FIC: Faith and Consequence (Adult)

[briarwood]

Title: Faith and Consequence
Rating: Adults Only
Fandom: Supernatural
Pairing: John/OFC (Yes, Morgan wrote a het fic. Try not to faint.)
Warnings: Uh, the warning would be a spoiler so I'm just gonna go with Caveat Lector and if you're faint of heart feel free to ask me.
Summary: A one night stand has dark consequences. (Set during SPN season one, sometime between Home and Shadow.)
Notes: This was written for the SPN Picture Challenge hosted by Marishna. Many thanks for this inspiration.
Disclaimer: You don't seriously think I own Supernatural, do ya?

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This is the picture I got as my prompt for this story. I love the old ghostly images and what I immediately thought of was writing an updated version. That led me to the Omen movie reference (remember the photographs that show how each person is going to die?) and that, in turn, led me to this story. In the end, the pictures became a minor plot point and the story took a darker, I think more realistic tone than I'd originally planned. But this is Supernatural, right? Dark is what we do.

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FAITH AND CONSEQUENCE

Another cheap motel in another nameless town; another smoke-filled bar. John Winchester sat in a corner booth from which he could see both doors. The remains of a meal lay on a plate pushed into the far corner of his table. Closer to him stood a glass of scotch, the ice long-melted, barely touched. An olive green canvas bag lay on the floor near his feet; the bag held his usual gear: holy water, sawn-off shotgun, several kinds of ammo. There was a handgun holstered at his side, hidden beneath his leather coat. As he reached for the large envelope on the table, the sleeve of his coat pulled back a little, revealing the rosary beads wound around his right wrist. This was not special protection: just John's normal level of precaution.

He glanced around the room at the other patrons. It was almost ten-thirty and the bar was doing good business. The ambient noise was loud: shouted conversations competing with the jukebox and the two TV screens behind the bar. As for the people, very few of them caught John's attention. At the bar, a man around John's age was trying vainly to charm the female bartender, while a couple at the other end of the bar shared a pitcher. The young woman John first spotted the day before was present again. He'd noticed her the day before because she smiled his way as he passed her. He thought maybe she was waiting for a blind date, but here she was again. Like last night, she was the only person in the bar (except John himself) who was drinking alone.

There was a pair of young men at the pool table and John watched them idly for a few minutes while he drank his scotch. He thought about Dean and how easily his eldest boy would hustle those two if he were here. And how much fun he would have doing it. For a moment John missed Dean so badly it was a physical pain. He took the cell phone from his pocket and actually pulled up Dean's number before silently cursing his weakness and turning the phone off.

A waitress collected his empty plate and glass and asked him if he wanted anything else. He requested another scotch. She left, returned a few moments later with his drink, and disappeared again. John re-opened the large envelope and pulled out the photographs, laying them out, one by one, on the table in front of him. He didn't really expect to find anything new, but he looked again anyway.

"You're too cute to be drinking alone." The voice was female, low, contrived to be sexy but not quite working.

John looked up, recognising the woman he'd been watching earlier. She looked to be around Sammy's age. She was a pretty brunette, wearing too much make-up, spike-heeled shoes, a tight, short skirt and a silk blouse cut low enough that he could see the red lace of her bra. He almost looked around for her pimp, but he didn't think she was a hooker. Just on the prowl. Though why she'd pick on him was a mystery. There were plenty of men in the bar closer to her age.

"Can I join you?" she asked.

John gestured indifferently toward the seat opposite him. She took that as an invitation and sat down. John didn't offer her a drink because she already had one: a martini. Christ, all she needed was the long-handled cigarette to complete the poor-man's femme fatale image.

"You looked...lonely," she said, leaning forward over the table.

John realised he was going to have to make conversation; if he stayed silent much longer she would take offence. He shrugged a little. "Lonely comes with my job," he told her. "I move around a lot."

"You're a photographer?" she asked, turning one of the photographs around so she could view it.

"No, I'm not. The photos are part of a puzzle I was trying to solve."

