Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/7005328.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Supernatural
  Relationship:
      John_Winchester/Sam_Winchester
  Character:
      John_Winchester, Sam_Winchester, Dean_Winchester, Castiel, Angels_
      (Supernatural), Demons_(Supernatural), Ellen_Harvelle, Ava_Wilson
  Additional Tags:
      Alternate_Universe, Father/Son_Incest, Explicit_Language, Blasphemy,
      Theology, Demons, Angels, Torture, Blood, Angst, Manipulation, Politics,
      Strategy_&_Tactics
  Series:
      Part 2 of The_Celestial_Sequence
  Stats:
      Published: 2009-11-10 Chapters: 2/2 Words: 17813
****** Beside the Road ******
by rei_c
Summary
     The Winchesters leave Azazel's city and head back on the road. There
     are five years until the time of prophecies begins and John is
     determined to make the most of it. The only trouble is, he's not the
     only one.
***** Chapter 1 *****
Eternity
 
“The irin don’t like what’s been happening, Michael. They want to know if the
Creator will intercede,” Gabriel asks, leaning over a map, studying the pins
stuck into every inch of the vellum, green and yellow mingling with red and
blue. It hasn’t changed from the last perusal. Gabriel looks up, trumpet
shifting at his waist, and pins green-gold eyes on his commander.
 
Michael sighs, rubs his forehead. “Which of the irin?” he asks in return,
leaving the implicit question alone for now.
 
Gabriel gestures at the map, says, “All of the irin who we sent to watch the
prince’s city, especially those who had interaction with the prince and his
human family. Now that he’s left, along with the father and brother, the irin
they pass along the way have been sending messages back up to us. Several of
those we had assigned to the prince’s armies, as well, are reporting in.
Michael, we’re all worried and we shouldn’t dismiss the irins’ concerns simply
because of their heritage. None of us foresaw Azazel’s desertion and none
expected the prince to remain unchanged this long. Will the Creator not speak?”

 
Michael looks around, sees that all of his captains are looking at him, waiting
for an answer. A different angel, one who’d been lounging at the far edges of
the room, pushes himself off the wall and strolls towards the table.
 
“The Creator will not interfere,” he says, and Michael looks across at the
table. The Metatron waves a lazy hand, half-smile on his lips, and adds, “Not
on the word of a handful of half-breeds, anyway. You should know better than
that, Michael. The prince’s destiny has been written since before history began
its inexorable march onward. It is time for that destiny to unfold.”
 
“Metatron,” Gabriel says, before pausing, gaze flicking to Michael for a brief,
timeless communication.
 
Michael’s head dips forward, just enough for Gabriel to see.
 
“Metatron,” Gabriel says, with renewed confidence, “the prince has come to
think of several of the irin as friends. He’s gone so far as to protect them
from Azazel and the fallen’s brethren. Would the Creator allow one or several
of us to descend to earth and see if he is redeemable?” The Metatron doesn’t
respond right away, and Gabriel adds, hurriedly, “We all know the prophecies
and that the time of their fulfilment is fast approaching but we don’t know the
prince’s destiny any more than he does. If the Creator told us that any effort
would prove futile, we’d accept that, of course, but the prince is still human
underneath everything else. Is he not worthy of the chance of redemption? Of
forgiveness and repentance?”
 
The Metatron closes his eyes, glowing as he communes with God; Gabriel holds
his breath.
 
“The Creator will allow it,” the Metatron says flatly. His eyes, blue as ice
and twice as cold, fix on Gabriel. “He says that you, Gabriel, are to pick five
of your comrades -- excluding the commander of heaven’s army -- and go to the
prince. His reception of you will determine the length of your stay on earth.”
 
Gabriel exhales, looks at Michael.
 
“Thank you,” Michael says to the Metatron. “And thank Jehovah on our behalf. We
won’t squander the opportunity.”
 
“You’d best see that you don’t,” the Metatron replies, looking around at all of
the angels in the room. As he slinks out, he calls back, “Try and resist the
perfidy of his mere presence, would you, Gabriel? You’re already dangerously
close to losing what little favour you have.” He pauses, gives Gabriel a
lascivious smirk, and disappears in a gust of wind.
 
Michael relaxes once the Metatron is gone and he gazes around the room, laying
eyes the colour of burnt coffee on each of his captains. “Everyone who has
attained a third rank or higher can request to accompany Gabriel in this
mission,” he says. A discontented murmur spreads through the room and half of
the angels leave. Michael looks at those remaining; everyone meeting his one
requirement has stayed.
 
He nods at Gabriel, who looks as well, and says, “We’ll be leaving at the sound
of the dawn’s trumpets. I’ll make sure those of you I’ve chosen are warned in
advance.” He pauses, says, “Thank you, all of you.”
 
