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FIC: The Eighth Deadly Sin (2/2)
Title: Slouching Toward Bethlehem I: The Eighth Deadly Sin
Series: Slouching Toward Bethlehem
Fandom: Supernatural
Rating: Adults Only
Pairing: John/Sam
Summary: The Yellow-Eyed Demon is dead and all three of the Winchesters are still alive. Does that mean it's over? Sam hopes so; John knows better.
Notes: This is the first story in a series I'm planning. It's dark stuff: the light at the end of the tunnel is the headlamp of the oncoming train. The story begins at In My Time of Dying and is AU after that.
Warnings: Non-con, dubious consent, mentions of under-age non-consensual sex, fuck-or-die. There will be the death of a major character later in the series, but not in this fic.
Revised version posted on AO3: http://archiveofourown.org/works/2684
THE EIGHTH DEADLY SIN
(Part Two)
Part Two: Emergence
John's hands were dry with dust and a dull ache had settled in behind his eyes, but finally he had what he needed.
He wanted to be sure of what they were hunting and what he needed was information neither Jo nor Ash had been able to track down online. Most of the local records were still only on paper, even in this computer age. So he and Sammy were doing the job the old fashioned way. A fake FBI badge got John into the county records office while Sammy went through microfiched archives of local newspapers at the library.
John started with the small, Catholic church which was near the home of the boy who died. He found that every priest the Church assigned to this town had died there. This would not have been strange in itself except every one of them died relatively young: the youngest was thirty five when he suffered a fatal heart attack; no priest in that church had lived to see fifty, as far as John could find, since it was built.
He copied the most important paperwork, then moved on to look at deaths among young people. He knew what he would find. County statistics revealed a higher than normal rate of deaths among young people. The rate wasn't high enough to be alarming or suspicious to the inexperienced eye. The deaths were not unexplained, but deaths from natural causes, mostly flu and pneumonia, teenagers succumbing to tragic illnesses where you'd expect them to fight through to recovery. John found that trend going all the way back to the founding of the town. It was surprising no other hunter had picked this up.
He began to put the papers back into their dusty file boxes when he heard voices from the front office. He put his head around the door and saw the receptionist arguing with Sam.
"It's okay," John called. "He's with me."
Sam moved past the receptionist quickly. John stood back to let him enter and closed the door. "What did you find?"
Sam shrugged. "Nothing. No unexplained deaths, no mysterious fires. Not in the last ten years."
"Then you've got to go back further."
"Maybe if you'd tell me what you're thinking..."
"Fine." John pulled out a chair irritably and laid out his research. Just once, he would love Sam to trust him enough to just do the job without asking questions. Now he knew what they were facing, every instinct told John to get his boys - especially Sammy - out of here. But it was too late. If he ordered them to leave now...well, Dean might obey but Sam wouldn't.
Sam looked up from the statistics John had tabulated, frowning. "Not many things haunt churches, and those teenage deaths fit, too. You think it's a succubus."
"Yes."
"So why am I looking for fires? How does that connect?"
John looked at him. "I thought you'd read my journal."
"I might have skipped a few pages."
John smiled. "Reproduction."
"A succubus is a demon. They don't reproduce."
"There are different kinds of succubus. The most common is a demon and we'd get rid of it with an exorcism. But that's not what we're facing here." John pulled out the page with the death rates tabulated. "Look at these. It's just too...subtle to be a demon's work." He waited for Sam to comment or ask, but Sam said nothing. John went on, "There’s a creature from Southern Europe that feeds on sex, like a demonic succubus. It can infect others, a little like a werewolf bite, but this is more of a curse. The succubus creates others like herself, usually a male partner. The boy's death was a failed attempt to turn him. If I'm right, there will be other deaths like that one, but I don't know how long ago. It will be a cycle."
Sam was still frowning, but he nodded. "Okay. So I'm looking for a teenage death in a fire."
"Fire, yes. But don't make any more assumptions. It could be male or female, and it will probably be someone relatively young but might not be a kid." He met Sam's eyes. "Sammy, I want to be certain before we go after this thing."
"Got it." He glanced toward the door. "I'll keep looking." Sam headed for the door. As he reached it he looked back over his shoulder. "Dad...is there something you're not telling me?"