She smiled, a flash of white teeth framed by deep red lips, but the smile didn't quite reach her eyes. "I enjoy puzzles," she said. She sipped her martini and then moved around to his side, slipping into the seat on his left side. John moved along the faux-leather seat to make room for her. She moved with him, laying her leg against his, soft and warm. Her skirt rode up a little as she moved, exposing the lace tops of her stockings.

She wasn't exactly subtle. John watched her pick up another of the photographs. He observed her while she studied it, interested in what she would notice and whether or not she would comment.

She surprised him. "That's a creepy effect." She drew a red fingernail across the photo, tracing the odd image above the man in the picture. It looked as if someone had drawn on the picture and sketched a demonic face in white above the man.

"That it is," John agreed, his voice as neutral as he could make it.

She lifted the next picture. This one showed a woman sitting on a fallen tree, cradling a baby in her arms. She was smiling at the camera, relaxed and happy. The picture was defaced with the same strange white lines, curling like flames around her.

"They're like those photos in The Omen," she said, "but this is easy enough to fake. It would only take a few minutes in Photoshop if the artist is good."

John nodded, watching as she sipped her martini. She'd nailed it perfectly with the movie reference. "That's a reasonable first guess," he said. He reached for his scotch. "But I know the photographer and he doesn't use digital. These were taken using thirty five millimetre film and he showed me the negatives. They're the same." He drained his glass, put it back on the table.

Her eyes went wide and she looked at him. "Then how did this happen?" She gazed down at the pictures again. "It's not really like The Omen is it? I mean, these people...?"

What would she do if he told her the truth? John wondered. He began to gather up the pictures. "No, of course not, but it's a puzzle. I've seen similar things in antique photographs but never in something I knew wasn't faked."

She stopped him picking up the photographs by laying her hand over his. As if he hadn't gotten the message earlier. Her martini glass was empty.

"Buy you another drink?" he suggested, gently removing his hand from beneath hers. He slipped the photographs back into their envelope.

She smiled. "Perhaps we could have that drink at your place."

"My place isn't much. I'm at the motel around the corner."

"You do have a bed, then?"

John laughed, a surprised chuckle. "I haven't had an offer like that in a while." He laid a hand on her thigh, fingertips brushing the edge of her short skirt. "What's your name?"

"Helen."

"Like Helen of Troy." Why did I say that?

She giggled.

No, not Helen of Troy. Helen was the cause of the war. This girl...either she was exactly what she appeared to be - a girl looking to get laid - or, just maybe, she was the Trojan horse.

The quickest way to reveal a trap is to spring it. John laid his hand on her thigh. "Well, Helen, why don't you meet me outside? I'll pay my tab and we can have some fun."

*****

John's boots scuffed the carpet as he entered the motel room, breaking the thin line of salt he'd left across the door. He paid no attention, being busy kissing Helen.

Her hands were beneath his leather coat, pushing it from his shoulders as they kissed. Trap or not, John was going to enjoy the bait. He'd been alone on the road for almost eight months and he was starving for this. A meaningless, uncomplicated fuck.

He dropped his canvas bag and caught her hands to stop her removing his coat. He didn't want her to find the gun. Holding her hands in his he kissed her again, and then it was she who drew away.

"I'd like to freshen up," she whispered against his mouth.

"Bathroom's right over there." John nodded toward the door. He waited until she disappeared inside. It allowed him to arrange the room properly. He lifted his bag to the foot of the bed and took out the bottle of holy water. It was a commercial mineral water bottle so when he placed it beside the bed, within easy reach, it didn't look out of place. He stripped off his coat and unholstered the .45. The holster went into his bag. The gun he placed in the bedside drawer with the safety off. Just in case. There was a Gideon Bible in the drawer. John took it out and put the Bible beside the holy water. He unwound the rosary from his wrist and laid it on the cover of the Bible. She wasn't likely to notice, but if she did...let her assume he was religious.

He crossed the room to the bureau and gathered up all of his papers. Months of accumulated data: weather reports and maps, newspaper articles and web page printouts with notes scribbled in the margins. His own observations, theories and questions, scrawled on hotel stationary, gas station receipts - whatever paper was handy. He shoved all of it into his bag, then pushed the bag out of sight beneath the bed. If he needed to make a quick getaway, the bag held everything he needed.

