Fic: Broken (Adult)

[briarwood]

TITLE: Broken
FANDOM: Supernatural
PAIRING: Dean/Sam
RATING: Adults Only
SPOILERS: All of season 1, especially Salvation/Devil's Trap.
SUMMARY: While Sam and Dean recover from the demon's attack, John struggles with something much more difficult.
WARNINGS: I killed the car. Does that count as "character death"?
DISCLAIMER: I don't own Sam or Dean or Supernatural. If you were under the impression I might, I can do you a great deal on the Golden Gate Bridge...
NOTES: I guess everyone has to write a "John finds out" fic. This is mine.

---

Broken

Sam balanced the shopping bag on his hip, digging into his jeans pocket for his key. He unlocked the motel room door, his gaze dropping automatically to the ground, checking that the line of salt remained intact. In the darkness it was hard to pick out details, but the white salt stood out brightly against the floor. The key turned with an audible click and Sam slipped inside, locking the door behind him.

This was the latest in a long line of cheap motels; Sam thought his entire life had been one long road trip, one seedy motel after another. He flicked the light on. This place wasn't too bad. It was off the main roads, the rooms were clean, the motel owner wouldn't bother them as long as Sam paid the bill, and if the TV reception sucked Sam had found a wireless network he could hack into with the laptop.

Sam set the bag down on the table and ran both hands through his brown hair with a yawn. He looked through to the bedroom where Dean still slept, reassuring himself. He began to empty the bag. The sandwiches, fruit and soda he left on the table since the room lacked a refrigerator. There were two plastic bottles filled with holy water, and two large tubs of salt. The rest was medical supplies: sterile dressings and bandages, antiseptic and painkillers. Sam had broken into a pharmacy to get the pain meds because he knew Advil wasn't gonna cut it. Maybe next time he could forge a prescription, but he'd been in a hurry.

He hesitated in the bedroom doorway. For a moment an icy fear clutched at his heart. Dean looked so pale. His closed eyes were dark hollows in his drawn face and the healing cuts stood out starkly against his bloodless skin. Sam could not see him breathing, and for a moment, a moment that stopped Sam's heart and stole the breath from his lungs, Dean looked dead.

Fear propelled Sam across the room and he knelt beside the bed, reaching out to touch Dean. Dean's eyes fluttered open at Sam's touch. Sam's heart restarted. It was only a moment - Dean wasn't truly awake - but it was enough.

Sam caressed his brother's face tenderly, a gesture Dean would never have allowed if he were conscious. How much longer would this go on? Dean had brief moments of consciousness, but he hadn't spoken a word since the crash. Not even when Sam and their father had carried him from the hospital. Dean wasn't supposed to get sick like this. Not Dean. Dean had rarely been ill even when they were kids. Looking at him now, Sam felt the same overwhelming terror he'd felt when the doctors told him Dean's heart was damaged. But this time it was worse, far worse, because Sam knew that he couldn't save Dean that way again. Dean would never, ever forgive him if he even tried. Dean should be in a hospital, but even that was impossible now.

All Dean had was Sam. Here he was, trying his best with bandages and painkillers, knowing that it wasn't enough.

Sam left the supplies near the bed and moved around the room first. He checked every window ledge, renewing the lines of salt. He traced the shape of the sigil drawn on the glass of each window: Sam was afraid that salt wouldn't be sufficient protection against what hunted them, and the sigil, from Bobby's Key of Solomon, was the best protection he knew. Once, Sam would have called it overkill. But two weeks earlier a demon slaughtered Pastor Jim in his own church, which should have been impossible. A demon possessed John Winchester, and holy water had failed to reveal it. The rules were changing, and all the certainties of Sam's life were crumbling. How could he be sure that any of this would be adequate protection?

An image flashed into Sam's mind: a body pinned to the ceiling above him, bleeding and burning. It wasn't Jess he saw, though the vivid memory of her death still haunted him. It wasn't even his mother. No, it was Dean he saw above him in flames, Dean whose terrified eyes met Sam's from above, Dean whose mouth formed words Sam would never hear.

Sam gazed at Dean and vowed silently that it would never happen. Not again. Not to Dean. No matter what.