"About this hunt? No, Sam, I've told you everything I know." It wasn't entirely true, but if Sam remembered nothing, it was better left that way.
While John waited outside the library for Sam, he called Dean.
"Hey, Dad."
"Where are you?"
"In the diner near our motel. They do the best triple-cheese-chilli..."
John couldn't help smiling. "Dean. What did you find?" In the brief silence that followed, John could almost see Dean straighten up and set his food aside, concentrating on the phone call.
When Dean spoke again, it was in a low, careful voice which told John he didn't want to be overheard. "I talked to the boy's parents. They make him sound like a freaking saint. Straight A student, went to church every Sunday, kept his room tidy and bought his mom flowers every month. It's so Stepford I wanna be sick."
"You think they're lying?"
"Nah, they let me see the kid's room. He even had a missal in his bedside drawer."
John nodded; Dean confirmed his suspicions. "So he's associated with the church. That fits. Anything else I need to know?"
"There was one thing. His mom said he was depressed. Something about feeling guilty, but she didn't know why. I thought I'd go talk with the priest: if Saint-Choirboy-Perfect here was on a guilt-trip you just know he talked about it in confession."
"A priest won't break the seal."
"No, but he might tell me something. I can try."
"Alright, but wait for Sam." John explained the evidence he had found in the county records. As he laid it out for Dean, he saw Sam emerge from the library. "Here's your brother now. I'll call you back, Dean."
"Yes, sir."
John pocketed his phone and headed toward Sam.
"1947," Sam said, offering him a copy of an old news-sheet. "Dad, if you're right, this cycle is a long one. There were three men who died in fires sixty years ago. I couldn't find anything more recent."
John skimmed the article quickly. A fire destroyed a barn, a twenty three year old man presumed dead, no body found. "Are they all like this?"
Sam nodded. "All three fires were intense enough to destroy the building. It's almost like mom's death."
"Supernatural fires always have some common elements, Sammy," John answered gently, knowing it wasn't only Mary Sam was remembering. He rested a hand on his son's shoulder briefly and Sam met his eyes.
As darkness fell, John approached the small, grey-stone church with something close to fear. He was a hunter, and here was something supernatural preying on innocents. He would have taken this job, regardless. But if he'd been certain what he was hunting before they came, he might not have brought his sons.
So John came to the churchyard alone. These things were not really so hard to kill. He thought perhaps he'd be able to take care of it without risking...anyone else. He didn't want his boys facing a succubus, especially not Sammy. There were too many frightening possibilities.
The evening mass was over and the church stood silent and empty. Dean and Sam were going to talk to the local priest, who lived a short distance from his church. John opened the wrought iron gate of the churchyard and walked in. Sam was right when he said not many things haunt churches. Hallowed ground was proof against most demons and spirits. The succubus was an exception, often seen in churchyards and cemeteries. Folklore held that if a woman within a churchyard seemed in need of help, a man should speak to her before approaching, as a succubus could not speak back. Like most folklore, it was partially true.
The many stones in the churchyard were old and lichen-covered. The churchyard was well-tended and the grass had recently been mowed, but around the grave stones the grass was longer, clinging to the stone. There was no sign of any disturbed grave, or even any new graves. John walked around to the side of the church, idly reading the names on the headstones as he checked his weapons. He wore a protective amulet. He carried a shotgun concealed under his coat, loaded with the usual rock salt.
There was a small stone bench at the side of the church, with a rain barrel and some gardeners' tools beside it. John sat down, intending to keep watch. It was quiet in the churchyard and peaceful. For a moment, just a moment, he allowed himself to relax and enjoy the peaceful atmosphere. Peace was a rare luxury in his life, and rarer still in the past year.
When he first saw her, John almost failed to realise she was what he was waiting for. She looked so ordinary: the figure of a woman moving silently between the headstones. She carried flowers in her hands as if she were tending a grave. Her clothing seemed modern, the colours dull in the darkness. Only her hair stood out: long and pale, a cascade of loose curls down her back. She drifted across the grass and did not look John's way.
She wasn't what John was waiting for. She was just a fetch: a psychic projection. The worm on the succubus' hook. John might need backup after all.
John called his son's cell phone. "Dean, where are you?" He could hear the noise of a crowd and music in the background.