The room empties out until it’s just Michael and Gabriel, standing next to each
other, watching as one of the green pins on the map slowly bleeds into blue.
 
“The Metatron has never withheld his contempt for the prince before,” Gabriel
says, hesitating, “but I’ve never seen him like this, as if.” He trails off,
shakes his head.
 
Michael turns, gathers Gabriel up in his arms and kisses Gabriel’s cheek. “I
have faith, Gabriel,” he whispers. “And hope, and love. But the greatest of
these is love, as we all know, and I have love in abundance. He is the prince,
yes, but nothing says he is their prince alone. The gifts you visited upon him
in infancy, he still has them. He uses them unwittingly; if he were
undeserving, surely Jehovah would have rescinded them before now. And you have
the chance to remind him of that. You can do it, Gabriel. I believe and I hope.
I love.”
 
Gabriel draws in a deep, shuddering breath, leans back far enough to press his
lips against Michael’s. “Thank you,” he says, quiet, near-reverent, breath
mingling with Michael’s. “Thank you.” He smiles, leans forward, kisses the
smile off of Michael’s lips.
 
Lurking in the shadows, the Metatron watches, eyes narrowed, lips pressed thin
together.
 
 
                                   --.--.--
 
All Hallows, the first year
 
Dean’s half-asleep in the back seat, dozing as scenery passes them by, barren
cornfields turning into hills as they drive east, toward the Appalachians. John
envies his son’s ability to sleep anywhere at any time, envies the skill but is
thankful that at least one of them is resting. John’s driving and Ben’s sitting
in the passenger seat, one leg pulled up to his chest, chin resting on his knee
as he looks out of the window, silent and unmoving.
 
John itches to reach over, touch Ben, but he doesn’t, not when Ben has that
look on his face, bruised, brittle, as if one wrong word will send the world
crashing down around him. John's seen that look enough since they left the
city, since they began criss-crossing the country together, family in a far
different, far more complex, way than John had ever hoped to find.
 
Three hours of silence later, Dean moves in the backseat and says, “Ben.” Ben
hums, doesn’t otherwise move. “Mom was the daughter of a demon,” Dean says.
John’s eyes widen as Dean asks, “Does that mean I have demonic blood, as well?”

 
John stops breathing, doesn’t start again until Ben replies, “No,” short and
sweet. Dean sits up, meets John’s eyes in the rearview, and asks why not, it
seems a simple matter of genetics. “I s’pose it’s better to say it’s latent,”
Ben finally says. “Unless it gets activated, you won’t show up on any demon’s
radar. And there’s no way to activate it, not for you.”
 
There’s something missing there, some slice of information, and John asks,
“Will he show up on an angel’s radar?” before his mind can stop his mouth. He
can't believe they haven't thought to ask about this before.
 
“Yes,” Ben says, “but not because of his mother. That’s your fault, John. Mary
was the daughter of a demon and you are the great-grandson of an angel. That
bloodline’s latent in both of you. Actually, every hunter that lasts more than
a year with any modicum of sanity has to be the descendent, however near or
distant, of an angel. Why else do you think the rites work for you, that the
demons want so badly to destroy you, that you have the capacity to survive a
life like this when so many others don’t?”
 
John nearly swerves off the road but manages to steer the Impala to the
shoulder, lets it glide along until they come to a rolling stop. He puts the
car in park, sits there and looks out of the front window, trying to comprehend
that statement, said so easily.
 
“What does that mean?” Dean asks. John turns in his seat so that he can see
both of them, and takes in the look of shock on his son’s face, takes in the
way Ben hasn’t moved yet. “Ben, man, come on. We’re part angel? You’re part
angel?”
 
“Such a coup,” Ben murmurs. “Awaken the demonic before the angelic, and you
awaken the destroyer before the redeemer.” John frowns, reaches out, and Ben
blinks as John’s fingers connect, seems to shake himself free of whatever
trance he’d been caught in. “That was a prophecy, too. The angels spend so much
time fighting amongst themselves, each believing that they’re doing the will of
the Creator, like it's some kind of fucking democracy. The demons, though. The
demons follow their hierarchy, do what they’re told and let it filter down.
Much more efficient, that way.”
 
 
                                   --.--.--
 
Thanksgiving, the first year
 
Ben raises an eyebrow as John shoots again. The ghost they're hunting
dissipates into smoke and John mutters something under his breath before
turning and looking at Dean.
 
"It'd be faster if I had a little help," Dean says, voice even as he shovels up
another heap of dirt. Dean stops for breath and glances at Ben.
 