John straightened and looked around the room. No amount of tidying could improve on this place. There were cigarette burns on the carpet around the bed. The pattern on the curtains was faded and dull. The room looked like what it was: a dirt cheap motel room in a backwater town. The kind of place a man would bring a hooker. How appropriate.

There was a cracked mirror above the bureau; John looked at himself for a moment. His body was good for his age. Demon hunting kept a man in shape and his muscles were firm and strong beneath his skin. The face, though, the face showed his age. He saw the deep lines around his eyes, the unkempt and greying beard. The look of weariness in his eyes that nothing could take away. He wasn't much of a catch.

It didn't matter. Helen wasn't looking for a boyfriend. He was certain of that. Accepting her offer of a one-night stand was reckless, especially when he wasn't sure of her. But hell, a man has needs. He could allow himself to indulge them...once.

John stopped outside the bathroom door, listening for a moment. The door was slightly ajar; he pushed it open slowly.

Helen stood before the bathroom mirror, running her fingers through her long hair. She had stripped down to lingerie and the sight was...impressive. The show was for his benefit, so John looked her up and down, slowly. She wore spike-heeled shoes and black, lace-topped stockings. The stockings were held up with a red suspender belt and she wore matching panties and a bra in red lace. She was about 5" 4' in the heels and had curves in all the right places. John's gaze returned to the curve of her ass, lingering there. Lust tightened his body. This was going to be good.

Helen turned from the mirror, artfully arranging her hair so the fall of her curls drew John's eyes to her breasts. Her mouth opened in false surprise as she gazed at him.

John crossed the small bathroom in two strides. He slid his hands around her waist and guided her to turn back toward the mirror. He pressed his clothed body into her back, trapping her between himself and the bathroom sink. Her body was warm in his arms, her skin smooth under his hands. He watched her face in the mirror as he slowly slid his hands up to cup her breasts. They fit perfectly into his hands, the rough lace a delicious contrast with the warm, smooth skin beneath.

She leaned back against him, letting him support her weight, and turned her face to his. Her breath was warm on his cheek and he looked into her eyes. He saw desire there, but no real emotion. She was looking to use, just as he was. He slid his hands inside her bra. He saw the glint of his wedding ring in the mirror. It made him hesitate, but only for a moment. That belonged in another life.

He pulled the bra down so her full breasts hung over the lacy cups, He rolled her nipples between his fingers and she writhed against his body, pressing her buttocks into his groin.

She hadn't said a word. Neither had John, but he wasn't much of a talker when he fucked. Helen had been talkative enough in the bar. He brought a hand up to her face and kissed her. She responded at once, drawing his tongue into her mouth. John closed his eyes and relaxed into it. His cock hardened and the jeans were suddenly uncomfortably tight. She tasted of alcohol and lipstick. Her hair smelled faintly of cigarette smoke from the bar. But even that was like an aphrodisiac to him this night. His hands pulled her more tightly against him. He wanted her to feel his dick. Her hips moved, rubbing her ass against his groin, creating friction and heat. Oh, yeah... She was eager. And so was he. He thrust into her movements, the need to fuck growing fast.

"Fuck me, John," she begged.

God, was she reading his mind? She asked for exactly what he needed: to be fucked. No foreplay, no finesse. He wrapped one arm around her waist, holding her against him, and thrust the other hand into her panties. She cried out at his rough touch but it wasn't a protest. His fingers found her wet and ready. The panties were soaked with her juices. He rubbed her clit and smiled fiercely when he felt her shuddering response. She was ready.

"Please!" she begged.

John started to pull her panties down but the lace was too tight around her hips. Impatiently he tugged at the lace and it tore. He threw the scrap of material aside. He couldn't wait any longer. He unzipped his pants and pulled out his cock. He was painfully hard; he wasn't going to last long but he was beyond caring. He just needed to be inside her.

Helen tried to kiss him again but John pushed her down over the basin. He grasped her hips with both hands and shoved himself inside her so fast it must have hurt her. She cried out, but not with pain. "Yes! Oh, yes!"

