briarwood | FIC: Nolens Volens (Adults Only)

Title: Nolens Volens
Fandom: Supernatural
Rating: Adults Only
Pairing: Dean/OMC, one reference to Dean/John
Summary: Dean has a secret; Sammy is determined to find out what it is. But the answer may be more than he bargained for.
Warnings: Under-age sex (consent open to interpretation).
Notes: Sequel to In Vino Veritas and Lucem Vocare, but this story can be read as a stand-alone. Dean is sixteen in this story. The title Nolens Volens means "willing or unwilling".

Also posted on AO3: http://archiveofourown.org/works/2477

NOLENS VOLENS

Sammy looked back over his shoulder, checking that no one was watching him. There was no sign of Dad or Dean. Careful to make no noise, Sammy opened the trunk of the Impala. The trunk was crammed full of the weird tools of his Dad's life: guns and knives, boxes engraved with arcane symbols, ropes and shovels, salt and gasoline. Sammy moved a shotgun and a hand-axe and carefully extracted the ammo box from beneath them. It was about half-full. He hesitated for a moment, calculating how many bullets he could take without his Dad noticing they were gone. He figured five would do it. He wanted to fill his gun, but Dad would know if he took that many. The practical truth was if Sammy needed more than five bullets, he was in over his head. He slipped his contraband into his pants pocket and very carefully replaced the box, the axe and the shotgun exactly where they had been. He closed the trunk.

In the safety of the motel room, Sammy retrieved the .45 semi-automatic from beneath his pillow and loaded it quickly. There were two rounds already in the magazine; now he had seven. It made him feel a little happier about his plan. With the gun loaded and ready, Sammy climbed into bed, pulling the covers right up to his chin so no one could see he was fully dressed. He curled up on his side as if sleeping, closed his eyes and waited.

It felt to Sammy as if he lay there for hours before Dad and Dean finally came back. Dad didn't stay. He spoke quietly to Dean, telling him to watch out for Sammy (Dad always said that, as if Sammy couldn't look out for himself) and that he'd return before dawn. Sammy heard Dean answer in a whisper, acknowledging the orders, then the motel room door clicked behind Dad as he left. A moment later, Sammy heard the familiar rumble of the Impala's engine.

Dean whispered into the darkness. "Sammy? Are you asleep?"

It was a game. Usually, Sammy would answer "Yes," and they'd laugh about the obvious lie of it. On this night, however, he remained silent. He tried to keep his breathing normal and even, so Dean would believe he was sleeping. It was an effort to maintain the pretence and not open his eyes a crack to watch as he heard Dean moving around the motel room. Dean went into the bathroom and Sammy heard him take a piss, then splash water around at the basin. He came back into the bedroom and Sammy heard him undressing and then dressing again in different clothes. Finally, Dean was quiet and Sammy tensed involuntarily as Dean leaned over him, making sure Sammy was sound asleep. But Dean didn't notice Sammy's tension. He crept away and once again Sammy heard the soft click of the lock.

Sammy slid out of bed quickly. He pushed the gun through his belt at the small of his back and shoved his feet into sneakers. He took a small piece of card from his pocket and, as he closed the door, carefully placed the card between the door frame and the lock, ensuring he would be able to get back in without a key. He looked for his big brother and saw him walking quickly away from the motel.

Dean was going to the bar outside the army base. Sammy was pretty sure, but he needed to be certain and he needed to know why. So he followed, staying as close as he dared. Sammy was wearing his darkest clothing: everything black except his t-shirt, which was dark blue. He was ready to dart into hiding if Dean showed any sign of knowing he was being followed, but Dean never hesitated, never glanced back. Sammy had practised for endless months until he could move silently, in the shadows. He'd hated his Dad for making him practice again and again, but he was grateful for it now. Dean had no idea Sammy was following him.

Dean headed for the base, just as Sammy guessed he would. At one point Sammy thought Dean might scale the fence, and he wondered if he would dare follow him inside, but Dean just walked around the perimeter, to the three-street town of bars and stores that served the base, but weren't part of it. Sammy saw Dean stop walking just outside of town, extract a packet of cigarettes from his jacket and light one. The brief flarme of the lighter illuminated Dean's young eyes. He was smoking now? Dad would be mad at him. Dean turned up his collar and walked onward.