John follows the trajectory of his son's gaze, sees Ben shrug. "Talk to your
father," he says. "I'm not shovelling."
 
"But then you'd need to use the gun," John points out. He feels like he's
missed something, a feeling that only grows as Ben throws him a calculating
grin. "You wouldn't need to use the gun."
 
"I wouldn't need to use the gun," Ben says, that grin turning lazy at the
edges.
 
John narrows his eyes and tries to focus more on what Ben isn't saying than on
the way his body's responding to Ben's look. "How?"
 
"And why haven't you said anything about this before?" Dean adds, planting the
shovel into the ground and staring at Ben. "Seriously. How many graves have we
dug up since you joined us, huh?"
 
"Your own fault for not bringing me along," Ben says, as he perches on a
headstone. He shrugs, delicately, then says, carelessly, "Oh, look. A ghost. Oh
no. Scream, shriek, scream."
 
John turns at the same speed as Dean but the ghost crackles with fire and blows
up before they can do anything. From the smell of ozone, it won't be coming
back.
 
Exchanging glances with John, Dean finally says, "At least we won't be knocking
up any more grave desecrations on our rap sheets."
 
John doesn't know whether to smack his son or Ben first, but Dean's closer.
 
 
                                   --.--.--
 
Christmas Eve, the first year
 
“You’re not going to like this very much,” Ben says, apropos of nothing, “but I
have to take the ring off.”
 
John blinks, rolls over and looks at Ben, wondering how the kid can sound so
blank, so mechanical, five minutes after John’s fucked his brains out. He
should be offended, John thinks, but he’s just worried. It seems to be a trend
with Ben. “Why?”
 
Ben glances at him, then goes back to staring at the ceiling. “It’s been a few
weeks,” he says. “I need to see some demons.”
 
The question ‘why’ almost comes out of John’s lips; he remembers what Ben said,
back in the city: the demons promised to him are leeching off of Lust, but Ben
will need to see them, let them recharge, settle. He thinks about Lilith, how
predatory she was when Ben was at his damned lesson, and can’t bring himself to
argue. “When?” he asks instead.
 
“This afternoon, maybe,” Ben replies, rolling over to look at John. He looks
good, far healthier than he ever looked under Azazel’s guardianship; his skin
is tan from weeks spent along the Gulf Coast and still glowing with sweat from
sex. “I thought, since we’d be on the road, they wouldn’t know where we were or
where we're heading.”
 
That’s more thought, more consideration, than John had been expecting. It makes
him feel slightly better about this plan.
 
--
 
They stop just off the highway, an empty little rest stop along a deserted
stretch of road, the last car seen going in the other direction ten miles back.
Dean’s driving and making no bones about hating the idea of giving up their
location to the demons; Ben’s sitting in the front passenger seat toying with
the ring. For all that the demons helped him and John, Dean’s vocal about
everyone's role in the grand scheme of things: the Winchesters are hunters and
hunters kill demons, hunters don’t give demons their location, have a friendly
chat, and then let said demons go on their way, easy as you please.
 
As soon as Dean stops the car, Ben jumps out and takes the ring off, shoving it
into his pocket with a look approaching relief. John frowns, wonders why, but
doesn’t have the chance to ask Ben before the kid’s running for the hut and the
toilets inside.
 
“I don’t like this, Dad,” Dean says, once they’re both out of the car, walking
towards the building. “I don’t like this at all.”
 
“Neither do I,” John admits. “But better here than anywhere else. Once Ben puts
the ring back on and we leave, they can’t track us.”
 
Dean grunts, Ben comes walking back out, and just as it looks like Dean’s about
to say something, a car comes swerving up the access ramp, wildly careens to a
stop. Four women rush out, and while three of them come to a halt within arm’s
reach of Ben, the fourth drops to her knees and presses her face to Ben’s
stomach, starts crying.
 
John looks at Dean, who has never looked more like Ben: thoughtful, close to
scheming. Dean hums and moves on, past the reunion, while John perches on a
fence, folds his arms across his chest, and watches. Ben puts one hand on the
woman’s head, runs his fingers through her hair.
 
“It’s been too long, young master,” one of the others says. “Lils wasn’t
happy.”
 
Ben looks up, looks at the woman who’d spoken, and asks, “What happened? I gave
Lust specific instructions.” The woman who’d spoken doesn’t answer and Ben’s
eyes narrow as he scans the other two. Finally, he settles on one of them, with
short, curly brown hair, and says, “Naamah. Tell me what happened.”
 
