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FIC: What Lies Beneath (Part One) (Adult)
Title: Slouching Toward Bethlehem IV: What Lies Beneath (Part One)
Series: Slouching Toward Bethlehem
Fandom: Supernatural
Rating: Adults Only
Pairing: John/Sam
Summary: Dean begins to unravel the mystery of what is happening to Sam.
Warnings: Major character death. Non-consensual sex.
Notes: Sequel to The Eighth Deadly Sin, Ceremony of Innocence and You Can't Go Home Again. The series is a dark AU beginning at In My Time of Dying. The title is from The Second Coming by WB Yeats:
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
The ceremony of innocence is drowned...
And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,
Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?
Also posted on AO3: http://archiveofourown.org/works/2687
WHAT LIES BENEATH
2nd November 2006, 1.33 am
Dean stared at O'Brien. He realised his mouth was open and closed it. He must look like an idiot. Finally, Dean found his voice and something of his usual cocky bravado. "Dude, what have you been smokin'?" The tone was right, but he was scared. Scared there could be some truth in this. He was more afraid of what O'Brien might do even if he were wrong.
O'Brien's intense gaze never left Dean's eyes. "You must listen to me, Winchester. I can prove what I'm saying." His gun still pressed into Dean's side.
Dean nodded slowly. "Alright. Prove it."
O'Brien holstered the gun. Dean thought about making a move, but he wanted to see this "proof". So he waited. O'Brien reached into the pocket of his long coat. He drew out a small box and offered it to Dean.
Dean looked at it. It looked like the kind of box you get from a jeweller when you buy a ring or some girls' trinket. He opened his mouth to offer a wise-ass comment.
A deafening shot split the air. The bullet ripped through O'Brien's chest. Blood sprayed over Dean's shirt and the bullet hit the wall a bare inch away from his arm. Automatically, Dean hit the floor, reaching for the gun he'd dropped earlier. He rolled onto his side so the wall was at his back, scanning the darkness for the shooter.
Sam walked out of the shadows, a gun in his hand.
Sam? Sammy?
Dean stared at him, speechless for the moment. If his father were the shooter, Dean wouldn't have been so shocked. But Sammy? Sam didn't kill people. Monsters, sure. But Sam wouldn't even consider taking out Max Miller. And now, Sam had blown a hole through a man's chest for - as far as Dean could tell - no good reason.
Sam's expression as he stared down at the dead man was angry. He pointed the gun at the corpse, as if he was going to fire again. Then he ran to Dean's side.
"Dean! Are you okay?"
Dean found his voice. "What the hell? Dude, you almost hit me!"
"It looked like he was going for a weapon. I had to take the shot."
Dean started to get up slowly. As he got to his knees, he feigned a stumble and palmed the little box O'Brien had been about to show him. There was no time to check the contents. He rose to his feet. "Sam, what - "
"Dean!" It was John's voice and Dean whirled to face him. He saw John partway up the staircase, carrying a shotgun.
"Yes, sir," he said automatically.
"Do you have rubber in the car?"
"Yeah." Dean reached for his keys, anticipating the next order.
"Help Sam wrap the body. Now!"
Dean moved.
In minutes O'Brien's body was wrapped in a rubber sheet and, despite Dean's objections, he was helping to lay it into the back seat of his car. Reluctantly, he gave Sam his keys.
"Sam," John said, "can you handle this on your own?"
Sam nodded. "I know where I can ditch him."
"Good," said John curtly. "Go. Dean, with me."
A lifetime of obedience to his father kept Dean silent. He waited on the stairs until he could no longer see the Impala's tail lights. Then he followed John into the motel room above.
There was blood all over Dean's shirt. John couldn't tell if it was his. The cut on his face was bleeding but didn't look deep.
"Are you hurt?"
Dean closed the door behind him and shrugged. He touched his bleeding cheek. "It's a splinter, I think. Sam damn near hit both of us."
That wasn't what John meant, but it answered his question: the blood on Dean's shirt wasn't his. Relieved, John wet a cloth in the kitchenette sink and threw it to Dean.
"Dad, what the fuck is going on?"