John fucked her hard, watching her, watching them both in the mirror. She looked up into the glass, meeting his reflected eyes through the curtain of her hair. John pushed her down, his hand flat between her shoulder blades. He didn't want her watching him. He thrust into the heat of her body and that was all he wanted her to be: just a body. What he saw in the mirror was a blur of blood-red lace and white flesh. There was no gentleness in this; he pounded into her, crushing her against the edge of the sink.

He was close. "Fuck! Oh, god...Jesus..." The words streaming from his mouth were meaningless and John was hardly aware of saying them. Her body bucked beneath him and he held her down, his hands on her waist now as he thrust. Close. So close.

Helen's moans matched his and she raised her head to look at him. He glimpsed her eyes just as his balls tightened and he spilled himself into her with a last, muttered, "Christ!"

In the moment of orgasm, any man can be forgiven for failing to notice the little details. But he was John Winchester.

In some tales, mirrors are said to reveal truths unseen. In others, mirrors distort or even corrupt the truth. Contradictory legends, and John was somewhat distracted. But for a moment, just a split second before the orgasm overwhelmed him, John saw her eyes reflected in the glass. The eyes are the windows of the soul and hers were a shark's eyes: soulless and utterly black.

It was only a moment, and he truly wasn't certain of what he'd seen.

"Oh..." Helen gasped. She was breathing hard, her body slumped over the bathroom sink. She got her arms under her and struggled upward, clinging on to the edge. "Oh, John... You sure know how to show a girl a good time."

John straightened up, zipping his pants. He slid his hands around Helen's waist, keeping his touch gentle, helping her to stand and turn to face him. He forced himself to smile; play the role until he could be sure. "It was...a good beginning. The night is young, Helen." He heard his own voice as he spoke and knew he'd hit the right tone: sexual, anticipatory. But he saw his eyes in the mirror and they were a predator's eyes now. Cold.

Helen returned his smile. "Is that a promise?"

John leaned forward and kissed her neck, undoing her bra as he did so. "A promise, darlin'. Stick around and I'll show you something I guarantee you've never seen before." The bra fell to the floor and he allowed his hands to roam over her bare breasts before he bent down and picked her up in his strong arms.

She squealed as he lifted her off the floor, then giggled drunkenly, wrapping her arms around his neck. She weighed very little. John studied her face as he carried her the short distance to the bed. She was smiling, her eyes unfocussed, her cheeks flushed. From so close to her, John could see the mascara clumped at the corners of her eyes and the way her lipstick was smudged. He wondered if he'd imagined those black soulless eyes. He saw no sign now that she was anything but a normal young woman, drunk on alcohol and sex.

John laid her down on the bed and began to unbuckle his belt. "I believe I promised you a drink earlier. Are you thirsty?"

She looked around the room. "Got any vermouth?" she asked, clearly knowing the answer.

"Not my poison. I've got beer. Might be a bit warm. Or water."

She made a disgusted face. "Water's for washing."

"Beer it is." John pulled the belt out of the loops and took what was left of his six-pack out of the closet. He tossed a can her way and she caught it. She wasn't that drunk, then. John sat down on the edge of the bed, the belt still in his left hand. He heard the click-hiss of the beer can being opened and turned to face her.

She left lipstick on the edge of the can. "So, John...are you going to join me?"

John pulled the shirt out of his pants and the t-shirt beneath it. He lifted both over his head, leaving his chest bare. He took the beer can from her hand and set it on the bedside table, beside his bottle of water.

Helen reached up to him, running a hand down his bare arm. Her fingernails scratched his skin lightly.

John shivered beneath her touch. He ran a hand over her breast and down to her waist.

"That's more like it," she murmured, guiding his hand lower.

John squeezed her thigh with a quick smile and shifted to climb onto the bed. He straddled her thighs and her hands moved to the button of his pants. He moved her hands away firmly. "Slow down, baby. We've got all night."

He was still holding her wrists. He lifted her arms, using the leverage to push her back onto the bed, pinning her wrists above her head. He leaned close as if to kiss her. She sighed and tilted her head back, exposing her throat. She had a long neck, a small neck. He could almost reach around it with one hand...

