” Dean whispered, guiding Sam closer towards him. Pulling him, Dean’s other hand reaching to Sam’s neck.
Dean shifted his stance, his body open and inviting and tilted his head sideways a little. He pulled Sam very slowly to himself, guiding his brother’s face to his neck, inviting an embrace. There was so much love in the way he waited for Sam, so much emotion, so much incredible trust it made John’s heart break.
He watched as his demon possessed Son complied like a child, curling his large body around his older brother, his face disappearing in the crook of Dean’s arm. John watched as Dean’s hands slid over the leather covered back, watched him pet Sam gently, his eyes closed and breathing steady. He knew, he trusted that Sam would let him do this. And Sam, even in this state, more powerful than anything John had encountered before let Dean control him. Let himself be pulled away. Complied.
“Let go.” Barely a whisper, a kiss pressed to Sam’s temple almost, but not quite brotherly in its gentleness and he felt it. John felt the pressure dissipate, felt himself be lowered almost carefully to the ground. When his feet touched the floor, the force disappeared completely.
John stumbled, his knees buckling and ended up sitting heavily on the bed, watching his sons embrace.
Sam was still eerily still in Dean’s arms but complacent in a way that he never was with John. He watched, mesmerized, as Dean’s finger stroked the too long bangs, threaded through the silky hair in a gentle, soothing massage as if Sam was something fragile and infinitely precious. Watched Dean’s body shift to accommodate the bigger frame of his brother, watched Dean fold himself around Sam as if trying to protect him from the world outside their embrace.
“Thank you.” Dean whispered, gently rubbing his stubbled cheek against the side of Sam’s head, his fingers still caressing his brother’s scalp, his other hand pulling him even closer into the embrace.
John saw Sam’s jaw move and knew he said something but he couldn’t hear the low murmur. He only saw the way Dean seemed to loose the last of his tension in the shuddering exhale of breath.
“I know Sam. I know.” Dean opened his eyes and looked right at John, his eyes dark but soft. They crinkled at the corners as his eldest smiled at him with only his eyes.
John was always aware of the special bond between his two boys but never this acutely. He never actually saw it with this kind of clarity. Sam and Dean, they always had a special relationship. The way Dean could reach Sam when even John couldn’t. Long before the conflict between John and Sam started, Dean was always the one who could reach Sam when everything failed. John closed his eyes, remembering when he realized the connection between them, this incredible bond for the first time.
//
It was just a freak car accident; a drunk motherfucker slammed his truck into their car. He and Dean were okay, only minor injuries on them. There was glass everywhere, his ears were still ringing but it was unimportant. The only thing John was aware of was Sam howling in pain on the backseat.
“Sammy, just let me see. Let Daddy see.” John tried pleading, begging his son to let him see. But his son only cried harder, his fingers curling around his stomach and twisted away from his touch, face contorted in pain, wet with tears.
“Please Sammy.” He begged, afraid to use force, but he needed to see.
Jesus Christ, Sam was BLEEDING, his little hands red with the thick liquid and, oh God but the blood was DRIPPING down and Christ, John was so scared, so fucking scared right now.
He had no idea just how bad Sammy was hurt and he wasn’t letting him SEE and John was too afraid of aggravating the injuries to pull Sam’s hand forcefully away.
There was glass everywhere, people screaming but it was all in the distance, all in another world. “Sammy, God...” he reached for his youngest son, but he squirmed away, curling himself into the tiny space in the back of the car. “Jesus just... Sammy, Please!”
More blood. Red and thick and Jesus it was TOO MUCH, too much for someone as small as Sammy was. Only eight years old, he was smaller than most children his age, skinny and bony, he looked fragile on a good day and now, pale, crying, nearly hysterical clutching at his stomach he looked like a broken toy.
John barely heard the other door opening, too focused on trying to reach his panicked son.
“Sammy.” The shaky voice was familiar and he looked up to see Dean crawling from the other side, his face scratched and bruised from the crash, an ugly bruise already forming on his left arm. It must have hurt, to be crawling like this through the backseat but he never flinched, calling his younger brother’s name all the time, never showing the pain and fear he must have felt.
In that moment John felt such pride swelling in his chest it made it hard to breath.
“Dean! Hurts...” Sammy whimpered shakily and John was surprised to see Sammy turn towards Dean, shocked to realize that Dean had so easily penetrated the panicked and painful fog clouding his little brother’s mind.
“I know, I know, Sammy. Just... let Dad see okay?” Dean crouched awkwardly half on, half off the seat his fingers already reaching for the bloodied, clenched hands Sammy kept pressing to his midsection. John prayed that whatever was bleeding that it wasn’t Sammy’s stomach. But there was so much blood, so fucking much, dripping down onto the floor of the car.