The demand told John just how stressed he was feeling. He understood. First that exhausting exorcism, then Sam left him without a word, and after a long drive to California (and if John knew his son, he'd barely stopped on that journey) the first thing that happened was Sam killed a man in front of him. That would freak anyone out.
Dean wiped the blood from his face, revealing an older cut on his cheek. It looked like it had recently been stitched up.
"What happened to your cheek?"
"Demon in Jefferson City. Sam didn't tell you?"
John would have remembered if Sam had told him Dean was hurt. He frowned. "Must have slipped his mind."
Dean threw the cloth down on the table between them. "Dad, what the fuck is going on here? Ain't you even a little freaked that Sam just blew a hole through a man's chest?" Dean's eyes went wide suddenly. "Or was he somethin' else?"
John pulled out a chair and sat down wearily. "No, he was human. A hunter." He looked up at his son. "I'm the one who ordered Sam to shoot to kill."
"And when's the last time Sam obeyed an order like that?" Dean sat down, too.
Dean's question shot home. John raised his eyebrows. "Okay, I see your point." He half-removed his shirt to show Dean the wound in his arm. "O'Brien shot me. Sam was there when it happened but he didn't fire in time to save me some blood loss. So, no, Dean, I'm not freaked out because he might have been too quick on the trigger tonight. I'll sleep better tonight knowing O'Brien is dead." John stood again, pulling the shirt back on. "There's beer in the fridge if you want one. I'm going to get the police scanner from my truck."
Outside, there was a slight chill to the night air. John's flashlight picked out the pooled blood on the floor. The paving was uneven and cracked, so there was no way to clean up the blood without leaving visible traces. They would have to be out of here before anyone saw it. He retrieved the scanner from the truck, looking around at the other motel rooms while he walked back. There were no other lights on, no sign anyone was watching from behind the dark windows. No witnesses, then. They still needed to leave as soon as Sam returned.
Dean took the scanner from him and John was happy to let Dean set it up. John could do it, but Dean was much faster. He found the local police band and turned the volume up. There was some chatter but nothing about shots being fired.
Dean sat back, satisfied. "Dad, has Sam been...okay?"
John sighed. "He's been getting some bad headaches," he admitted.
"How bad?" Dean demanded.
"Bad enough to knock him off his feet."
"It's worse, then," Dean said. He looked up, frowning. "Dad, O'Brien was trying to tell me something. He said if I didn't listen to him you or Sam would be dead within a week."
Anger flared, hot and sudden. "Sounds like Sam was right to kill him," John said grimly.
Dean shook his head. "It wasn't a threat. He was..." Dean stopped abruptly and rose, walking away from the table. He shoved his hands into the pockets of his jeans.
John felt a chill that had nothing to do with the cool air. "He was what, son?" he asked gently.
Dean swallowed, his adam's apple bobbing. "O'Brien told me one of you is under demonic influence. He said he had proof."
"What proof?" John asked sharply.
"I don't fucking know!" Dean shouted. "Because right then Sammy killed the dude!"
John nodded, understanding. "O'Brien said something to me, too. About the yellow-eyed demon." He was hoping Dean would volunteer more, but Dean remained silent. John went on, "O'Brien thought I was his target."
Dean's eyes were flint-hard, angry. "You knew about this?"
"I know what O'Brien believed," John returned calmly. "Dean, what's the matter with you? I've been hunting for a long time, kiddo, I know what I'm doing."
"Yeah," Dean groaned. "Sorry. God! I'm sorry." He scrubbed his hands over his face. "I guess I'm more tired than I thought."
John swallowed. "Dean, do you believe Sam is possessed?" he asked seriously.
Dean hesitated, and that hesitation frightened John more than a straight yes would have. Eventually, Dean answered, "No, I don't. But...a couple of times this past month he's been...there's something goin' on with him, Dad. If you want the truth..."
"I do."
"I'd be happier if we could get Bobby's opinion."
John nodded. It was a good thought. "I already called Bobby."
"And?"
"Bobby, paranoid soul that he is, told me he tested all three of us while we were at his place. He's satisfied."