Naamah sighs, replies, “The alliance held, young master, but you’ve been gone
for seven weeks and demonic politics are more fluid than lines of sand in the
wind.” That’s no answer and Ben says as much. “Lust held us, but it didn’t
spare any extra,” Naamah explains. “Eish went through buckets of chocolate
trying to buoy up Lils but we eventually just trapped her host in a room and
ignored the screaming as best we could.”
 
John gapes, can’t help asking, “You locked your sister in her room?” as if he
can’t imagine anyone doing that to family.
 
“Locked her up and tied her down. What else were we supposed to do?” Naamah
asks pointedly. “We couldn’t let her out, not in her mood, and we didn’t want
her to ransack the apartment.”
 
Practicality, John’s mind screams, is a bitch named Naamah. He’d do well to
remember that.
 
The woman on her knees, Lilith, John guesses, has finally stopped crying, is
finally standing up and rubbing her eyes.
 
"Forgive me," Lilith murmurs, her head bowed. Her words are quiet enough that
John thinks he might have actually imagined that apology; Lilith isn't the type
to apologise, even to Ben. He doesn't know, though; John's never seen Lilith in
Ben's presence. For all he knows, this could be normal. His gaze shifts from
Lilith to Ben, wonders what the hell Ben's thinking.
 
"Nothing to forgive," Ben finally says, face wiped clean of expression. "I
should have called you earlier." Eisheth looks as if she might be about to
argue; Ben holds up one hand to stop her before she can say anything. "A full
report. I want to know what I've missed. Obviously it was something big."
 
Lilith's still focused on the ground but the other three demons exchange
glances.
 
"We've seen the irin moving around the city," Naamah finally says. "And felt
angels."
 
The skin around Ben's eyes tighten. "I've been gone ten fucking weeks, Naamah.
What the hell's happening?"
 
The only one who hasn't spoken yet, who must be Agrat, shrugs. "You've been
gone but so has your father. Most of the others have left. The city's become
unbalanced."
 
"There's troop movement all over the place," Eisheth adds. "Our side, their
side, the humans. Your father gave us all five years before the time of
prophecies begins, young master. Those five years have begun, and in earnest.
No one wants to be left out in the cold when it ends. Aggie's been playing spy
when she can and she heard Lust talking about it as well."
 
Ben's eyes spark at that; John wonders what he's taking from this report. Ben
turns to Agrat, raises an eyebrow in silent command.
 
Agrat grins. "They really need better security," she says. "It's been too easy
to sneak in and out. Lust has been calling its sworn demons up one at a time
and giving them orders to corrupt as many as they can, as fast as they can.
It's also had some conversations with one of the demons playing messenger. I
didn't hear a name but I'm guessing the demon was heading off to a cherub or a
seraph. A lot of what is said was time-wasting but there was one thing: the
general's soldiers, they aren't ready yet. There won't be much time between
their awakening and the beginning of the time of prophecies."
 
"My father," Ben murmurs, looking thoughtfully at Naamah. "That demon was going
to my father."
 
Naamah inclines her head. "That was my thought also." She pauses, finally says,
"Regardless of what your father expects, they are your soldiers. It can't be a
good thing to know that they'll awaken so close to the time they're needed. You
won't have time to train them, much less assure yourself of their loyalty."
 
Ben smiles, a serpentine expression that sends chills down John's back. "We'll
see about that."
 
Naamah shivers as well, for a different reason, John thinks, then asks, "Now
that you've had the ring off, do you hear them?"
 
Lilith sneers, spits out, "Weaklings," like she hadn't been on her knees, in
tears, just a few minutes ago.
 
"Of course I hear them," Ben murmurs, eyeing Lilith before his gaze turns to
Agrat. "What do you think?"
 
Agrat laughs and shrugs. "It could prove to be a glorious checkmate, young
master. But it is your decision, as always."
 
Ben looks at Dean, then John. His eyes are narrowed, head tilted to one side as
if he's listening to something far away, only has the trace edges of a noise
that John can't hear.
 
"What?" John asks, taking a step closer. Dean does as well, moving to stand at
John's shoulder. Something has shifted, something's different; John's still
enough of a hunter to hate feeling that way around demons. Different is very
rarely good.
 
"I need to go away for a few days," Ben says. John opens his mouth to refuse -
- tomorrow's Christmas -- but Ben's eyes narrow further, lips thinning. "John."

 
"It's Christmas tomorrow," John argues back, willing Ben to understand that
he's not going to bend on this, not Christmas, not so Ben can go play with
demons. The Winchesters might not celebrate Christmas the way civilians do but
there are small things he and Dean do, rituals and traditions of their own, and
he'd been looking forward to bringing Ben one step further into their world,
one more step away from Azazel.
 
Ben's eyes frost over. "This," Ben says, his tone of voice just as icy, "is not
up for negotiation. I am going away for a few days. I will call you when and
where I am ready for you to pick me up. If you still want to, that is."
 