"Following up a lead from Father O'Connell."
"Dean, I'm in the churchyard. I need you and Sammy here. Come armed with iron. Holy water, too."
"Yes, sir," Dean answered at once and ended the call.
That was John's second mistake. He'd been talking to Dean: Dean who was his good soldier and always obeyed orders. Dean didn't ask questions, so John didn't answer them. Sam would have asked.
Watching the spirit-woman move, John could see the small signs that gave away her true nature. Her hair moved in a breeze he could not feel on his own skin. She walked with slow grace, never stumbling on the uneven ground. He kept one hand on his gun.
"I see you've found our local ghost," a woman's melodious voice said from his left side.
John turned, already suspecting what he would see. The woman standing there was quite beautiful. Moonlight played on her long, blonde hair. It was no coincidence she resembled Mary: enough to remind him strongly of his wife, but not quite enough to be disturbing. John caught a glimpse of silver in the depths of her eyes that confirmed what she was. There was a scent in the air like fresh clover and roses.
With only a moment to decide what to do, John chose to play for time. His boys weren't far away.
"That's no ghost," he said.
She smiled gently and sat beside him, close enough for him to feel the unnatural warmth of her body. She did not speak.
That would have told him all he needed, had John not already been certain. A succubus could not speak on hallowed ground. She could put the words in his head - a telepathy so subtle he had believed he heard her voice - but she couldn't speak aloud, so couldn't communicate in words while he looked at her.
John's hand tightened on the gun, but he didn't draw it yet.
John's third mistake was one any hunter would have made: he assumed she would follow her normal pattern of behaviour. Spirits and demons almost always did; once a pattern was identified you could rely on them sticking to it.
Everything he and Sam found that day, everything Jo found before them, indicated that this succubus preyed on the young. All of her fatal attacks were on young men: his sons' age or younger. John had no reason to think he would be in danger from her. Oh, she might try to seduce him: she almost certainly would. It was her nature. But a single attempt to feed on him would not hurt him. Or so John believed.
He'd hoped not to face her until his sons were there to back him up, but now he had no choice.
She reached toward him and John let go of the gun, letting the iron chain around his wrist fall out from the sleeve. She'd been about to touch his hand; she withdrew with a hiss. John backed away from her, just enough to give him space to aim, and drew the gun. The clover-and-roses scent around her became thick and cloying.
"That's far enough," John said.
She gazed at him with wide-eyed innocent surprise. I mean you no harm. She made no pretence at speech this time; it was a gentle mind-touch, the very gentleness of it calculated to persuade.
"I can't say the same." John started to squeeze down on the trigger.
She didn't move. She vanished.
John whirled, anticipating an attack, but she was faster. He had a fleeting glimpse of her face, no longer lovely but white and gaunt, her hair flying, her eyes silver. It was an instant, then her outstretched hands struck him in the chest.
The impact drove him backward -
- into her arms which closed about his body, He tried to aim the gun but her hand grasped his and it was as if her flesh was made of knives. Pain lanced through -
- his mouth as her lips met his. He was on his back in the damp grass, her weight above him, crushing him. He had no idea where his gun was. He was choking on the scent of -
- deafening gunfire and suddenly the weight above him was gone.
He saw faces through blurred vision.
"Dad! You okay?"
"Dad, talk to me!"
John drew in a breath of clear air and found himself coughing. He struggled into a sitting position. He looked down and saw what was left of the succubus on the grass beside him: a wizened husk in a human shape. Long dead.
He looked up at his boys. "Good timing," he said weakly.
"Are you kidding me?" Dean retorted. "How could you let her get the jump on you like that?"
"She was fast," John answered, though it wasn't much of an excuse. He looked for Sammy. Sam was hanging back, his face pale, still aiming his gun at the succubus. John got to his feet. "We need to salt and burn that." He nodded toward the body.
"Yes, sir." Dean shrugged the bag off his shoulder and crouched down to rummage in it for the salt.
Dizziness washed over John and everything went dark suddenly. Immediately, Sam was there, offering a hand to steady his father. John grabbed for the church wall, shrugging off Sam's attempt to help him.
Instead of backing off, Sam moved closer. "Dad, you're hurt."
"I'm okay," John insisted, blinking to focus his vision. "Where's my gun?"