Music from the bar drifted toward Sammy; a loud, rock beat. The windows of the bar were brightly lit and he could see the smoke-filled interior. Sammy knew Dean had ID to "prove" he was twenty one, although he didn't look it. But Dean did not enter the bar. Instead, he headed for a closed store opposite the bar and stood in its doorway, slouching against the brick wall. The way he stood: the casual slouch, the cigarette dangling from his fingers, was a very deliberate pose. He was trying to be seen. Sammy ducked into the gap between two buildings, where he could hide to watch Dean, and waited. He didn't understand what Dean was up to.

Dean was on his second cigarette when Sammy saw a man approach him. The man was in his twenties, wearing army clothing. He and Dean spoke briefly, then Dean pushed away from the wall, dropped his cigarette on the ground, and walked away. The other man followed him. So did Sammy.

The alley between the buildings was dark and smelly. Sammy pressed his body against the wall, praying he wouldn't be seen, while Dean and the other man headed into the darkness. Dean stopped and turned to the man who suddenly shoved Dean against the wall. Automatically, Sammy reached for the gun at his back, ready to protect his brother, but he heard Dean laugh and realised it wasn't an attack. Dean dropped to his knees, looking up at the other man. Sammy watched, disbelieving. The other man dropped his pants and moved closer to Dean.

Sammy couldn't see exactly what they were doing, but he didn't need to see. He knew. The man was mouth-fucking Dean. Sammy had seen porn (and wasn't really impressed by it) but this wasn't like porn. It wasn't sexy. It was ugly.

It was over quickly. The man grunted a few times then stepped back, buttoning his pants. Sammy thought it couldn't get any worse, but as Dean climbed slowly to his feet the man handed him money.

Sammy felt sick. He understood what Dean was doing now. But why? Why would Dean do this? The man was coming toward Sammy now, leaving Dean behind. Sammy ducked down behind a dumpster. He peered around it to where Dean stood, tucking the cash into his jacket. He spat on the ground and wiped his hands on his shirt. He lit a new cigarette, and in the flare of the lighter Sammy saw his face twisted into an expression of disgust.

When Dean returned to his patch near the bar, Sammy remained where he was, afraid of being seen. Three more times Dean came into the alley with a man. The second man shoved Dean against the wall, grabbing Dean's crotch roughly. After a few moments of that he pushed Dean to his knees. He took longer than the first man, and from his hiding place Sammy heard Dean choke on the man's brutal thrusts. When the man paid him, Dean left the alley first.

The next man was older. Sammy didn't think he could stand to watch again, but this one Dean only jerked off with his hand. It was over fast. The last one was the worst. When Dean knelt in front of him, the man bent over him, saying something Sammy couldn't hear. He saw Dean turn around and drop his pants. Dean got down on all fours and as the man mounted him Sammy closed his eyes. But closing his eyes could not shut out the sound Dean made. Sammy looked up just as a passing car flashed light into the alley, illuminating the scene for an instant. Dean didn't look like he was having fun.

It was too much for Sammy. He crept out of his hiding place before they were finished and sped out of the alley. Sammy ran, only dimly aware of where he was going. He ran hard and fast until every breath seared his lungs and his muscles screamed. Sammy fell to his knees at the side of the road, breathing hard. Blood pounded inside his skull. The stink of the dumpster still clung to him and the image of his brother kneeling with a stranger in that filthy alley made him choke. Acid burned the back of his throat and Sammy retched weakly as his stomach finally reacted to it all. Eventually, leaving his supper in the ditch beside the road, Sammy got up and began to walk, more slowly this time, back to the motel.

"What the hell is wrong with you today?" Dad demanded.

Sammy sat down on the nearest rock and crossed his arms stubbornly. "I don't want to climb any more."

They had come into the hills for yet another training session. Sammy's jeans were wet through and he was tired, but that wasn't why he refused to move. He had fallen and Dean tried to help him and the scene from the night before flashed into Sammy's mind. He couldn't stop thinking about it. No one knew Sammy had been out last night; Dean finally returned hours later than Sammy. He couldn't ask Dean about it: Dean would freak out if he knew Sammy had followed him. But he didn't want to ask Dean anyway.

The question haunting Sammy was does Dad know? John couldn't have known that Dean was out last night, but did he know what Dean was doing for money? Or was Dean keeping the money for himself? No, Dean wouldn't do that. So their father had to know. It was the only thing that made sense.