Even as the words formed in his mind, Sam knew it was coming. Since his visions of the demon in Salvation, he knew he had to start trusting his instincts. Or his power. Whatever it was, this gift or curse, this quiet place inside where Sam just knew, it was real. And that quiet instinct told Sam that something was building. He’d known that long before Bobby's story confirmed it. Oh, god, why did Sam have to be the one caught in the middle? He’d never asked for this, never wanted it...but he recognised the thought as a child's protest, pointless and beneath him. He and Dean: they were going to meet whatever this was.

They'd been preparing for it since Sam was six months old.

Sam returned to Dean's side and folded back the sheet that covered him. The bruises across Dean's ribs seemed worse, not better. Sam shook off the pessimistic thought. That wasn't possible. He began to peel back the first of the dressings. The wounds across Dean's upper chest still frightened Sam. His mind couldn't come up with an adequate description. They weren’t just puncture wounds; it looked as if something had gnawed at the skin, the cuts ragged and uneven. Yet Sam had been there: he knew the demon did this without even touching Dean.

The first time Sam changed Dean's bandages, he'd been afraid the wounds would never heal. At the hospital they'd given Dean an antibiotic shot, so Sam wasn't unduly worried about infection, but it took a long time for the wounds to stop bleeding. As he peeled back the dressing Sam saw a definite improvement this time. There was no more blood. The skin was a little swollen, pinker than it should be, but Dean was healing. Sam cleaned the wound with antiseptic and replaced the dressing with a new one. Then he moved on to the next.

He was taping the dressing down on the last wound when he felt Dean stir beneath his hands. Sam's heart leapt, and he looked up to his brother's face. Dean's eyes were open.

Sam smiled with relief. "Hey, Sleepyhead."

The corners of Dean's mouth twitched in the barest of smiles. "Sammy..." His lips formed the word, but almost no sound came out. Just a breath. He tried again. "Dad?" he whispered.

Dad. For Dean to ask after their father so urgently, he must remember at least some of what happened that night.

Sam answered without thinking, "Dad's gone, Dean." As the words left his mouth, he heard them the way Dean must have heard them and added hastily, "I mean, he took off. He thinks us staying together makes us too big a target."

"Dad?" Dean rasped again.

It hurt Sam to hear Dean's voice like that. "Yeah, I'm sure it was really Dad. He left us the Colt. But..."

But if the demon could possess John once, it could do so again. There was no way to know, now they were apart, and it scared the shit out of Sam. Dad always said that a person had to be susceptible to possession for a demon to take them. Susceptible meant mentally ill, emotionally weakened or, in rare cases, evil enough to invite a demon in. Sam would never have put John Winchester in any of those categories. Yet the demon had found a way in. Another certainty gone.

It was the reason Sam would not allow their father to leave with the one weapon they had that might kill the demon. That had been one hell of a fight. With no Dean to make peace between them, both men stubborn as mules and each convinced he was right...they very nearly came to blows. Sam wanted his father to stay and help him care for Dean. In the end the best he could manage was to force John to choose: he could stay and keep the Colt, or he could leave without it. Sam would not accept the risk of allowing him to leave, alone, with the one thing they knew for certain the demon wanted. Eventually John conceded Sam's point. He made Sam swear that he wouldn't waste that last, precious bullet. John would contact them again when he found the demon's trail.

Sam reached for the glass beside the bed and half-filled it with holy water from his bottle. He offered the glass to Dean to drink. He hated doing this, hated that it was necessary, but even as he doubted its efficacy he had to do everything he could to be sure. Sam cradled Dean's head in his hand while his brother drank. On the day Dean told him to quit taking care of him like this, Sam would know his brother was better. Dean let Sam hold the glass to his lips, drinking a little of the water before sinking back into the pillow.

"I've got some pain medication if you need it," Sam offered.

Dean nodded weakly, and Sam fed him two of the pills, helped him chase them with water.

"Why are we here?" Dean asked eventually. His voice was stronger and it was a complete sentence. This was definitely progress, Sam thought.

"Don't you remember leaving the hospital?" he asked.

"I don't remember being in a hospital," Dean said.

Oh. Oh, hell. Sam almost asked if Dean remembered the crash but he swallowed the words in time. He didn't want to tell Dean his beloved car was gone. Sam had done some mourning for the Impala himself. It had been their dad's car, before it was Dean's. The Impala was almost a member of the family, and Sam couldn't imagine Dean driving anything else.