"Here." Sam walked a few steps and retrieved the shotgun from behind a gravestone. He held it out to John.
John reached out a hand to take the gun. His fingertips brushed Sam's hand and instantly he felt a tremendous tightening in his body. John couldn't entirely hide his reaction. He half-turned away from Sam. It wasn't Sam he reacted to: it would have been the same no matter who touched him.
"Dad?" Sam asked, concerned.
John looked at him. "I'm fine, son," he lied. "Help your brother."
Sam stared at him a moment longer, then obeyed.
The rest was routine. They watched while the flames licked around the pale body. The boys did their job, calm and efficient.
Burning the succubus ended her life, but John knew he had a new problem to deal with.
Supernatural infections don't all follow the same rules. Some have no cure at all. Others end when the creature that created them dies, but not all of them work that way. Some are blood-borne, like a virus. Others are more subtle.
The succubus infected John and clearly, her death hadn't ended her curse. She knew he came to kill her and struck first, trying to make him what she was: a less-than-human thing, a parasite forced to feed off the lives of innocents.
John had to act quickly, or she would succeed.
The flames dancing around her body seemed to flicker with many colours: reds and blues and greens. Impossible. John felt the heat of the flames as if he were much too close. Too hot for such a small fire. He wiped sweat from his brow.
Sam was there, a challenge in his eyes. "Dad, did she...?" he began. He stared into John's eyes and John saw his expression fill with fear. "Crap. Dean, Dad's infected."
"What? How?" Dean moved to John's other side. "Dad, is he right?" Dean demanded.
John nodded slowly. "I think so. It's okay, son. We can fix it if we act quickly."
"There's a cure?" Dean demanded.
"In my journal. Come on, let's go."
Dean read down the list in John's journal. He looked up, a familiar frown creasing his brow. "Dad, this stuff isn't exactly in our regular supplies. I don't even know where..."
John was seated on the bed in his motel room. He'd stripped off his coat and shirt, leaving only the t-shirt. Already he was feeling the effects of the succubus' infection. His skin was much too sensitive: the clothing he wore hurt his skin. His vision was changing: colours were brighter, but blurred, odd things stood out sharply. The night air was cool on his skin, but John knew his body temperature was rising. It would continue to rise, the energy of the curse growing in him until he had no choice but to...
John interrupted Dean quickly. "Go to Bobby. He'll have most of what you need on hand, and he can tell you where to go for the rest."
"Bobby's hours away, Dad. There ain't time."
"There's time. I have to take the cure within thirty hours. So take my truck and drive fast."
Dean shook his head. "Dad, you should come with."
"No!" John shouted.
Both his sons turned as one to stare at him; the room fell silent.
John took a deep breath. He knew how bad this was going to get for him. He'd seen it happen before. John didn't dare to go with his sons. Spend hours trapped in a car with them, on the road, with this infection working through him...no. It was a disaster waiting to happen.
After a moment, Sam stepped forward. "You don't want to say it, Dad? Fine. I will. We've got thirty hours to find what we need to lift this curse, but that's not the full story, is it? The curse, or infection, whatever, is working now. You want me and Dean to leave so we're not in danger. From you."
Sam had nailed it, and a little too closely for comfort. "A few years ago," John said carefully, "I saw someone infected by one of these things."
Sam looked at Dean, his expression determined. "You go. I'm staying with Dad."
"No, Sam," John interjected.
Dean's eyes went wide. He pulled Sam to one side, speaking quietly, but not so quietly John couldn't hear. "Sammy, this is..."
"Dean," Sam said. Just that, just the name.
Dean's voice dropped to a whisper. "You could be walking right into - "
"That's why I have to stay."
Dean grasped Sam's arm, looking into his face. He said nothing more but he was certainly communicating.
"Dean, there's no time. You've got to go!"
Dean looked at John. John was not happy with the idea of Sam staying, but better Sam than Dean. If the worst happened, if John became...something that needed hunting, Sam might do it. Dean never would. So he gave Dean a nod, silently telling him to go alone.
Dean met John's eyes and held his gaze. It was a warning of some kind; John nodded an acknowledgement, aware that Dean understood something of what was going to happen to him.
Dean closed the journal with a snap and pocketed it. "Okay. I'll hit the road."