Dean didn't look convinced. "Okay, but Dad, when you were possessed Sam tested you and it didn't work." He ran a hand through his hair again. "I don't think it's possession, Dad, but I'll tell you one thing. Killing O'Brien like that: that wasn't Sam. Sam would never have taken that shot."
"Not even to save your life?" Dean probably knew Sam better than John ever would, but John knew Sam would always shoot to save Dean. He'd trained his boys to look out for each other first, before everything. Even before their father.
But Dean answered at once. "That's the point, Dad. Maybe, to save you or me, Sam might kill a man. But that bullet went right through O'Brien and could have hit me, too. The angle he had, Sam never would have risked that shot. I know him, Dad!"
John shook his head. "After everything that's happened recently, maybe you don't know him as well as you think." He looked closely at Dean. "You should get some rest."
Dean nodded. "I guess so. Do you have a key to Sam's room? I can catch an hour's sleep while we wait for him."
John hesitated guiltily. "Sam's been sleeping here." Quickly, he added, "Not like that," though it was only half-true. "We knew O'Brien was watching so we've been sleeping in turns. Take the bed, Dean. I'll wake you when it's time to go."
Dean looked at him through narrowed eyes. John wasn't surprised: Dean knew him well enough to know he was lying. He waited for the accusation but it didn't come. Dean nodded and walked over to the bed. He unlaced his boots and lay down, fully dressed.
John settled himself beside the police scanner, laid his shotgun on the table, and waited.
"Dean. Son, wake up!"
Dean jerked awake. "Dad, what is is?" he mumbled. "Is Sam back?"
"No. Get up." John's tone was urgent and it sluiced away the last of Dean's tiredness. He sat up on the bed and reached down for his boots. He didn't ask questions. John would tell him when he was ready.
John had his canvas bag open and was quickly filling it with clothing. "There's been a fire. I heard it on the scanner. The address is Sam's old place."
Dean stared. "Where's Sam?"
"He's not back yet. We can't wait."
Dean didn't ask any more questions. He laced his boots and helped John pack. It didn't take long: they had this down to a fine art from years on the road together. John packed the salt and the weapons; Dean emptied the closet. John retrieved his toothbrush and shaving gear from the bathroom; Dean salvaged any food that would travel from the refrigerator and cupboards. In less than twenty minutes they'd packed John's truck and Dean was stuffing the last of a peanut butter sandwich into his mouth. John scrawled co-ordinates on a piece of motel stationary and pinned it to the door for Sam.
Dean wanted to insist on waiting. Damn it, Sam had his car! But he trusted John knew what he was doing. Dean checked his gun as he settled himself into the truck. That's when he saw the lights of the Impala ahead. "Dad!"
"I see him." Relief was clear in John's voice. He turned the key in the ignition. "It's best if we take different routes out of state. Meet me in Hawthorne."
"Yes, sir." Dean leapt out of the truck just as Sam pulled up beside them. He opened the Impala's door and slid inside.
"What's going on?" Sam asked.
"Dad says we've got to go. Better drive, Sam."
"Where?"
"Hawthorne, Nevada."
Sam looked at him. "You're kidding me, right?"
Dean shrugged. "Dad's orders are we meet in Hawthorne."
"Fine." As the truck roared past them, Sam gunned the engine and followed John onto the road.
Sam was driving, and as much as Dean wanted answers, he was still too tired to do anything but sleep. He slept with one hand on his gun, but he did sleep. He woke as Sam stopped the car outside a roadside diner. The sun was quite high; Dean guessed it was mid-morning. He stretched as best he could in the confines of the seat. "Where are we?" he yawned.
"Nevada." Sam answered. "About an hour away from Hawthorne. I've been awake all night, dude, and most of last night, too. I need espresso. Lots of it."
Dean looked up at the diner as he climbed out of the car. "From this place? Good luck." He grinned, trying to feel normal, just another day. Back in the game.
The diner wasn't too bad. The waitress was young and hot enough to provide some distraction and they did serve espresso. The food was average but the portions were big, which suited Dean. He ordered extra pancakes. The waitress told him she liked a man with a healthy appetite.