And that made Sammy mad as hell.

"Don't want to?" Dad repeated, his voice low and threatening.

Sammy looked up at him, unable to hide how he felt. "Yeah," he said. Just one word.

Dean moved up to his side. "Come on, Sammy," he said reasonably. "It ain't that hard. Look, we're almost to the top." He gazed up to the rocky slope they were supposed to be climbing. "I'll race you," he offered, something that rarely failed to motivate Sammy.

Sammy shook his head determinedly. "No."

"Do as you're told, Sammy," John ordered. His eyes were flint-hard. His right hand twitched as if he were itching to hit Sammy.

Sammy almost wished he would. But he wouldn't push his father that far. He stood and stalked up the slope without another word.

Dad made Sammy wait to take the last turn in the shower. When he finally got into the bathroom Sammy took his time getting clean. He needed it. He was covered in thick, sticky mud. He had to wash his hair three times before he was happy he'd got it all out, and by then the water was cold and Sammy shivered his way across the room to find a towel. He rubbed himself dry. His dirty clothing was gone, but no one had left him clean clothes to put on. Sammy wrapped the towel around his waist and walked out of the bathroom, still shivering.

There was no sign of Dean. Dad was lying on his bed, watching the television. Someone had laid clean underwear, pants and a sweater on Sammy's bed.

"Where's Dean?" Sammy demanded.

"I sent him to the laundrette," Dad answered. "Get dressed, Sammy. Then we need to talk."

"Talk" probably meant Sammy was due some punishment. He gave Dad a look that clearly said he wasn't going to talk, but he did dress. At least with clothes on he was warmer.

John moved to sit near him. "You're cold, son. How would you like some hot chocolate?" he offered.

Sammy, amazed he wasn't being yelled at, answered enthusiastically, "Yes, please!" Hot chocolate would be very welcome.

Dad smiled at him. "Grab your coat."

They drove to the nearby diner and Dad let Sammy choose a table while he bought drinks for both of them. He gave Sammy a giant mug of hot chocolate with a dollop of cream floating on top. His own mug was black coffee.

Sammy sipped the sweet chocolate and felt warmer already. Almost forgetting his bad mood, he grinned up at Dad. "Thanks!"

"Are you going to tell me what's wrong?" Dad asked him, suddenly serious.

Sammy shook his head.

"Come on, Sammy. Did you and Dean have a fight?"

Sammy sipped his chocolate, avoiding Dad's eyes. "No."

"Then what is it? You've been mad at him all day. Me too, I think, but mostly your brother."

Sammy swallowed. "I...I followed Dean last night."

Dad's eyes widened. "Followed him? He was supposed to - "

"Stay home? Yeah, I know. He's been sneaking out 'most every night since we got here."

John sipped his coffee thoughtfully.

Sammy watched him closely. Did Dad know? Did he?

"So you followed Dean?" Dad frowned. "He told me he met a girl in town. I suppose he's been slipping out to see her."

Sammy gazed down at the table top. It was blue plastic. "There's no girl," he said sullenly. Then he realised what Dad said. Dean told him he met some girl. Dean lied to Dad. It was a relief, in a way, but now he didn't know what to do. Dean would be so mad if Sammy ratted him out.

But I have to! Someone's got to stop him!

Dad's frown smoothed out, as if he thought he knew what Sammy was about to say. His voice suddenly gentle, he asked, "Sammy, did you see Dean with another boy? Is that it?"

Sammy stared at him. "You know?" he squeaked. "You know what he's - "

"Keep your voice down!" Dad snapped.

"But - "

Dad reached across the table and patted Sammy's hand. "Sammy, I know you hate me saying it, but you're too young to understand this. Dean's sex life is his own affair. You've got no business getting angry because he - "

"He was at the base!" Sammy blurted out. "He was..." he tried, he really tried to get it out, but he couldn't say the words.

Again, there was that understanding look. "Army boys tend to like it quick-and-dirty. But like I said, Sammy, it's Dean's business, not yours. I'll talk to him. He shouldn't be going out when I've told him to stay with you."

Sammy stared at his father. "I can take care of myself! That's not the point!"

"And what were you thinking, boy, following him like that? What if something had found you?"

Sammy rolled his eyes. "I was armed," he said mulishly.

"Good. But you were out alone. At night. Did you take salt? Or any kind of protection?"