Sam sighed, and tried to fill Dean in on what he'd missed. "You were hurt bad, dude. You were unconscious in the hospital for days. But the cops were hanging around, and we - Dad and I - thought it was only a matter of time before someone checked up on us or ran the plates and connected us to the St. Louis thing." Dean was legally dead, and right before the cops found the body everyone thought was Dean's he'd been the prime suspect in a serial killer investigation. It didn't matter that Dean wasn't guilty. Neither he nor Sam could answer the questions the cops would ask if they identified Dean as the same man. "We knew we'd be in trouble when that happened. So as soon as you seemed a little better we got you out of there."

The simple words concealed a lot. Sam said nothing to Dean of the terror of those first days, when he'd thought they were going to lose Dean. He said nothing of his anger toward their dad because he hadn't known what happened in St. Louis, hadn't known any of it, and shouldn't he know? Shouldn't he care? Sam said nothing of their flight from the hospital, or his own fear that their escape must have prompted the very investigation they wanted to avoid. Dean wasn't ready to hear any of it.

They were here. Dean was awake. They were safe (so far) and that was all that mattered, until Dean was well enough to help plan their next move.

The pain meds began to take effect, and Dean's eyes closed again. Sam pulled up a chair so he could watch his brother, and settled down to wait.

*****

Sam was sound asleep in the chair when Dean woke. He sat up, cautiously, in the bed, and when the movement didn’t send his head spinning he looked at Sam. Sam was sprawled in the chair with Bobby's Key of Solomon open, hugged close to his chest. Cardboard cups and cartons around his feet were mute evidence of a fast-food breakfast. Sam sported what looked like a week's worth of beard; the look suited him, roughening the boyish features and transforming him into a younger version of their dad. His clothes were a mess, too, as if he'd been sleeping in them several nights in a row.

Dean's head felt clear for the first time in...he had no idea how long. Sam had been at his side while he was sick. Sam had fed him. Sam had carried him to the bathroom when he needed to piss...like he needed to right now. Dean groaned to himself. He was not going to suffer the indignity of having Sam help him again. Dean pushed back the comforter and slowly lifted his legs over the side of the bed. With his feet on the floor at last he waited for the pain to subside, before he tried to stand.

That demon certainly did a job on him. Every breath brought pain and Dean felt weak as a newborn foal. He guessed he'd broken some ribs, but the weakness bothered him more. He was used to pain, but this feeling, like all his muscles were made of Jello, he hated it. He had to use the wall to drag himself to his feet. A wave of dizziness assaulted him, but he didn't fall down. This was good. This was working. Dean steadied himself against the wall and began to move, slowly, toward the bathroom.

It was just two rooms away, but the journey seemed to take Dean forever. It was amazing that Sam slept through it, but he did. In the bathroom Dean took care of his most pressing problem with relief. He grinned to himself. He felt like shit, but that was a hundred times better than the last time he'd been awake. He leaned back against the cool wall, catching his breath. After a few moments he turned to leave.

It was then that Dean caught sight of himself in the mirror. In the first instant, adrenaline flooded his veins, because he simply didn't recognise himself. Dean couldn't have said what he thought he'd seen - ghost, zombie or something else inhuman - but it wasn't himself. He moved closer to the mirror then, forcing himself to look and take stock.

God, he looked like he'd been dragged through hell backwards. There were yellow bruises over most of his body. Healing cuts on his face and arms, some lovely new scars across his chest. His face looked too thin, his eyes too large. He had at least a week's worth of beard, far too much, and his hair clung lankly to his skull. He frowned at himself.

Dude, you stink, Dean thought at his reflection. He wondered briefly if he'd be pushing his luck to take a shower, but he was already in the bathroom and he was already nude. How hard could it be?

It must have been the shower running that woke Sammy. Dean was almost done, and was standing with both hands braced against the wall in front of him, his head down, while he waited for the room to quit spinning, when he heard the bathroom door open.

"Dean? Dean, you okay?" Sam pulled back the shower curtain.

Dean looked up in annoyance. "Dude, I'm fine. Chill." He turned the water off and reached for a towel. The movement brought another wave of dizziness. He grabbed for the wall.

"You're not fine..." Sam objected.

Dean snarled, "Dude, if you baby me any more, I'm gonna rip you a new one. I'm doin' okay." Not that he was strong enough to carry out the threat, but damn it, he was sick of being...sick.

Sam got the message and backed off, raising both hands as if to ward off a blow.