John got to his feet. "There's something in the truck I'll need first."
The truck stood in the motel parking lot. John checked no one was around before opening the trunk and lifting the panel that revealed his arsenal. The shelf of knives lifted out and beneath that was a storage space. John reached in for the canvas sports bag at the bottom of that space. He replaced the knives and closed the trunk.
He handed his keys to Dean. "Drive fast, and keep an eye out for cops. You don't want to be pulled over."
Dean's eyes flicked to Sam before his hand closed over John's keys. Then he looked at John, frowning. "I'll be back before you know it."
Again, John felt there was a message in Dean's words he wasn't quite getting.
Dean climbed into the truck and fired up the engine. Sam moved up to John's side as Dean accelerated out of the parking lot.
"You do know I'm gonna tie you up, right?" Sam asked, the question almost casual.
John handed him the bag. "What do you think this is for?"
The last time John let someone tie him to a bed, it was a lot more fun.
Sam knew what he was doing. He'd taken the handcuffs from John's bag - two sets of handcuffs - and John allowed Sam to cuff his hands to the bed. Sam spaced John's hands widely apart, making it much harder for John to free himself. Next, Sam took a rope from the bag and tied his legs. John couldn't see the knots he used, but the rope felt firmly in place, not overly tight, but with very little slack.
When Sam was done, he carried the room's only chair closer to the bed. He sat down and leaned over John who was watching him apprehensively. Sam laid one hand briefly on John's cheek. "Shit, Dad. You're burning up."
"I don't feel it yet, but that's expected. All part of the infection."
Sam nodded grimly. "I remember."
John thought his heart literally missed a beat.
Sam sat down on the chair, leaning forward with his forearms resting on his knees. "Dad, why didn't you fight me on this? About me staying, I mean."
John got his whirling thoughts under control long enough to focus on the question. He couldn't tell Sammy the truth about why he was willing for him to stay. But he had to come up with something. Sammy looked so serious.
John forced an uncomfortable smile onto his face. "Are you about to ask me what I've done with your father?"
Sam actually smiled. "If I thought that, we'd be halfway through the exorcism by now."
That was reassuring. "This infection is a kind of possession. It's just not the kind you can fix with an exorcism. Sammy...do you really remember...?" John wasn't at all certain he wanted to hear Sam's answer. But not asking would be the coward's way. He needed to know, and face the consequences.
Sam met his eyes. "I remember...most of it."
John swallowed. You lied to me, Sammy. For how long? "Does Dean know?"
"Not unless you told him. I wouldn't do that to my brother. Answer my question, Dad. You argue with me on principle, you always have. So why did you just cave when I said I wanted to stay?"
"There wasn't time for a fight. I wanted Dean out of here. Sam, I don't want you to witness this, but..." John shook the chain at his wrist. "I couldn't do this to myself."
For the first couple of hours, everything seemed fine.
John wasn't exactly comfortable, but he'd endured far worse than this. With the position in which he lay, the stretched muscles in his arms began to ache. After the first hour, he could feel the heat in his body that Sam already pointed out. He felt warm, like a Florida summer, but not hot. Sam said his skin was so hot he'd probably break a thermometer.
John's real discomfort, though, was in his pants. His cock was a hard rod, aching and painful. That was the nature of this infection: a succubus needs sex like a man needs to breathe, and John was becoming like her. A thing of need. He was just going to have to deal with it. Or, rather, not deal with it. There was no chance of relief.
He hoped Dean was driving at the truck's limit.
He tried not to watch Sam watching him.
John hunted a churchyard succubus when Sam was twelve years old. Knowing that her prey of choice was teenage boys, John encouraged Dean to stay home. He'd been helped in that by the fact that Dean scored a part-time job in a local workshop and wanted to save up for a car of his own. John thought that Sammy was young enough to be safe. He'd been half right. The succubus didn't try to feed on Sammy.
She infected him.
Even that shouldn't have been a disaster. John knew how to cleanse the infection, but although he acted quickly it wasn't quickly enough. Perhaps it was Sammy's youth that made the infection take hold so much faster than it should have. Before he could cure Sammy of the succubus curse, John had been forced to...
He tried to be gentle, to make it okay, but...but Sam was twelve.