As Dean sat down, one sharp corner of the small box he'd taken from O'Brien dug painfully into his thigh. Dean felt as if the box was burning a hole in his pocket. He hadn't mentioned it to his father. That hadn't been intentional: he was just so damn tired he'd forgotten all about it. Now he wished he'd said something. O'Brien claimed he had proof, then offered Dean this box. What could possibly be in there that would prove what he'd said?
Dean watched Sam staring out of the window as he drank his third espresso. Sam had not asked why they left in such a hurry. Perhaps he'd assumed it was because of the shooting, but it wasn't like Sam not to ask. It especially wasn't like Sam when John was involved...unless he already knew about the fire. But if he did, wouldn't he be talking about it?
These pancakes weren't bad. The maple syrup was sweet on Dean's tongue. "Why'd you ditch me, Sammy?" he asked in between mouthfuls.
Sam set his empty cup on the table. "Sorry," he muttered.
No, you're not. "I don't care from 'sorry', Sam. I want to know why."
Sam sighed. "Because you were acting so weird I should have been testing you with holy water. Because I couldn't have an honest conversation with Dad if you were there. And, honestly, because that exorcism freaked me out and you made it worse."
Dean put down his fork. "Fuck. Sammy, I was freaked out, okay? I know I was acting like an ass, but give me a break here."
Sam nodded. "Jerk."
"Bitch," Dean returned with a grin. "I'm drivin'."
Sam laid the car keys on the table, but he didn't smile back. "There's something I didn't tell Dad. I had that vision again, of Dad killing himself."
Dean felt a chill. He met his brother's eyes. "You still don't know when? Or why?"
"When, no. I did see something else, though. Two things, but it's like pieces of a jigsaw. I can't tell what the big picture looks like."
"Dude, what did you see?" Dean asked urgently.
Sam turned to gaze out of the window again. "I saw you. Um...it was dark and you were really upset. I mean, you were crying. You aimed a gun at something. But that's all. I didn't see what it was or what happened." He hesitated, then went on, "The second thing was Dad." Sam turned to Dean. "Do you remember that time in Alabama, what Dad did to the witch who tried to kill you?"
Dean frowned. Yeah, he remembered. He'd been eighteen and scared more afraid of his father than he had been of the murderous witch. John didn't often lose control like that. Dean nodded. "What about it?"
"Well, I saw the look on Dad's face right before he...you know. And this other vision, it was like that. Dad was looking at something or someone the same way. Like he wanted to tear it apart. But he just walked away from it."
"Why?"
Sam shrugged. "You got me. That's all I saw." He looked down at the scratched table top. "Something's coming, Dean. Something bad and...and I don't think we're gonna win this time."
Dean took that in silently. He took out his wallet and laid a couple of bills on the table. "I'll meet you outside," he said, gathering up his car keys. "Gotta take a leak." He headed out of the diner quickly.
The toilets were around the corner and Dean headed that way, but he didn't go in. He leaned against the wall beside the toilet door and dug into his pocket for the small box O'Brien gave him. He opened it carefully. Inside, he found white gauze padding, just like you get in a jewellery box. Dean lifted the gauze to reveal what was underneath.
"Holy crap!" he said aloud.
It was a bullet. Just one. A bullet Dean recognised, because it belonged to the Colt. He understood, now, what O'Brien meant by proof.
One thing was very clear: Dean couldn't let anyone know he had this. Not until he understood what was going on.
Dean stuffed the box back into his pocket and pulled out his phone. He needed answers, fast. Who to call? Only weeks before he would have called Caleb for help on something like this. Caleb was dead now. Bobby? Though Dean had suggested going to Bobby when John asked him, he was less sure suddenly. Bobby knew Dean and his family too well. He might make connections Dean didn't want anyone to make just yet. No, he needed someone who knew the job, but who didn't have, as John put it, Bobby's paranoid soul.
He pulled up a number and pushed the call button. It was answered on the second ring.
"H'lo?" Jo mumbled, her voice heavy with sleep.