"I guess not," Sammy admitted. "But Dean's the one in trouble, not me!"

"I've already told you, that's none of your business. Now, I want your word that you're not going to go wandering at night any more. It's dangerous out there, son."

Sam took a big gulp of his chocolate, burning his mouth a little. He looked up unhappily. "Dad, why would you let Dean do stuff like that?"

"Dean is old enough to make his own decisions. Drop it, Sammy."

Dad's voice forbade any further argument. Sammy nodded reluctantly. "Yes, sir." But he wouldn't promise not to go out again. He couldn't. Dean might need help.

Dad seemed satisfied. "Good, son. Now, finish your drink. We need to get back."

"Yes, sir," Sammy said again and buried his nose in the mug.

Sammy lapsed back into silence as John drove them back to the motel. It gave John a space to think over what Sammy told him.

It was more than a year since the night John had sex with Dean. It was a night he had regretted ever since. He and Dean never spoke of it, but it was always there, the elephant in the room. John believed he had broken something in Dean that night, but he was powerless to fix it.

Putting Sammy's story in that context, John thought it made sense. Dean was sixteen. His sexual tastes were still developing and his morality was pretty flexible. It was no surprise that he would choose to experiment.

On the other hand, Sammy seemed freaked out by whatever he'd seen and though John wasn't certain, he didn't think a little queer sex would do that to his boy. He'd tried to raise them both to be open minded. So he must have seen something...something pretty graphic. John felt his expression harden at the thought of his son with some other man. He thought he had come to terms with his sexual feelings for Dean. He certainly knew he could never act on those feelings again. But he was still jealous of this unknown boy touching his Dean.

It made it difficult to discuss these things with Dean. Was his son gay? He would have a hard time of it if he was, but he could learn to deal. As long as Dean knew how to protect himself.

That thought made John glance at Sammy. Maybe Dean was doing something risky with this boy. That would make sense of Sammy's reaction. John sighed. There was nothing for it: he was going to have to talk to Dean and find out what was going on.

When they reached the motel, however, Dean wasn't there. A pile of clean clothing, neatly folded, lay on John's bed. There was a note on top of the stack: Gone to play pool. Don't wait up. Dean. John cursed silently.

"Where's Dean?" Sammy asked and John passed him the note without thinking. Sammy paled. "Dad..."

Shit. "Get ready for bed, Sammy. I'll go find your brother."

"I want to come with you!"

"No," John said firmly. "You'll go to bed and you'll stay there."

"It's only seven!"

"Consider it your punishment for today's tantrum." John re-buttoned his jacket and headed for the door. "Lock the door behind me and - "

Sammy chanted, "And don't open it for anyone but you or Dean."

"Sleep tight." John left. He waited outside the room until he heard the click of the lock, then headed for the Impala.

Sammy claimed Dean went to the base, so John drove out there first. He left the Impala in the parking lot behind the bar and headed inside.

John knew Dean had been drinking on his nights out. He was willing to tolerate that as long as Dean never came in drunk. The boy was sixteen, and looked his age; if he could find a bartender idiot enough to serve him, that was his business. John didn't like it, but he knew if he tried to crack down on Dean he'd find some other way to rebel. He was a teenager, after all.

There was no sign of Dean in the bar. John considered ordering a beer and sticking around - Dean might show up later - but he thought again of Sammy's unusual reaction and was worried enough to want to search for Dean more actively.

Luck was with him. John walked out of the bar and glimpsed his son across the street, walking side-by-side with another man. The man was considerably older than Dean and Sammy's over-reaction started to make sense. John was none too happy to see Dean with a man twice his age, but he fought down his instinctive anger.

He followed them, but, assuming the man was Dean's boyfriend, John kept his distance. When they disappeared into the alley John hung back for a moment. He didn't really want to watch Dean fooling around with this man. He didn't really trust what he might do if he had to watch that. But that small thread of worry - and, yes, jealousy - drew him onward. He couldn't refrain from watching now he was here.

In the scant light of the alley, John could see the two men embrace. He saw the older man's mouth on Dean's neck. He turned away, then, fighting to control the rush of blood to his groin. Fuck! He couldn't think of his son like this! When John looked back, Dean was on his knees. John leaned back against the wall, hating himself for his forbidden lust.