It was a horrible way for a boy to have his first sexual experience.
When it was all over, when Sammy was cured and the bitch who infected him was dead, John tried to sit down with his son and talk about it. He didn't expect forgiveness, but he wanted Sammy to understand that there was a reason for what John did to him. But Sammy behaved as if he had no memory of that night. He seemed okay, and John, hugely relieved, left it alone.
Who knew Sammy was that good an actor at twelve years old? Or did the memory come back to him later...? Yes, that was possible. That was worse.
And it explained a great deal.
Something freezing and wet touched his face and John flinched away. His eyes flew open.
"Sammy?"
"Dad, thank god." Sam's face swam into focus. "Can you hear me?"
John tried to nod, and his head swam. "I can hear you," he answered.
"You're a fucking jerk, Dad," Sam burst out angrily. "Is this some stupid guilt trip over what you did to me when I was a kid, or just your regular need-to-know bullshit?"
John recognised the anger in Sammy's voice, but the words...Sam was just going too fast for him. He couldn't make sense of it, couldn’t think.
He tried to speak but no sound came. He licked his dry lips and tried again. "Sammy...can I...water?"
"Sure." Sam slid one hand behind John's head and held a glass of iced water to his lips.
It was like drinking liquid nitrogen, so cold it burned. But it did ease the dryness in his mouth and throat. "What's wrong, Sam?"
"What's wrong?" Sam repeated incredulously. "Dad, you let Dean think he's got more than a day to get back here. Do you have any idea what this will do to him?" Sam stood, pacing away from the bed, and John. "You should have told me, Dad!"
Told you what? John struggled to think his way through it. He had forgotten something. Something important that Sam was angry about. Though Sammy was always pissed about something. He couldn't think through the fog in his head, through the pain and the heat, or through the overwhelming need. Sammy said what this will do to Dean. Dean. Dean...
"Dean?"
"You're not even hearing me!" Sam threw himself back into the chair beside the bed. A moment later John felt the freezing pain of water again: Sam was dripping icy liquid over John's face and his chest.
"I'm sorry, just stay with me, Dad. Stay with me, okay? I know this hurts, but it's slowing down the rise in your body temperature. I've got to keep you cool, somehow."
The words meant very little, but John understood the fear in Sam's voice. "How long was I...?"
"It's four hours since the succubus infected you. You've been drifting in and out. Dad..." Sam's voice broke and he cleared his throat. "Dad, the ice isn't going to help for much longer. But...I know what will. You've got to let me help you."
Comprehension made John colder than the ice. "Sammy, no. No."
Sam got that stubborn, determined look John always dreaded. "Those fires you had me searching for and the boy who died last month. They were infected, weren't they? Like you. Like me, years ago."
John couldn't answer. He didn't need to answer.
"Fuck you, Dad! I watched Jessica die like that, I am not gonna lose you, too. I'm not gonna let it happen."
John took a breath. "Sammy, you're doin' fine. Just keep doing this."
Sam lifted the wet cloth again. "As long as it's working."
The next time Sam touched him with the icy cloth, it hurt so much John screamed aloud.
At some point, the pain faded.
Cool hands cupped his face. A face swam above him but his vision wouldn't focus. He saw only that it was human. A body lay alongside his. Naked flesh against naked flesh.
Human. Willing.
There was no thought in his mind. All that need crystalised into a single point of heat. His cock found a warm, willing hole and he thrust.
John woke to find his son naked in his arms.
Adrenaline got him moving even before he fully understood what this meant. John scrambled back so fast he fell off the other side of the bed. He lay on the floor in an ungainly heap, staring at the ceiling. He had fucked Sam. His own son. He saw the handcuffs dangling from the headboard. John was untied. How the hell did he get untied?
Sam appeared above him, leaning down from the bed. "Dad, it's okay. Dad?"
John shook off Sam's attempt to touch him. "Sammy, what did I do? My, god..."
"Dad, listen to me. It was the only way. I mean, look at you, it worked. Your body is cool, you're conscious, thinking... You're okay."
"This is not okay," John protested, struggling to get on his feet. How the hell could Sam not see that?
Sam scrambled up, moving to John's side, reaching out to him. "It's not a fate worse than death, either," he said calmly.