"It's Dean. Did I wake you?"
"Dean? Oh. No." She was lying. She was shaking off sleep even as she spoke.
"Jo, sweetheart, I need help."
"With a hunt?"
"Uh, yeah, but not the regular kind."
"What do you need?" She sounded wide awake now, and Dean pictured her sitting up in bed, her blonde hair tousled, maybe wearing a cute little pink camisole... No. Jo was more likely to sleep in a combat shirt.
"You know what happened to Sam's girl a year ago?"
"I know she was killed by the same demon John's been hunting. A fire, right?"
"Right. Exactly a year ago. Tonight there was another fire in the same building. Jo, I can't get there, I gotta take care of something else. Someone's got to check it out."
"What's the address?"
Dean gave it to her.
"I'll ask Ash to look into it, but I've got some cash saved. I can fly out there today. If you think that'll help."
Dean breathed easier. "Jo, thanks. I owe you one. Be careful, okay? And whatever you find, just call me. Don't try to, you know, do anything. Not on your own."
"Why? What do you think this is?"
Dean felt the bullet in his pocket. "I hope I'm wrong, but I think...I think you're gonna find sulphur."
"What the hell is this?" Sam burst into John's motel room, brandishing a newspaper.
John looked up, confused by the anger in Sam's voice. "What's wrong? Where's Dean?"
"He's getting gas." Sam threw the newspaper at John. "I bought that from the general store. It says there was a fire last night in Palo Alto. How could you not tell me, Dad? These were my friends!"
John opened the newspaper. The fire was headline news. Building destroyed, no survivors. Damn. He looked up at Sam, whose expression still demanded answers.
"Son, all I knew was that there was a fire. I didn't know anyone died."
"You're lying!"
Sam looked at him, just looked, and John was suddenly airborne. He slammed into the wall, cracking the glass of a picture hung there, and slid to the floor. John tried to push himself away from the wall, but couldn't move. John's mouth was dry with fear. Fear of his own son. He met Sam's eyes, fully expecting to see them coal-black, but they were human eyes. No demonic black, nor any sign of the yellow-gold glow Dean thought he'd seen before.
"Sam!" Dear god...
Abruptly, John was free, and falling.
Sam ran toward him. "Dad!" There was panic in his voice. "Dad, I'm sorry!"
John raised a hand in a "stop" gesture. Sam skidded to a halt, a short distance away from John. John straightened up and approached Sam warily.
Only demons could do what Sam just did. Human telekinetics could move objects, but Sam didn't just move him. He held him there, immobile. No living human could do that.
It was a slap in the face. Sam already knew it. Dean suspected. Hell, John had suspected, too, he realised. Sam read his mind the other day. Humans couldn't do that, either, but John let himself believe it was coincidence that Sam used the exact words he had been thinking. Now, he had no choice but to face the truth.
His Sammy had demonic powers.
"Dad?" Sam said uncertainly.
With an effort, John schooled his expression to neutral. "It's okay, Sammy." He bent down to pick up the newspaper. "Last night," he explained, "I was monitoring the police bands in case someone saw you kill O'Brien. I heard about the fire. I knew that if I told you, you'd want to go there, so I decided not to tell you. I didn't know how bad it was. I had no idea anyone died." He shook out the newspaper, revealing a photograph of the burned out building - or, what was left of it. He showed it to Sam. "That's not the result of a fire, son. That's an explosion. There was nothing you could have done."
"That's not the point," Sam answered mullishly.
"They were your friends," John said, understanding. Only the day before, Sam had been talking with them. But there was nothing they could do now. He needed to move past this, to get Sam to move past it. "Where did you dump the body?" he asked, hoping to change the subject.
Sam shot him an angry look, but he answered the question. "Graveyard. I found a recent grave."
"Good thinking." John relaxed a little, turning toward the bed.
"We should go back," Sam said.
"To Palo Alto?"
"This fire...I must have missed something, Dad. Whatever did this..."
"No!" John snapped. "No, if any of us is going back there it'll have to be Dean, and even that's dangerous. Sam, you killed a man last night. You're also connected to the fire there last year. If you go back, you could end up a suspect. Think about it, son."