Only when the other man left the alley alone, did John realise what was really happening. Confusion fled in the face of murderous rage. Now he understood what Sammy tried to tell him. How could Dean do this? How could Dean let his brother see this? How could he...?

And then he remembered the horror on Sammy's face back in the diner. John had asked, "Sammy, did you see Dean with another boy? Is that it?"

And Sammy - oh, now John understood how confused the boy had been - had stared at him with such horror. "You know?"

Sammy thought John already knew what Dean was doing. And John remembered the things he'd said and realised he must have given the impression that he did, and even that he supported this. Jesus Christ, what a mess.

Rage propelled John into the alley. Dean saw him coming and his eyes widened with fear; he looked like a rabbit caught in headlights. But he didn't run. John reached Dean and shoved him hard against the wall and held him there, both of his hands on Dean's upper chest. "What do you think you're doing? Is this where you've been getting that money? How dare you!"

Dean's face twisted in anger. "Why do you care?" he flared.

John drew back his fist and hit his son, a strong left hook that slammed Dean's head back against the wall. Dean fell, heavily, to the ground. He looked up at John from the floor.

"Get up," John ordered curtly.

Dean's eyes flashed with defiance, but he did get up, holding onto the wall to steady himself. John grasped his upper arm and marched Dean back toward the car.

Neither of them spoke until they were both in the Impala. Dean slumped down in the passenger seat, staring sullenly at his boots.

John started the engine. "You smell like an ashtray," he declared.

Dean didn't answer.

John steered the Impala onto the main road out of town. "How long have you been hustling?" he asked, not troubling to conceal his anger.

Dean shrugged.

"I want an answer from you, Dean. How long?"

"A while. Since Michigan."

Eight months. Dear God... John set his jaw. "It stops now," he said curtly.

"We need the money, Dad," Dean began.

John turned the car into the side of the road and parked. "We don't need money this badly," he said. He tried to keep his voice even, but what control he had left just snapped. "Fucking hell, Dean. We're never gonna be that hard up. I swear to you, I will give up this life and haul garbage for a living before things get so bad you need to...whore for money." But things weren't even close to being that bad. And Dean started this in Michigan? There, they'd lived in a good apartment and the boys had new clothing and everything. Money was always a problem, but John took care of it. There had been no reason, then, for Dean to think such extreme measures were necessary.

No. Dean was lying. This wasn't about money.

"It ain't that bad," Dean muttered.

"Don't mumble," John instructed.

Dean turned to him, then, looking up at John defiantly. "What do you care who I fuck? Or why?"

"I don't care who you fuck," John retorted. "I care that you lied to me. I care that you're putting your brother and yourself in danger." He saw Dean take a breath to speak and added, "I know you were out here last night when I told you to watch Sammy."

Dean crossed his arms and went back to staring at his boots. "So it's only Sammy you care about. I should have known. Well, fuck you, Dad."

John bit his tongue. He knew he'd misspoken. He tried to take it back. "Dean, I didn't mean it like that. I need to be able to trust you..."

"Well, you can't," Dean snapped. His petulant tone said so there!

John studied his son with narrowed eyes. There was a dark bruise forming on Dean's cheek where John hit him. He felt a little ashamed of that, but he couldn't apologise. He had to make Dean see reason. He waited until Dean met his eyes again. "Dean, you know what I've been hunting here."

Dean didn't answer.

"Do you know that your brother followed you last night? Do you understand what could have happened to him?"

Finally, that got a reaction from Dean. He paled, his eyes widening suddenly. "Sammy followed me?" he repeated.

John frowned. "By himself," he confirmed. "With no protection."

Dean stared out of the Impala's window. "Oh, crap. Dad, he was asleep when I left, I swear!"

John shook his head. "He tricked you, Dean. Which would not matter if you followed my orders. Son, I don't give orders for fun. I need to be able to trust you. Not just for Sammy's sake, but for all of us."

Dean's defiance was gone when he looked back at John. "Yeah. I get it. But, Dad, what's all this training for? Why am I still just the babysitter?"

The abrupt change of subject was clearly meant as a distraction, but John went with it. "You hunt with me sometimes," he pointed out.

"Only when you think it's not dangerous," Dean retorted.

John sighed and started the engine again. "Is that what this is about? You're acting out because you have a problem with me keeping you safe?"

"I want to hunt for real," Dean insisted.