John swallows. The tone, the look, it reminds him of the ancient evil that
confronted him once, speaking out of Ben's mouth, gazing through him out of
Ben's eyes. Ben's lips quirk in the imitation of a deadly smile, the expression
of a cat appreciating the torment of a mouse it's playing with.
 
"I'll come and get you," John says.
As Dean's protesting, as John's heart is breaking, Ben walks away with the
demons.
 
He doesn't look back.
 
--
 
For five days, John doesn't sleep. He doesn't eat, doesn't bathe, barely does
anything except breathe and sit. Dean's fed up with him, left two days ago to
visit Bobby; John would feel awful about ruining Christmas but Ben is gone and
he feels empty, hollowed out and numb.
 
When the phone rings, John answers mechanically, expecting Dean, maybe, or
Bobby, even Aurelie. Instead, it's Ben who says, "Miss me yet?"
 
John's heart skips a beat and he sits straight up, drops the bottle of whiskey
he's been nursing all day. "Where are you?" he asks. "Are you. Is it time?"
 
It takes a long moment -- an eternity -- for Ben to reply. "I'm in Lansing.
Come and get me, John. My feet are so fucking cold, I think they're about to
fall off."
 
A strangled laugh, lacking any and all humour, is all the response John can
pull up.
 
--
 
There's a pile of snow twelve feet high in the back of the parking lot, next to
the old Chevy Caprice John parks next to. The driver's side door opens and a
man steps out wearing plaid flannel and a hat with flaps to cover his ears. He
waves at John, smiling, and opens the back door.
 
Ben climbs out, looks like he's wearing eight layers. He nods at the driver,
then walks around the back of the car and comes to a stop four steps away from
John.
 
John's eyes trace Ben's face, glance over the skin he can see. Ben's tense,
seems as though he's waiting for a lecture, but he still called, is expecting
yelling or worse but still came back. John takes a deep breath and asks, as
carefully and calmly as he can, "Are you all done?"
 
With the slightest flinch at the question, Ben says, "Wouldn't have called you
if I wasn't."
 
"Yeah," John says. "Guess not."
 
They stand there, both of them waiting for the other to make a move, but John
finally just opens his arms and says, "Oh, come on." Ben grins at him, the
tension gone, and snuggles into John's hold, burrowing as if he can climb under
John's clothes, insinuate himself under John's skin, as if he isn't there
already.
 
With a careful hold, John tilts Ben's face up, searches Ben's eyes. "Is
everything okay?" he asks.
 
Ben grins, showing teeth. "Better than."
 
John's not sure he likes the sound of that and decides he probably shouldn't
ask. "And you. You're all right?" he asks, instead.
 
"Old man, it is too fucking cold to strip and prove it right here, okay?" Ben
snarks back.
 
John smiles, lightly smacks Ben on the back of his head, then bends down, fits
his lips to Ben's, right where they both belong.
 
 
                                   --.--.--
 
Valentine's Day, the first year
 
John wakes up, hearing something across the room. He blinks in the darkness,
sees the outline of a person against the glow from the bathroom.
 
Ben says, softly, "Go back to sleep, John. It's just me."
 
He's never asked how Ben can see in the dark, never asked how Ben can tell the
second John wakes up, never questioned the near-psychic abilities Ben has to
know what John's thinking sometimes. He checks the clock, thinks that four in
the morning after a night of hunting isn't the right time to ask, either.
 
John props himself up, squints, asks, "What's wrong?" because it looks like
Ben's dressed. His voice catches on the sibilant, raspy over a dry throat.
 
"You have no idea what your voice does to me, do you," Ben murmurs, coming
over, standing next to the bed. John reaches up, grasps Ben's wrist, and Ben
lets John. At the first touch of tongue to skin, Ben shivers, says, "Hold that
thought, just for a couple hours?"
 
"Where're you going?" John wants to pull Ben back in to bed, is barely awake
enough to wonder whether he'd rather just cuddle close to the man or if he'd
have enough energy to strip Ben back down to nothing, taste every inch of
smooth, tan skin, bury himself in the heat of Ben's body.
 
Ben laughs, as if he can read John's dilemma right off of the hunter's face.
For all John knows, he can. "I'll be back and I'll bring breakfast. There's
something I have to do."
 
"Something dangerous?" John asks. There's an undertone to Ben's words John
doesn't like. He worries.
 
A press of lips to John's forehead, and Ben murmurs, "Get some sleep, old man.
I'll be fine."
 