Sam shook his head. "Try and stop me." He turned toward the door.
John caught Sam's arm and yanked him around. "I gave you an order."
"Fuck your orders!"
John half expected Sam to push him away, but instead Sam grabbed onto his arms.
Sam's face screwed up in pain. "Oh, god..." His hands gripped John's forearms tightly, but his body seemed to lose all of its strength and Sam slid to the ground. John knelt with him, worried. Sam threw his head back, his breathing tight with obvious pain.
Enough was enough, John thought. He would have to find a doctor for Sam, and soon. But where could he find a neurologist who knew anything about their world? He didn't know, but there were a few people he could ask. John held Sam close, feeling his body relax as the pain faded. He held Sam the way he'd held him through childhood nightmares and half a dozen childhood fevers. But Sam was an adult now; he couldn't take comfort the way he did then. John stroked Sam's hair gently. "Sam. Sam, are you okay?"
Sam didn't answer.
John drew back from him and tilted Sam's face up so he could see him. There were tears shining in Sam's frightened eyes. Was it a vision this time?
"It's too late," Sam whispered. He reached up to John, touching his face, his eyes pleading. "I feel like I'm losing pieces of myself. Like...every time this...happens...I...I die a little more."
Fear clenched John's gut. "Don't say that!" He hugged Sam close. "Don't ever say that!"
"What?" Sam asked, and his voice was stronger now. "What did I say?"
John drew back once more. "Don't you remember?"
Sam looked down. "I...uh...no, I guess not. Last thing I remember saying was fuck your orders. Is that what you meant?"
"No, son."
"Then what?"
"Dean," John said, seeing him. He stood and offered a hand to help Sam up. "Sam had another headache," he explained.
Dean's frown smoothed out, but he still looked worried. "They're getting worse," he said.
"Yeah," Sam agreed.
John led Sam to the bed. "I'm going to make some calls, find out if there's a doctor we can consult who knows something about our world. If there's not, we'll just go for the best I can find. Okay, Sam?"
Sam sat down on the bed, nodding.
"No more driving. If you have an attack like that at the wheel, you could kill yourself."
Sam smiled weakly. "I thought of that."
"Get some rest. I'll be back in a few hours." John reached for his coat. "Dean." He headed for the door, knowing Dean would follow him.
Outside John's room, Dean closed the door behind them. "What is it?"
John closed the door behind them. "I want you to take care of Sammy. Stay with him. Don't let him out of your sight."
Dean glanced back at the closed door. "Yes, sir. But why?"
"These headaches are linked to Sam's psychic ability somehow. I need to know if what's happening is dangerous to him. I'll be a couple of hours, that's all."
"Okay."
John knew there were still too many unanswered questions. He added, reluctantly, "When I get back, how long will it take you to drive to Palo Alto?"
Dean met his eyes. "You want me to check out the fire?"
John nodded. "Yes." It was only as he said it that he realised what a relief it was to have Dean around. Dean, who wouldn't delay him with unnecessary questions. Dean, who he could trust to follow his orders to the letter. "How long?" John repeated.
Dean smiled. "I've already got someone checking it out. She should be there by now."
"She?" John repeated, startled. "Who?"
"Jo Harvelle."
John leaned back against the wall. "You sent Jo on a hunt? Ellen will have your balls in a vice. And mine!"
Dean laughed. "It ain't a hunt, Dad. I just asked her to take a look around. She's a smart kid. She knows what to look for."
Something in Dean's voice made John look at him, more sharply than he intended. "What's between you and Jo?" he asked.
Dean returned his look steadily. "You asking if I slept with her?"
John never quizzed his boys about their sex lives, beyond making sure they knew to stay safe - in every sense. He wasn't asking Dean about sex. He'd seen him with Jo and knew Dean would have screwed her if she gave him the chance. So he shook his head. "No, I'm asking if it's more than that."
Dean hesitated, which answered the question, in a way. "No," he said.