John tried to evade Sam's touch again, but he failed. And the instant Sam's hand touched his arm, John's cock was hot and hard with lust once more. It was as if the touch of Sam's skin was a motherload of viagra. He swore, trying to back away even as his body moved without his volition, running his hands over Sam's muscular arms and chest. Sam began to move back toward the bed and John's feet followed him.
"This is crazy, Sammy." It was a weak protest, John's rationality fading even as he spoke.
"It's the only way to keep you alive until Dean gets back."
The last of John's control shattered and he pushed Sam back onto the bed. It shouldn't be so easy to fuck his son. It shouldn't feel so good to do it.
"Dad?" Sam said quietly, breaking a long silence.
John's hand drifted slowly over Sam's hip and thigh, all pretence at reluctance gone. "I'm still here." He could keep the heat at bay longer if he kept touching Sam.
"When I was a kid... When you... I mean, we..."
"Don't."
"I know what you put yourself through, that's all. And I know if - when - we get through this, you're gonna do it to yourself again." Sam rolled onto his back, looking up at John. "Dad, I'm 23 now. I know what I'm doing." As John's hand stroked down his arm Sam covered John's hand with his own and moved it, quite deliberately, down his body.
John stroked Sam's cock slowly. The skin felt silky against his callused palm. This need to touch, this hunger for Sam's flesh, John couldn't entirely blame it on the succubus' infection. "I'm not sure you do know..."
"What don't I know?" Sam's voice was rough and he rocked his hips into John's touch as he spoke. "I know this is going to fuck up our family. I know how freaking wrong it is that we have to do this. I know you used to watch me when I was a kid, reminding me what we did that night." Sam reached up and kissed John. Against his lips he murmured, "And I know how messed up it is that I'm enjoying this...and so are you."
Sam's kiss was everything it shouldn't be and it broke John's heart even as he responded to it. Nothing satisfied this hunger. Every touch fuelled John's unnatural lust: the roughness of Sam's unshaven cheek, the taste of his mouth, the sweaty slide of flesh on flesh. How many times had he fucked Sam already? He was losing count but he knew it was more than a human man should be capable of. Too much for both of them and it still wasn't enough. He kissed Sam fiercely and this time it was Sam who rolled on top of him, Sam whose cock pressed against John's opening.
"Please," John whispered and Sam thrust into his body, a starburst of pleasure and pain and desperate need.
When Sam cried out in orgasm, John knew he was going to Hell...if he wasn't already there.
The click of the motel room lock woke John.
His body ached all over. He could barely even open his eyes. John struggled to raise his head as the door swung open.
"Dad? Sammy!"
Dean's hand appeared first, his fingers curling around the edge of the door as he pushed it open. Then the rest of him slid into the room; he was balancing a large box on one hand. He stopped dead when he saw John...and Sam.
There was no possible way to hide or to make the scene look like anything but what it was. The room reeked of sweat and semen. The comforter was bunched up at the foot of the bed. Handcuffs dangled uselessly from the headboard. John and Sam were completely naked, their bodies entwined together on a sheet stained with come and sweat and blood.
The look on Dean's face was a cold shower of reality.
It was Sammy who moved first, reaching down to pull the comforter over them. "Dean," he said.
Dean seemed frozen in place, staring down at them both. "What the hell...?"
Sam began to sit up. "Dean, it's okay." He swung his legs over the side of the bed, balling a corner of the comforter in his lap.
John struggled to sit up, knowing he had to speak, but unable to think of anything that wouldn't make this worse.
"Did you get everything we need?" Sam asked, his voice amazingly close to normal.
Dean swallowed visibly. "Yeah, I did, but..." He made an odd gesture toward the door behind him.
And that was when Jo Harvelle appeared, at a run. She was smiling until she came to a halt beside Dean, her eyes taking in the scene in the motel room.
Shit happens.
Talking about the shit that happens isn't the Winchester way. So they didn't talk about it.
At first, there were odd moments when John noticed Sam watching him. Each time, John saw something in Sam's face in that first instant: something he couldn't read. Something that put a dark, empty pit in John's stomach. But Sam always caught John's eyes and his expression became guarded before he looked away.
But they never talked about it.