John lets go, because he trusts Ben, and closes his eyes, listens as Ben
leaves. He has every intention of getting out of bed and making some coffee,
ready for the moment Ben walks back through the door, but he falls asleep
instead, tugged back into his dreams.
 
--
 
It's nearing ten when Ben finally opens the door. John's been up for an hour
and Dean just slightly longer. They're both dressed, waiting, ready to get in
the Impala and head for the next hunt; John expected Ben a few hours ago and
has been worried.
 
He's debating tracking Ben, using Aurelie's compass, but before he suggests
that to Dean, the door opens and Ben stands in the doorway, looking exhausted,
worn down, carrying a plastic bag in one hand.
 
John stands, takes two steps, then stops. A man's standing behind Ben, tall and
good-looking, smiling politely. When Ben steps over the salt line, through the
wards of demonic and angelic script, the man doesn't follow. It doesn't appear
that he can.
 
"Who're you?" Dean asks, pushing the confrontation with little outward regard
to how tired Ben seems, sitting hunched over on the edge of the bed.
 
"My friends call me Gabe," the man says. He shakes his hair, blond, enough gold
in it to catch the sun, and John blinks. For a second, he could've sworn he saw
wings.
 
Dean frowns, says, "We're not your," but stops when Ben looks up, shakes his
head.
 
"It's Gabriel," Ben says. John freezes, sees Dean do the same a moment later.
"And yes, you overgrown fluffball, you can come in."
 
Gabriel breathes an easy grin, steps inside and closes the door behind him. He
stretches, then turns and studies the pieces of paper stuck to the wall, the
looping curls and squiggles of script. "That's a new one," he finally says,
pointing at one near the end. John looks at Ben, sees him stiffen.
 
"Yeah, well," Ben says, as if that's some kind of answer. "You wanted to meet
them, here they are. Stop pretending to be a scholar."
 
"An angel," Dean says. John sees his son's face, wants to laugh at the wide-
eyed look Dean's wearing but can't, because he feels the same way. "You're the
Gabriel? Fucking real angel?"
 
The sound of Gabriel's chuckle rings something loose inside of John, something
black and twisted, and it starts to melt before Ben stands up, does something
with his power that has John's throat dry and sore, leaves him focused on the
curve of Ben's shoulders, the marks from their fucking the night before.
 
Gabriel stops mid-laugh, looks at Ben, and wings emerge from his back in a
crush of white feathers, filling the room with their width. "Prince," the angel
says, stopping when Ben takes one step forward, teeth bared, hands clenched
into fists at his sides. Gabriel tilts his head, then bows it, eyes to the
floor, and says, "I apologise. As you said, there are reasons. I shall abide by
them and tell my brethren to do the same."
 
John looks from the angel to Ben; the angel’s looking up now, at Ben’s silence,
and their eyes are locked in a gaze that feels weighty enough to smash the
world. He wonders what Gabriel means, what they talked about and when, why.
There's something, too, in what Gabriel called Ben, 'prince,' like it's a title
of respect. Why an angel would be using it, why an angel would even be talking
to the prophesied antichrist, John doesn't know.
 
"The perfidy of my mere presence," Ben mutters, and John's gratified to see
that Dean looks as confused as John feels. The look on Gabriel's face, though,
stretched across that too-perfect visage, that's worrying.
 
"To answer your question, Dean, yes," Gabriel says, turning away from Ben, "I
am an angel. An archangel, to be technical, and one of the Creator's
messengers. The Prince and I needed to talk and I expressed an interest in
meeting you; he was kind enough to agree."
 
John looks at Dean, who looks back. He doesn't need words to know what Dean's
thinking -- John has Ben to thank for that, he knows; Dean was never this open
before their stay in Ben's city, never this willing to work with John instead
of at odds with him -- and Dean nods once, steps back, lets John handle this.
 
"What did you need to talk about?" John asks, but he's addressing the question
at Ben. "And how did you know?"
 
Gabriel looks down at the floor, trying to cover up a grin. "Kept blowing the
damned trumpet," Ben mutters, giving the angel a pissed-off look. "Too loud to
fucking sleep through and twice as annoying as Dean snoring."
 
"I don't snore," Dean protests, immediately. "If anyone snores, it's Dad."
 
"That's true," Ben says, giving Dean a look that John can't interpret. "Sorry."

 
Dean shrugs, and John jumps in, trying to stave off what will most likely be an
unavoidable headache. "And what did you need to talk about?" he asks again.
 
The angel looks up, looks at Ben, and is about to answer when both Gabriel and
Ben whip their heads 'round to the door in unison. Dean shrugs when John
glances at him, and John's mouth is open to ask what the hell's going on when
he hears a loud noise, like the crack of a gun.
 