John nodded curtly. "Good. Keep it that way." He offered no explanation, though this order he would have explained if Dean asked. Dean didn't. John checked his pocket for his keys. "Stay with Sam. I don't mean you have to stay here, just don't leave him alone. Call me if anything happens." He began to walk away as Dean turned to go back into the room.
"Dad?"
John turned around. "Yes, son?"
"Is Sam...himself?"
John knew how hard it was for Dean to ask that question. He answered as truthfully as he could. "He's not possessed, but there's something...not right. We've both noticed that."
"O'Brien told me - "
"Not now, Dean. We'll talk later."
Night
John leaned closer to the bathroom mirror, drawing the razor carefully across his skin. He rubbed his face with a towel, getting rid of the last traces of shaving foam and met his own eyes in the mirror. With his hair wet and combed back, the streaks of grey were barely visible. He thought he looked okay for his age, but below the neck his body showed a lot of wear and tear. The cut on his neck stood out starkly under the artificial light. John touched the wound through his shoulder. There was no pain and the wound was healing well, thanks to Sam. Satisfied, John adjusted the towel around his waist and headed into the bedroom.
Sam was there, waiting on John's bed. He wore his usual jeans and a clean t-shirt. His feet were bare. John hadn't heard him come in.
Sam looked up as John walked in and his eyes widened a little. He smiled and his eyes dropped to John's towel.
John held on to the towel self-consciously. "What are you doing here, Sammy?"
"Waiting." Sam stood and began to unbuckle his belt.
John thought about telling him to stop and get out. He thought about trying to explain, again, how wrong this was. Instead, he moved toward Sam, knowing that the towel he wore didn't conceal a damned thing. As Sam slipped his belt out of the loops, John reached out and unbuttoned Sam's jeans. He drew the zipper down, meeting Sam's eyes as he did so. Sam's eyes were dark, dilated with desire.
"Slow," Sam said quietly. "I want slow."
"I think I can handle that," John answered. He hooked his thumbs inside Sam's jeans and pushed them down, slowly, all the way to his ankles. John knelt as he bent down and the towel came loose, pooling around his feet. He ignored it. Sam stepped out of the jeans. John ran his hands up Sam's legs, cupping his buttocks. He leaned in, the scent of his son filling him. The shape of Sam's erection was clear beneath the stretched material of his briefs. John mouthed Sam's cock through the cotton, tracing the shape with his lips. He heard Sam groan. Encouraged, he pulled Sam's pants down a little, exposing his cock. Sam's breathing deepened. John kissed the tip of Sam's erection, but didn't take it into his mouth. Slow, Sam wanted.
John rose to his feet and took Sam's face between his hands. He looked into Sam's eyes, searching, but his fears seemed foolish now. It was wrong to love his son in this way, but he refused to believe it was evil.
Sam smiled suddenly. "Dad, what?"
"Sam," John breathed, aware of the irony even as the words came to him, "I wish your mother could see you. She would be so proud." That wasn't exactly what he wanted to say, but he saw in the softening of Sam's expression that he understood. John kissed Sam then, parting his lips and drawing Sam's tongue into his mouth. They clung to each other, the kiss deepening as they moved toward the bed. John moaned when Sam palmed his cock, rubbing slowly. He allowed Sam to push him back onto the bed. Sam's kisses traced the line of his jaw. Sam's tongue, wet and warm, explored his neck, tasted the healing wound.
The silken hardness of Sam's cock lay heavily against John's belly. One of Sam's knees pushed between John's thighs, pressing gently against his balls. He ran a hand up Sam's back, savouring the sensation of the warm, smooth skin against his palm, and cupped the back of Sam's neck, holding Sam's head to him as Sam's mouth moved to John's chest. John felt the edge of Sam's teeth, just enough pressure to hurt. His back arched involuntarily and he cried out.
Sam laughed against his skin and bit down on John's nipple. The sensation was too much. John grasped Sam's shoulders and rolled them both over so Sam was beneath him. He kissed Sam hard, thrusting against him. "Sam! Sammy..."
"Sammy..." His father's cry reached Dean through the glass of the window. There was a small crack in the curtains and through it Dean saw everything. He couldn't look away.