Good. Now Dean wouldn't need to kill him.

The shower had refreshed him, and though Dean needed to move more slowly than he liked he did reach the bedroom without needing any help. He sat down on the bed near the window and looked around for his clothes. Only then did he really register what the room looked like.

There were weapons stacked against one wall. Not just weapons: shotguns, crossbows, coiled rope, boxes of ammo (regular, salt and silver), boxes of salt, bottles of holy water, crosses and even Dean's dream-catcher. Nearby were the bags containing their clothes. After seeing that, the salt at the window didn't really surprise him, but the symbols drawn on the window glass and over the door seemed a bit much, even for them.

Unless there was something Sam hadn't told him, which, come to think of it...

"Dude, what the hell...?" Dean began.

Sam hesitated, and the expression on his face scared Dean.

Dean hauled himself up and moved toward the window. "I get why the major demon-repellent but..." He looked out across the motel parking lot. There was a minivan on the far side, and a bicycle up against one wall, but that was it. "Sam, where's my car?"

Sam sat down heavily. "You don't remember?"

Dean turned, spreading his hands wide. He didn't remember anything about the car.

Sam said, "I was driving us to the hospital and we were hit by a truck. Dean, the car was wrecked. Totalled. I'm sorry, man."

Dean remembered Sam shooting their dad, remembered seeing the demon leave him, before he passed out...and then nothing. Nothing about the car. Shouldn't he remember something like that? Dean took a deep breath, which hurt, so he stopped. The car was totalled. Shit. That was just all kinds of wrong.

"Sam, it's...we're alive."

The relief on Sam's face was almost comical. But Dean felt too tired to be pissed, or whatever he was supposed to feel about this. That would come later, he was sure. He gestured to the window, going back to his original question. "What is all this? Are you just being careful, or is there something I need to know?"

"Just careful." Sam grinned wryly. "Dad's orders, until you're back on your feet."

That was such an obvious opening that Dean couldn't resist it. "You're following Dad's orders? Who are you, and what have you done with my brother?"

Sam shook his head. "Not funny, dude."

(He wouldn't be proud of me; he'd tear me a new one...You're not my dad.)

"No, I guess not," Dean admitted. He sat down on the bed, still holding the towel at his waist. "Is there anything to eat around here? I'm starving!"

At that, Sam smiled, a genuine, happy smile. "There are some chips left but that's about it. Do you think you're up to eating out? Or should I go find something?"

Dean opened his mouth to say of course he was well enough to leave the room, but he remembered those dizzy spells and answered honestly instead. "We should stay here, I guess. But make it real food, Sam, not that healthy crap."

*****

Sam actually heeded Dean's request: he returned with a bucket of fried chicken, a bag of jelly donuts and plenty of soda. It almost pissed Dean off, because Sam was treating him like some sort of invalid, but hunger overrode his irritation. Truthfully, Dean didn't have much of an appetite, but he ate a piece of chicken and half a donut, and he took more than his share of the soda.

They ate in near-silence, which was unusual. Dean was mulling over what he knew, and the gaps in his memory. He remembered everything, until Sam shot their dad with the Colt. That much was clear. He remembered Dad telling Sam to shoot him again, and he remembered that Sam didn't do it. After that, Dean thought he must have passed out, because there was nothing coherent. Some memories: vague flashes, words, bits and pieces that didn't fit together. He thought he did remember the crash, sort of, because he recalled being thrown against the side of the car, deafened by something that could have been the squeal of tyres.

Finally, Dean set the soda down and looked at Sam. "Where's Dad?" he asked, determined to get an answer this time.

Sam looked unhappy. "I don't know, Dean. He drove us here, but he wouldn't even stay the night. He said that being together puts us all in more danger."

Dean frowned. It was true, perhaps, but it wasn't right. "Dad wouldn't leave us, if he thought we were in danger." They'd been in danger for the past year, searching for their dad, and he'd left them alone... "Not when it's the demon," Dean added.

Sam answered seriously, "I know, but, dude, you were so sick I didn't have a choice."

And that, perhaps, was the answer. "Gimme the phone."

Sam passed Dean his cellphone. Dean's phone was toast along with the Impala, but Sam, just like Dean, had their dad's number on speed-dial. Dean pushed buttons, put the phone to his ear and waited.

He heard, "This is John Winchester. I can't be reached. If this is an emergency, call my sons. They can help." Then the number of Sam's cellphone.