Gabriel goes for the door, but Ben says, "No," and the angel halts, mid-step,
as Ben sends out a wave of power. John can feel it buffeting the air, is half-
surprised that the door doesn't shatter under the force, that the walls remain
intact, upright. "You have to take them back," Ben says. "Next time you bring
your brethren, pick ones that can handle the war-zone. Third-ranked captains,
my ass. What the hell, Gabriel?"
 
The angel winces, as if Ben's just smacked him in the face with something that
should have been obvious, but he doesn't argue. "I'll send word with someone
once I speak with Him," he says, pulling his wings inside his body, rolling his
shoulders once there's no sign he's anything but human. "Be safe, Prince."
 
John watches, fascinated, as Ben opens his mouth to say something, then stops,
checks himself, eyes flicking at the two Winchesters. What comes out is a
simple, "Of course," instead of whatever John thinks Ben had been about to say.
"Say hello to Michael for me."
 
"If I do that, he'll want to come himself, next time," Gabriel says with a soft
smile, as if he's joking.
 
Ben doesn't laugh.
 
The angel looks up at the ceiling, then closes his eyes, and Ben grimaces as if
he can hear something, as if it's loud and hurting his ears. Gabriel disappears
in a rush of gold light, warm and comforting, and then it's just the three of
them in the room.
 
--
 
Dean's slouched in the chair, muttering to himself about angels being real and
staring at the last spot Gabriel had been in before disappearing, so John goes
over to Ben, swings one arm around the kid's shoulders and makes him sit on the
edge of the bed, perching right there next to him.
 
His eyes catch on the ring Ben never takes off, and John nods at it, asks, "How
could he find you, wearing that?"
 
"The demons can't track me with the ring on, because they find me thanks to my
aura," Ben says, fiddling with the ring. He sounds quiet, his tone bruised.
"This blocks the traces of my psychic abilities, my demonic abilities. But
Gabriel."
 
He stops and John waits for a few minutes before prompting, "But Gabriel?"
 
Ben swallows, says, "But angels use a different method to track people like me,
one I can't do anything about right now." He pauses, as if he's going to tell
John what that method is, then stops, shakes his head, carries on. "They can
find me. I can find them, though, and we all leave each other alone, usually,
so I guess it evens out."
 
"You've talked to angels before?" John asks. "Gabriel? Michael?"
 
"Not often," Ben replies. Dean shuts up, leans forward and listens. "The city
was uncomfortable for many of them and I rarely left. But I've spoken with
Michael before and I met Gabriel a long time ago."
 
John wonders about that, what Ben isn't saying and how, but Dean asks, "What'd
he want?" before John can say anything else.
 
Ben looks up, looks at both of them with a carefully sly glance, and says, "I
think I'd like a donut."
 
"A donut," Dean echoes, flatly, one eyebrow raised.
 
"Yeah," Ben says, picking up the plastic bag from behind him, taking out two
boxes of Krispy Kremes. "Breakfast."
 
--
 
They try for three weeks to get Ben to tell them something, anything, about
Gabriel's visit, but eventually give up. He changes the subject, sometimes, but
more often just flat refuses to say anything; John finally tells Dean to leave
it alone after Ben doesn’t say a single word about anything for three days.
 
 
                                   --.--.--
 
Feast of the Assumption, the first year
 
They're three hours away from Cincinnati and John has no plans to change that.
Dean's sleeping in the back seat and Ben's reading yet another one of Bobby's
books, picked up at the latest visit to one of John's mail drops. John's trying
to decide the best way to skirt Cincinnati, whether he should go west on 64 to
St. Louis and spend some time there before heading up to Detroit and going
along the Ohio coast, or if he should take US-41 north to Indianapolis and cut
through Columbus on the way to Pennsylvania.
 
Ben, though, says, "You can't avoid the witch much longer," and he makes it
sound so reasonable that John finds himself nodding before the words percolate.

 
"Wait. What?" he asks, feeling stupid for not coming up with something better.
 
Evidently Ben agrees that John isn't at his best; the kid snorts, turns a page,
and says, "I'll have to meet her sooner or later. We're this close, it might as
well be now."
 
John licks his lips, glances at the next road sign. He doesn't have much time
to make a choice, hates it, so he gets off at the next exit and pulls into the
parking lot of the first motel he finds. It's a run-down little place but they
don't say anything when he hands them a credit card and asks where the closest
bar is.
 
Ben's leaning against the car, arms crossed on his chest, when John comes out
of the lobby with two room keys for the end of the row. He's wearing an
expression that means John's not going to hear the end of it, not if he wants
to live to see another day, so John sends Dean out to the bar in the hopes of
picking up some easy money, and follows Ben into one of the rooms, the one with
a queen bed sitting square in the middle of the floor.
 