Helen's eyes went wide with fear but she didn't struggle at first. Maybe she thought it was foreplay. John felt her pulse, though, beating wildly under his fingers. She drew a breath to speak and he squeezed her throat, cutting off her air. She did struggle then, wrenching one of her hands from his hold, her long fingernails raking his arm, drawing blood. But it was too late. John held her down with his body and the small pain she inflicted was nothing. He waited for her to quit struggling.

As she relaxed under him he loosened his hold just enough for her to breathe. She gasped for air, coughing.

"Who sent you?" John demanded.

Helen's mouth moved, forming words, but no sound emerged.

John smiled, predatory now. "Oh, you can do better than that. Who sent you?"

Her voice was raw. "I don't know what..."

He kept one hand around her throat and slapped her with the other. "Don't fuck with me. Last chance, darlin'. Who. Sent. You."

"You son of a bitch!"

John reached for the holy water. It took a moment to unscrew the top one-handed. She wasn't going to talk. A pity, but not a surprise. It would have been useful. He let the bottle-top fall and poured water over her heart.

She screamed, her body arching upward; a pain reaction.

John held her down. "Regna terrae, cantate deo, psallite domino..." The familiar Latin phrases fell easily from his lips. He knew the ritual by heart; he could probably have recited this in his sleep. It was just as well, because he needed all his concentration to hold her down. She struggled against his hands, screaming obscenities. John went on relentlessly. "Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus..."

*****

She was sitting on the end of the bed, shivering despite the blanket wrapped around her shoulders. Tear tracks stood out on her cheeks where the make-up had washed away. John stood in the bathroom doorway, her clothing folded in his arms. She wouldn't look at him. John wasn't surprised.

He moved further into the room and laid the clothing beside her on the bed. He backed off at once.

The silence stretched out, broken only by the harsh sound of her breathing.

"I'm sorry," John said, when he couldn't stand the silence any longer. "By the time I knew, it was too late for me to do anything but play along."

She did look at him then, a fleeting glance before her gaze dropped back to the floor. "You're a liar," she said flatly.

John leaned back against the bureau. "I lie about a lot of things. But not this." He wasn't going to apologise again.

"Then what's that?" She jerked her head toward the door. To the broken line of salt on the carpet.

John felt guilt settle like lead in his stomach. He remembered deliberately scuffing out the salt line when he brought her here. Why had he done that, if he hadn't suspected what she was?

He knew it was a trap when she joined him in the bar. Why would a woman like her, so young, so pretty...why would she pick him out of a crowd? It wasn't false modesty; John knew he was attractive to the right kind of woman. But he was, literally, old enough to be this girl's father and sitting in the bar he knew he'd looked like what he was: a tired, unshaven, unwashed, middle-aged man who had seen and done too damned much for one lifetime.

He brought her back to his room knowing damned well she was bait. He took what she offered because he'd assumed, stupidly, that she was using him with the same cynicism. He used her the way he'd use a weapon, because he wanted to spring the trap, find out who, or rather what, was behind it. And he succeeded, didn't he? He turned the trap into an ambush.

And this girl, younger than his firstborn son, was a victim of his obsession. He never even stopped to think that the body he was using - abusing - was an innocent girl.

John shrugged, unable to deny it. "I suspected," he admitted.

She pulled the blanket more tightly around her shoulders.

Don't fuck this up any further, John Winchester. She thinks you raped her...and she's not entirely wrong. "Are you from around here?" he asked her.

She shook her head. "Boston."

Almost a full day's drive. "I'll take you home, if you like."

She turned her head and stared at him for a moment, silently accusing.

John stayed where he was, at a careful distance. "Hey, the offer's there. I won't touch you. I promise." He hesitated, feeling more than a little out of his depth on this one. He sighed. "You'll be wanting to get dressed." John pulled his bag out from under the bed and picked up the bottle of holy water. There wasn't much left, but he screwed the top back on and put the bottle into the bag.