John nodded. "Do you think you're ready, Dean?" he asked carefully. Truthfully, he knew Dean was ready. Or, as ready as any person can be. Some things you can't prepare for, but Dean would be a good hunter.

"I know I am," Dean said defiantly.

"Dean," John said. Nothing more, just the name. It hung there between them as John steered the Impala back onto the road.

Finally, Dean took in a deep breath and blew it out. "Okay. I disobeyed you. I'm sorry. It won't happen again." The words were right, but Dean didn't sound all that contrite.

John smiled at him. "That's a good start. When I believe you're sorry, we'll talk about you hunting 'for real'."

"That ain't fair!" Dean protested, turning around in his seat to face John.

John took his eyes off the road long enough to glance at his son. "Oh, I'm just getting' started. Tomorrow, you get to explain all this to your brother."

Dean stared at him in horror. "No freakin' way!"

"You screwed up, Dean. You let Sammy tail you all the way to the base. It's only fair you get to fix it."

Dean gulped. "You mean Sammy saw...me..."

John waited for Dean to figure it out. The boy was quick.

"Oh, god. That's why he was being so weird today." Dean rubbed both hands over his face. "Dad, what am I supposed to say to him?"

John shook his head. "I don't know, Dean. But, in this case, you might consider just telling the truth."

The following day, John abandoned his plans for training the boys. He packed up enough food for the whole day, bundled the boys into the car and, without telling them where they were going, drove up to the lake. After hiking a couple of miles around the shore, so they were far from the road, he told them they could do as they pleased: just stay within sight or shouting distance. That gave them several miles of lake shore to roam, if they chose. John looked at Dean, silently reminding him he had a task to complete, and let them go.

John chose a clear space near the lake shore and began to gather stones to make a place for a camp fire. He knew it was best to let the boys work their differences out between themselves. He would knock their heads together later if he had to. But he thought they'd come to some understanding.

He fretted about Dean, though.

Just thinking about what Dean had been doing left John cold with fear. Turning a trick was one thing but a lot of men pay for sex because what they want is violence and blood. Dean could fight, and he knew how to fight dirty, but he'd made himself terribly vulnerable. If the wrong man found him hustling, Dean could have been badly hurt, maybe even killed.

And somehow, John was responsible for this. He wasn't sure exactly how the dots joined up, but he knew Dean was in this mess because of what John did to him.

Dean said it started in Michigan. John remembered Dean coming home after an evening class at the school with a couple of hundred bucks in his billfold. John had asked him where the money came from and Dean just said, Hustling. Pool. John should have questioned him more closely but the cash was welcome and he'd simply accepted Dean's word. It seemed a reasonable explanation. John had taught both of his boys to play pool and poker and half a dozen other ways of scamming cash out of marks with more money than caution. Sammy was perhaps the more skilled pool player, but Dean was the better hustler. He had an instinct for the right moment to turn a game around. That mattered more than skill if you wanted to make a quick buck.

John thought about all the times Dean came home late with his pockets full of cash. John had been pleased that Dean was shouldering some adult responsibility: recognising the family's need for money. The memory made him cringe. He should have paid closer attention. He should have questioned Dean. It was too late for such regrets.

The real challenge, now, was to keep Dean from doing it again. John didn't think a simple order would be enough.

John looked for the boys and saw them at the water's edge. They weren't playing. They weren't fighting. They were sitting on a rock, feet dangling over the water. John was pleased that they seemed to be talking. He offered up a brief prayer that Dean would find the right thing to say to Sammy. Maybe it was too much to ask of a sixteen year old boy. On the other hand, John knew his boys communicated in ways that went beyond words.

He built up a camp fire from brushwood and tinder. He lit the fire the old-fashioned way, not "cheating" with gasoline and matches. Making fire with nothing but sticks and muscle power took concentration: it was what John needed to calm his thoughts. After a couple of false starts, he got the fire going. It was satisfying to prove to himself he still had the skill.

Laughter drifted back to him from the boys' rock and John looked up to see them both rolling around in the grass. The laughter told John the fight wasn't serious. He watched them for a few moments, wishing he could get rid of his own tension so easily.

"Dean! Sammy!" he called. "Lunch!"

The boys started running toward him, broad grins on both of their faces. John smiled, too. Moments like this made everything else worthwhile.

End

(Okay, not the end of the series. I have one more story to tell.)

FIC: Nolens Volens (Adults Only)

NOLENS VOLENS

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