Dean met Sam's eyes. He couldn't start this all over again. Not after everything they'd all been through... "Dad, it's me. I thought we were through with this shit. Stronger as a family, remember? Call us, Dad. I mean it." He hung up.

Sam's look was sympathetic. "We'll find him again, Dean."

Dean nodded determinedly. "Yeah. We will."

*****

Darkness found the brothers sharing the second bed: the one Sam should have been sleeping in instead of the chair. It was almost like they were children again, holding each other for comfort. Dean was too hurt, Sam thought, for much more than a hug, but he laid a small kiss on his brother's neck anyway. Dean sighed at the touch of Sam's lips, arching into the kiss. Sam kissed him again, pressing his lips just above the place where Dean's pulse beat against the skin. He felt the strong pulse of Dean's blood beneath his lips.

Dean turned his head to return the kiss. They way they were lying, with Sam spooned around Dean's back, made the angle awkward but Sam did what he knew Dean wanted. The moment their mouths met, heat flared between them. Sam held the back of Dean's head, keeping him close. Dean's tongue pressed against Sam's lips, and though part of him was screaming this was wrong, Dean was still hurt, Sam couldn't help parting his lips invitingly. Dean responded, heat for heat, plunging his tongue into Sam's mouth as deeply as the difficult angle allowed. It was a kiss that told Sam Dean was definitely recovered; a kiss that said Dean missed this as much as Sam. A kiss that held need as well as passion. When Dean finally drew away, Sam moaned in protest. Dean turned his head away, and Sam knew it was because the angle hurt his neck, but he wasn't ready to move yet.

"Sammy," Dean whispered.

Sam ran his hands over Dean's chest. It was a light touch, because Dean was hurt. He could feel the healing wounds, soft and tender skin beneath his fingers. He frowned in anger at the demon for doing this. His fingers found one of Dean's nipples and he pinched the darker flesh, loving the sound of Dean's sudden indrawn breath.

He ran his tongue up the curve of Dean's neck, tasting clean sweat. He found the raised skin of a small scar just behind his brother's ear. The scar was almost invisible to the eye, but Sam could feel it with his tongue.

"I remember how you got this scar," Sam said, speaking quietly against Dean's skin.

"I have a scar there?"

"Uh-huh. I was eight. We were sitting on a church yard wall while Dad dug up a grave..."

Dean laughed suddenly. "Oh, god. That dog!"

Sam laughed with him. "We were both so scared we ran into the barbed wire."

"I woulda sworn that thing was a hellhound at least. Maybe a werewolf."

"And your hair got caught in the wire. You cut yourself..." Sam licked the scar again, "...right here." He remembered there was a lot of blood, too much for such a small cut. He remembered their dad was angry with both of them for running from what turned out to be a local stray no bigger than a sheepdog. They could look back and find it funny, but at the time...that was one scrappy mutt with a taste for Winchester blood.

Dean ran a hand down Sam's arm and his fingers encountered one of Sam's scars. This wasn't a childhood memory, but a souvenir of their encounter with the Hook Man. Dean circled the round scar with his fingers. "You want to compare scars, Sammy?" He lifted Sam's arm to his mouth and kissed the scar. Sam felt the kiss like a shock of electricity. Dean must have caught his reaction, because he closed his teeth over the scar, biting down enough to leave a perfect imprint of his teeth in Sam's flesh.

But Dean was still hurt, Sam reminded himself. "Dude, don't start something you're not up to finishing."

Dean shifted slightly, pushing his ass back against Sam's erection.

"Dean, you're still..."

"What did I tell you about babying me? Come on, Sam!"

Sam moved his arm away from Dean's mouth, sliding slowly down Dean's body to find him hard and ready. He stayed spooned around Dean's body but began to stroke Dean's cock slowly. Dean groaned, leaning back into Sam's chest. Sam swirled his fingers around the head of Dean's cock, gathering pre-cum onto his fingers. He drew his hand down, squeezing the root of his brother.

Dean hissed, "You're a fucking tease, Sam!"

"Yeah, and you love it, dude." Sam went to work, then, pumping Dean expertly, working him to the edge of orgasm. When Dean was close, writhing against Sam's body, his breath coming in pants, Sam slowed, teasing. He bit gently into the flesh of Dean's shoulder.

"Fuck! Sam...oh, fuck..."