John shoved the rosary into his pocket, and took his gun out of the drawer. "I'll wait outside. You can lock the door from the inside." He checked the gun, clicked the safety on and pushed it into the waistband of his pants. He crossed the room and put the room key on top of the bureau. "I'll wait outside for half an hour. If you'd like me to take you home, or anywhere, I will. If you don't..." he shrugged, "I guess the room's yours for tonight and tomorrow I'll be gone."

She made no acknowledgement of his words. John closed the door behind him and waited right outside until he heard the key turn in the lock. Then he crossed the parking lot to his truck.

For half an hour he stood beside the truck, watching the door of his erstwhile motel room. After the promised half hour, he got behind the wheel. But he didn't leave, not yet.

Ten minutes later, John turned the keys in the ignition.

The truck door opened. Helen - if that was really her name - stood there. Boy, did she look different. All of the make-up was gone. Her wet hair was knotted in a rough ponytail, a few loose strands curling about her face. She still wore the spike-heels and the short skirt but her legs were bare and she was wearing one of his abandoned shirts. It made her look younger. Untouched.

She met his eyes nervously. "If I asked you to take me to the police, would you do it?"

John nodded. "I'll take you any place you want. Why the police?" He could think of several reasons; none of them good for him. He left the engine idling.

She bit her lip. "I...I killed someone," she said quietly.

Shit. "You were possessed by a demon. You're not responsible for anything it did."

"But...his family. They should know."

It was a noble, if suicidal, sentiment. John nodded. "If you tell the cops you killed a man, you'll do time. In prison, or in some asylum." He saw the flicker of determination in her eyes and was both worried and relieved to see it. Worried that she'd do something stupid; relieved because it showed her strength. He tried again. "If you want to confess, you'd be better off talking to a priest."

"No priest will believe me. No one believes in demons any more."

John had to smile at that. "I know one or two who do. Are you a Christian?"

"I...I was raised Catholic. I sort of drifted away... Guess I've learned my lesson, huh?" She was clinging to the truck's door, white knuckled. She was still scared, and she should be.

"It doesn't work that way," John told her. "I mean, having faith can't keep a demon from possessing a person." It wasn't completely true. People with genuine faith were less likely to be susceptible to possession. But John thought that was more to do with having a healthy, balanced psyche than with the power of belief, or of God.

She simply nodded and John couldn't tell if she was agreeing with him or just showing she had nothing to say.

He reached into his pocket for the rosary and offered it to her. She'd said she was Catholic; it might help her. "You're safe now," John said, but he knew she wouldn't believe that.

She took the rosary from his hand. That was progress.

"What's your real name?" John asked her gently.

"Faith. Faith Bromley."

Faith. How beautifully ironic. "Faith. Get in, if you're going to." To complete the introduction he added, "I'm John Winchester."

She climbed into the truck and closed the door.

John started to drive. He headed toward the interstate. "Where do you want me to take you, Faith?" He didn't ask if she still wanted to go to the police; he'd take her if she insisted, but he really hoped she wouldn't. When she didn't answer, John took his eyes off the road to look at her. "Faith?" he prompted gently.

She was running the rosary beads through her fingers, but John didn't think she was actually praying. "I have nowhere to go," she said. She sounded so lost.

I know the feeling, John thought wryly. He could only imagine what the demon put her through. Some victims had no memory of their possession after an exorcism but Faith seemed to remember. At least she remembered this night. John knew he had added to her pain, however unintentionally, so he would so what he could to help her.

Nowhere to go. She wasn't going to suggest a destination, so John had to make that call himself. It wasn't a difficult decision. He couldn't take her with him. The demons would try for him again, and she was vulnerable now. She wouldn't be safe with him. Nor could he take her to the cops. A hospital? No, there would be too many questions and some well-meaning nurse might call the cops. There was, really, only one place where John knew she would be safe, where someone could help her recover from all this. Jim. Jim Murphy would understand, and he had experience of helping people in her situation.

When John next stole a glance at her, Faith had closed her eyes and was leaning back into the headrest, running the rosary beads through her fingers, one by one. Such trust, when less than an hour ago she'd silently accused him of rape.

Reaching the interstate, John accelerated well over the speed limit. If he drove fast and didn't stop, they would reach Jim's church just after sunrise.