The scene should have repulsed him. Dean, watching his father caress Sam's body with lips and tongue and hands, felt his heart break in two. There was no place for him in this. They were his family and Dean wanted them to be together as a family. He wanted Sam and their dad to get along but this... They had found a way to be together, but it was a way that excluded Dean completely.
Sex, for him, was a physical act. He could take his time over it, make it good, and girls appreciated that, but no matter how great it was, it was just fucking. He'd never wanted it any other way. Dean watched his father and brother make love and knew they'd found a place he couldn't go.
Dean remained where he was, watching. He stayed because John had ordered him not to let Sam out of his sight. He stayed, one hand in the pocket of his jeans, playing idly with the single, precious bullet he still hadn't mentioned to John.
John knelt between Sam's spread thighs and ran his hands over Sam's firm buttocks. Sam stretched out beneath him, lying flat on his stomach with his arms wrapped around the pillow. John leaned forward and ran his tongue up the hollow of Sam's spine, tasting salty sweat. Sam shuddered at the touch, moaning softly. John blew gently on the wetness his tongue left on Sam's skin and Sam shivered.
The muscles of Sam's back rippled beneath his skin as he moved, writhing on the bed. John's mouth explored every scar and every bruise. Some of those bruises he had put there himself. Many of the scars he didn't recognise. Sam was 23 and he bore more battle scars than John himself had at that age.
"Dad," Sam groaned. "Dad, please."
John reached for the lube and slicked himself up quickly. He parted Sam's buttocks with his hands and slowly sank into Sam's body. Sam let out a breath as John entered him, a long sigh of pleasure.
Slow, Sam had said and this was slow. John rested his arms alongside Sam's chest so his elbows bore most of his weight and he lay, skin to skin, above Sam's body. He moved inside Sam, slow, deep thrusts, making the most of the moment. He felt Sam writhe beneath him.
"Sam," he whispered, kissing Sam's shoulder, breathing deeply of his scent.
"Dad. Oh, god, Dad, fuck me!"
John obeyed his son's urging.
Dean was still outside the window when his phone rang. He answered it quickly.
"Yeah, this is Dean."
"It's Jo. You were right. There are sulphur traces all over this place."
"Crap." Dean turned away from the window. "Are you there now, Jo?"
"I'm right outside the building. What's left of it. It looks like a missile hit this place."
Dean didn't comment: he had already seen the picture in the newspaper. "Is there any sign of anything still there?"
"It seems quiet." Jo was silent for a moment. "There is one thing. I talked to Ash and he hacked into the police and fire department reports of the fire. You know there were no survivors from the fire?"
Dean nodded grimly. "I know."
"Technically three people escaped - they weren't home at the time. But there were two bodies found in the wreckage that haven't been identified. Both men, neither of them resident in the building."
"Do you have any kind of description?" Dean asked.
"Are you kidding? Dean, those bodies are so badly burned they've been using dental records."
Crap. She was right. Still, the autopsy should provide some minimal details: approximate height, weight, maybe race. He didn't press. "Okay, Jo. Thanks."
"I'm gonna stick around for a while, see if I can talk to some witnesses. If I get anything I'll call you. Or come and get you. Where are you staying?"
Dean chuckled softly. "We're in Hawthorne, Nevada, but I don't think we're staying. Call me, okay?"
"Okay. See you around, Dean."
Dean shut off his phone and took a deep breath of the night air, steeling himself to turn back to his father's window. He didn't much like the view. He turned around.
A pair of yellow eyes were watching him from behind the glass.
Dean had no time to register that sight, let alone react to it, before his body was airborne. He rose, flailing, into the air above the parking lot and fell, unable to save himself, down to the ground. He landed awkwardly, one leg crumpling beneath him as he sprawled on the ground. Dean tried to raise his head and saw his car moving toward him, silently, gaining speed. No one was driving the Impala, she was just coming at him. He tried to scramble out of the way, but it was too late.
The Impala hit him, his head and her grille taking the worst of the impact. You son of a bitch, Dean yelled inside his head, that's my car!
Then there was nothing but darkness.
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