He watched Dean’s hands closing over Sam’s and when he saw Dean pull them away, John snapped his first aid kit open. They had no time to loose...
Now, looking at them together he still saw that bond, maybe stronger than it ever was before. He saw the trust between them, the way Dean wasn’t afraid of Sam even in this state. Saw the way Sam responded to that trust, calming and gentling. Letting Dean pull him away, listening to Dean. He wondered if Dean understood the power he had over his brother?
John watched, unable to make even the slightest sound, as Sam finally moved, shifting, raising his head until his lips brushed Dean’s jaw. He watched as Dean’s eyelids fluttered and closed, his head tilted back another inch granting Sam access.
In the silence of the room he could only hear his heart thundering in his chest as he watched his youngest son’s lips slide over Dean’s stubbled chin until they reached the lips. Not wanting to see it, but unable to tear his eyes way from the display he watched as his sons started kissing. Watched as Sam’s lips close knowingly, demandingly over Dean’s. Watched Dean submit to the kiss willingly, completely, an almost submissiveness in his posture. Sam was all sharp lines and darkness, big body, strong hands now moving up Dean’s arms. Dean was all light, life and love so very evident in each move, in the way he shifted his body to accommodate the larger one of his brother. There was a connection between them, the way their bodies just fit together soft and easy that screamed at John. He couldn’t not see the way Dean almost submitted to Sam, the way Sam slowed down, how careful he was. Like shadow and light, they completed each other in a way John has never seen before.
After a moment or maybe an hour Dean pulled back from the kiss. But he didn’t break the connection between them. One of his hands still petting Sam’s hair, the other curled in Sam’s shirt in a way that seemed just painfully comfortable for John. It seemed that as long as Dean was touching Sam, his little brother was ignoring everything around him.
“Let’s go.” Dean suggested gently, still very close to his brother, touching him constantly.
His eldest son moved towards the door, one hand still fisted lightly in Sam’s coat, pulling him along, not letting him loose focus. Still, Sam looked back at John, his eyes black and flat, completely impossible to read. John expected something, maybe a farewell blow, anything violent. But nothing happened, his youngest son just stared at him for a few seconds before letting Dean pull him out the door.
TBC
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Date: 2006-07-31 02:55 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-07-31 04:30 pm (UTC)And thanks for letting me know. It makes me want to write and write...
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Date: 2006-07-31 04:44 pm (UTC)I just LOVE this series.
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Date: 2006-08-03 04:03 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-07-31 05:10 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-08-03 03:52 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-07-31 05:10 pm (UTC)I've been reading this for a while now, since you posted the fourth or fifth chapter, I think, and I'm so sorry I never replied to any, but they all just leave me so...blank. In a good way. A really, really good way. I love how you're showing the connection between Sam and Dean and drawing that relationship a step further every time. The incredible return of Jess (hee!) and is she somehow Sarah Andrews? And, my favourite bit, what exactly is the knife, how'd it affect Sam, and is Sam really even possessed?
Much love for this series, and to you.
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Date: 2006-08-03 03:55 pm (UTC)And YAY somebody thought about the knife! Well, I have chapter 11 now being betaed, and in 12 I will actually SAY what the knife is what happened to Sam. I do hope it'll be a surprise.
Much love to you too for the comment. I love when people say what they like the most and what they don't like. It sometimes helps with writting.
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Date: 2006-07-31 07:10 pm (UTC)Love your take on the Psychic. Interesting how she isn`t so much a Psychic but more like an unwilling Angel of Death who just wants to be left alone and enjoy her life in peace. Hm, reminds me of Sam there.
And I adore the confrontation between John and Sam. For me it was even more of a hint how much the "real" Sam is still there because why would a demon even bother or why wouldn`t he kill John outright. It really struck me as Sam being angry here. Only in a more twisted and pronounced way, much like in Asylum.
Loved how Dean immediately managed to soothe the beast in Sam. He is so powerful and deadly but can be tamed by his love for Dean. And John getting an eyeful was neat. ;)
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Date: 2006-08-03 04:00 pm (UTC)Yeah, the Asylum was a very interesting episode because it showed just how freaking dangerous and twisted inside is Sam. Dean is much less violent I think. Sam has the same kind of obsessive personality as his father. And he has SO many isses with his father.
the next chapter is already being betaed and in 12 the mystery of the posession will be at least partially revealed. I hope you'll enjoy that also :)
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Date: 2006-08-01 04:01 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-08-03 04:05 pm (UTC)next chapter will be posted in the next 24 hours, I promise :)