Sam chuckled, "Is that a request, or you just swearing?"

"Sam!"

Sam loved it when Dean got so worked up he lost language. He gritted his teeth, not wanting to come too soon. Sam did what Dean wanted, stroking him again, slow at first and then faster. He couldn't help thrusting against Dean's ass, but he concentrated on Dean: Dean's voice, Dean's need. It was amazing, the length of Dean's cock in his hand, the sweaty heat of their bodies sliding against each other. He knew Dean was close, and this time he let it happen. Sam stroked firmly, quickly and felt Dean stiffen suddenly. Dean cried out and came, hot semen pouring into Sam's hand.

For a moment, they both lay still. Sam moved away from Dean, just a little, Dean's semen dripping from his fingers. He slid his hand between their bodies, working his fingers between Dean's buttocks. He waited for Dean to say yes.

*****

Three weeks after the car crash, John's boys were still holed up in the same motel. Not only had John specifically ordered Sam to move on as soon as possible, he knew that both his sons were smarter than this. There could be only one thing keeping Sam here.

Their presence confirmed two things: Dean was still alive, and Dean was more damaged than John anticipated. He thought of his eldest son, his strong, resourceful Dean, and he was afraid of what he would see. He was afraid he would find Dean irretrievably broken.

The last thing in the world that John wanted to do was cross the motel parking lot to his sons' room.

John no longer had choices.

Something else controlled John's body. Something more evil than anything else he had ever faced. Something he called Demon, because he had no other word, but it wasn't like any other demon. It revelled in its control of him, feeding off his fear and his hatred. Everything inside him that was John was screaming, no, no, no. The thing inside him liked that. It liked that John was strong, that he resisted.

Gravel crunched beneath his boots as he made his unwilling way across the parking lot.

John knew the Demon had brought him here to break him. But he didn't know how.

John's boys were not stupid. He knew that their room would be sealed up. If this Demon planned to kill John's boys, it was going to be disappointed.

In the light from the window, John could see the sigil drawn on the glass. That's my Sammy! Nothing demonic could pass that sign. Not even this Demon.

It didn't appear to care.

John's body approached the window. Would the boys see him? If they could see him, would they know?

John saw them both through the open curtain. They were sharing a bed, which seemed odd to John at first. Then he thought, maybe it wasn't so strange. They shared a bed as children, he remembered, ever since Mary died. When they were little, John watched them together every night. His children were his only comfort in that first, terrible year. Little Dean slept with Sammy in his arms like a favourite teddy bear.

Now, he watched Sam hold Dean in the same way, curled protectively around his brother's body. There was a sheet covering them both to their waists. It was a beautiful scene, such tenderness and love.

And it broke John's heart, because he could not imagine his stoic Dean accepting such an embrace unless he were dying.

He saw Dean's fingers close over Sam's wrist. The gesture confused John because it meant he was wrong: Deanwas awake and accepting this from Sam. This was a side of his son John had never seen.

Then Dean drew Sam's hand up to his mouth. It was as if John saw the scene in slow motion, with minutes, maybe even longer to see every small detail. Dean sucked Sam's fingers into his mouth. His expression was one of intense concentration. Nothing existed for Dean except Sam, Sam's flesh, Sam's taste. It was a look no man should have for his own blood. That look held love, yes, and love was okay, but it also held passion and lust and ownership, and those were not okay, not okay at all.

Yet it wasn't the raw sexuality in his sons' actions that John found most shocking. It was the familiarity of the gesture. Dean sucked on Sam's fingers as if he'd done it a hundred times before, and Sam reacted the same way, turning his face into Dean's neck, biting into the skin. The two gestures were enough, perhaps two much. This wasn't an act of desperation, a one-off thing they would regret. The boys were lovers. They had been lovers for a long time. The look in Sam's eyes as he bit down on his brother's flesh was a look John knew well. John used to wear that look for Mary.

Oh, god, how long had this been going on? How could John have missed it?

Was this what Dean meant by "stronger as a family"?

Deus meus Deus meus ut quid dereliquisti me. The words were mocking. The Demon laughed in John's head. The name of god was supposed to reveal a demon. This son of a bitch mocked him by quoting the gospel. John could not even look away from his sons. Why?

The sons obey the father.

John had taught them they were different. He’d taught them that the rules other men and women live by don't apply to them. John had made this possible.