Jo turned out to be every bit Bill Harvelle's daughter. She had been shocked, even a little frightened by the scene she walked in on, but somewhere in all the awkwardness she got over that. Or pretended convincingly, which amounted to the same thing. Little Jo stood up, did a hunters' job, and did it well.
Why was Jo even there? Because Dean, worried that time was a factor, had called Ellen to see if she could help. Harvelle's Roadhouse was closer than Bobby's junkyard. John would have chewed him out for disobeying orders, but Dean's hunch paid off. The bar was full of hunters and Ellen had almost everything Dean needed by the time he got there. There was, however, one item on the list that was a little tricky. The nearest person who could supply it refused to deal with a stranger. So Jo went with Dean to make the deal and Dean was in too much of a hurry to take her home before he'd given John the cure.
John didn't need to chew him out for that decision. Dean would do it to himself.
And then there was Dean.
On the surface, Dean was his usual self. But John knew his eldest son too well. The brittle silences, the refusal to talk about anything more significant than a beer: they weren't so much hints as they were anvils. John didn't expect Dean to take what happened lightly. He'd raised Dean to be Sam's protector; John could blame no one but himself that he'd suddenly become the thing that, in Dean's mind, Sam needed protection against.
It was tearing Dean apart. John couldn't make it right if Dean wouldn't talk to him.
A year earlier, John would have forced the issue, at least enough to be sure it wouldn't bite him in the ass at a critical moment. But that was a year before. Now it seemed like the best thing to do was take off - give Dean, and Sam as well, some time to work it out.
So he looked around for a hunt and found what looked like a poltergeist in Colorado. John grabbed the excuse to hit the road. Neither of the boys pointed out that John's arm was still injured.
It was a hell of a long drive back to Bobby's place.
John left the engine idling while Dean and Sam got their gear out of the truck; he wasn't staying. "Give me a call when you get back on the road," he suggested.
Dean nodded. "We will." His smile was a little forced.
"I'll stay in touch," John promised. "Listen, Dean, there's still a chance that there'll be some consequences to what we did at the hospital. If you run into anything demonic..."
"We'll let you know."
John looked at Sam. "See you around, Sam," he said awkwardly.
Sam nodded. "Dad..." He glanced at Dean, "before you hit the road...?" The rest was unspoken, but John understood the request.
He shut off the truck's engine and walked a short distance with Sam.
Sam got right to the point. Dad, I know why you want to take this hunt, but...don't forget about my vision, okay?"
John had forgotten, temporarily. "Which one?"
Sam gave an odd little smile. "The second one already happened, and I'm sure you figured that out for yourself. No, Dad, I'm talking about you trying to kill yourself."
"That's not going to happen, Sammy," John tried to reassure him.
"Dad. The place in my vision - where it happened. It was the Roadhouse. So like Bobby said, just keep it in mind, okay? And answer your damn voicemail this time!"
John smiled. "You've got a deal."
It took a week to get rid of the poltergeist. When that was done John took out a werewolf in Arizona and by the end of the month his arm was healed and he was headed for Texas.
Neither of his sons called once.
End of The Eighth Deadly Sin
Continued in Slouching Toward Bethlehem II: Ceremony Of Innocence
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Oh, in about two weeks? That's awesome!
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I hope so. I'm just finishing the first draft. It usually takes me about two weeks to revise a fic this long and add/change bits, and then get a beta to look it over. So...not too long to wait, I hope.
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Anyway, in case you want to have a look at the recs I've written for your fics, I thought I give you the links:
Slouching Toward Bethlehem I: The Eighth Deadly Sin (Part One & Two)
Slouching Toward Bethlehem II
I hope I did it right. Tell me if you don't agree with what I wrote etc.
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I hope I did it right.
Are you kidding? It's so great to read a rec that's more than just a link, and super-great when it's for one of my own fics!!!
Um. Just one thing, as I noticed your journal is on IJ: you might prefer to link to the fics on my IJ (I'm morgan32 there, too). That's my fic-only journal, and I'll be deleting my LJ account at some point so all the fics here will go, too. I don't know when, but I'm not staying here while LJ are such assholes.
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Oh, I didn't know you have an account there as well! That's great, I will change the links then! And do you mind, if I'm adding you on IJ?
Right now, I'm more active over at IJ. LJ really are assholes! Big ones, that is! *lol*