Sam raised himself up, holding himself above Dean's body. The sheet fell down to his calves, revealing their nude bodies to their father's sight. John could not avoid the sight of Sam's erection. Sam stroked himself slowly, teasing himself as John watched.

John saw Dean's lips form words ...fuck me...

Sam's face was turned away, so John could not see his reply. He couldn't hear anything from within the room, and he was grateful for that. But the moment that thought entered his mind, John did hear. The Demon would spare him nothing.

"...Dean."

"Yes, damn it! Now!"

Sam slid his big hands under Dean's thighs and lifted Dean's legs up to his shoulders.

John tried desperately to turn away. He could not watch this. He must not hear it. But it was useless. John had to watch his sons, his beautiful, perfect boys, fuck each other. It was obscene.

The Demon brought John here to break him. It was going to succeed.

Dean made small sounds, grunts of passion, as his brother pushed into his body again and again. John knew those sounds. Living so closely with Dean for so long, especially after Sam left for college, he'd heard his son jerk off now and then. It was just something men did. You didn't talk about it. You just pretended you didn't hear and knew he'd do the same for you.

John heard half-formed words in Dean's voice. He screamed silently. Enough! Please! No more.

But he could not turn away.

Sam stilled suddenly. He was still inside Dean, his body held completely still above him. He reached for Dean, cupping his face with one hand, a tender gesture. Dean turned away from Sam's touch. He gazed out of the window and surely he would see John there...but he saw nothing, it seemed.

Sam said softly, "Dean, it's not true." He sounded amazed, as if speaking aloud a thought, a revelation, for the first time.

Dean gave no answer, not in words.

Sam said, "What that demon said, about me not needing you. It's not true. I tried, Dean, I tried for years, but..." Sam was moving again, his cock sheathed in Dean's flesh, rocking, just rocking inside him. "I need you, Dean. I need you. With us...like this...it's the only time..." Sam bent forward and kissed Dean, and whatever else he was saying became lost in that kiss.

And that was the moment when it happened.

John understood.

Stronger as a family? Of course they were! This was their strength. This bond between them, however it was formed, nothing could ever break. Their unity.

In that moment, John would have revealed his presence, if he could have. He wanted to show them he was there, let them see that he knew, and it was fine.

In the midst of that revelation, John saw clearly the crack in his own psyche that allowed the Demon to take him. He saw, too, that his sons had no such weakness. They were together, the perfect team he raised them to be, and this act, which had repulsed him a moment before, was sacred to their unity. It protected them.

The Demon brought John here to break him. It might still succeed, but now he knew, beyond any doubt at all, that it would never break his sons.

*****

They never cuddled after sex. Before, sometimes, but never after.

Dean thought, sometimes, that he ought to take up smoking, just for moments like this. Rolling over to light up a cigarette would cover the awkwardness of the first few minutes.

Instead, Sam left the bed to get a drink of water. On his way back, he pulled the curtain closed. He gazed out into the darkness for a moment before turning back to Dean.

"We need to move on," Sam said.

"Wait for Dad," Dean answered.

Sam shook his head. "No, Dean, he should have called us by now. He hasn't. Dad could be..." Sam hesitated as if searching for a word. He shrugged. "Compromised," he concluded. He sat down on the bed beside Dean. "Dad's orders were to move on as soon as you're fit. I think that means now."

"Dad said that?" Dean repeated, but he already knew. It was what Dad would have ordered.

Sam simply nodded. "Yeah."

"We'll need wheels," Dean said, thinking of his beloved car.

"And a place to go. I think we need to regroup, figure out our next move someplace safe." Somewhere their dad wouldn’t know about, Sam added silently. Nearly all of their contacts were people they’d met through their dad and they had to assume the demon knew about all of them.

Dean smiled. "Well, that part's easy. There's only one place we can go. One refuge we didn’t mention to Dad."

Sam returned Dean's smile. Neither of them needed to say it aloud. "Sounds like a plan. In the morning, then."

"Yep."

"Dean..." Sam began, and his tone was getting serious again.

Dean wagged a finger at him. "Sam, don't be a sissy."

"Bitch."

"Girl."

Sam laughed. "You wish!"

No, I don't. I like your dick. But Dean leered at him anyway, as if the thought appealed to him.

Sam threw a pillow at Dean. Dean caught it.

Yeah. It was good to be back.

End