John takes out their warding supplies and says, gruffly, "I'll do Dean's room,"
before leaving. He doesn't wait for an argument and he tries to focus as he
works. Half of him wonders if Ben will still be there when he's done; the other
half knows that he's been stupid about avoiding Aurelie and Ben will want to
remind him of that fact more than once before they go to bed.
 
With a deep breath, bracing himself for the argument he just knows is coming,
John walks out of Dean's room and back into his and Ben's. The room's been
warded but Ben's nowhere in sight. John panics for the split-second it takes to
realise that the water in the bathroom's running. He leans against the wall and
waits.
 
Ben steps out a minute later, sleeves of his sweater pulled down, creeping over
his knuckles. It's August and most people are wearing shorts and a tank, even
at this hour, but Ben is always so cold, can't ever seem to get warm.
 
"Sometimes," Ben says, "I think that you forget what I am."
 
"Never," John replies, instantly.
 
Ben makes a noise, might be disagreement or amusement, or might simply be
something to cover up the quiet. The silence in the room draws out until John's
about ready to snap, then Ben says, simply, "Sometimes, John, you forget what I
am."
 
Without another word, Ben brushes past him, heads out the door. By the time
John can move again, can get outside and call out Ben's name, he's gone.
 
--
 
Dean comes back three hours later, reeking of smoke and whiskey and sex. John
looks his son over but doesn't say anything, just like he doesn't say anything
when Dean sits down on the curb next to him.
 
"Guessing you two had another fight," Dean says. "What does that bring it to,
twenty, twenty-five times he's walked out on you? Dad, he hasn't even been with
us a year yet. Whatever you're doing, you need to stop."
 
John swallows down the instant urge to snap back, to say that Dean's never had
a steady relationship, that Dean doesn't know what the fuck he's talking about,
that in no universe ever will John accept relationship advice from his own damn
son.
 
Dean can evidently sense it, though, because he moves on, asks, "What were you
two talking about? I know we weren't planning on stopping here tonight."
 
"Ben thinks we should see Aurelie," John replies, after deciding that he can
keep the growl out of his voice.
 
"I've been wondering about that," Dean says. John looks at his son with a
raised eyebrow and Dean shrugs. "She's your witch. She made the compass and the
ring and it makes sense she'd wanna meet Ben. And vice versa."
 
John looks at his son, trying to remember if Dean's ever heard about Aurelie
pledging herself to Ben. He doesn't think so but Dean's hard to read right now,
either that or John's too tired, and he's too worried about Ben to try and
remember what he's already told Dean. "It's complicated," John says.
 
Dean snorts. "Dad. Come on. We're talking about Ben. Of course it's
complicated. The day that kid doesn't complicate something is the day he's
dead, you and I both know it. Now," he says, standing up, stretching. "Whatever
stupid thing you did, you better fix it. I, for one, don't wanna be stuck in
the car with his bitching again."
 
John's left alone as Dean goes into his room, shuts the door and turns the
television on just loud enough for John to hear the noise of it, sitting
outside by himself.
 
--
 
Three in the morning and John's sitting at the rickety table inside, flipping
through television channels. Seventy-two channels and nothing's on so he keeps
on going, two seconds on each one, over and over again. He's been stupid, he
knows; Ben might be younger than Dean but there are moments when he acts older
than John.
 
As if John's thoughts are a summoning, the door opens. There's a gun in John's
hand, aimed in the doorway, a moment before pieces of night coalesce into Ben.
The look in Ben's eyes, though, as he closes the door behind him, is one that
John's only seen a handful of times, each one a time too many.
 
Deep, deep inside the green irises, Ben's home to a timeless malevolence, a
darkness so intense that it makes a moonless midnight feel like blazing high
noon. With those eyes fixed on him, John's blood runs cold, every instinct
telling him to hold his breath and keep from making any sudden movements.
 
"This is what I am," Ben says, and the tone is pure and liquid sin, drying out
John's mouth and making his cock twitch. "This is what you forget, John. I try
to keep it from you, for your own peace of mind, but it isn't ever gone and it
isn't ever going to go away." Ben steps closer and John barely resists the urge
to flinch back. "This is the part of me that you will never control, that you
will barely be able to comprehend. You don't need to coddle me. I was a whore.
I'm demon-tainted and demon-healed. Half of legion owes me favours. You can't
treat me like a child and expect me to stay."
 
That sends John upwards, standing up and taking one step towards Ben before his
mind has a chance to catch up. His breath catches in his throat as he asks,
"Are you. Are you leaving?"
 
Ben holds his gaze, the edges of a vast and cruel intelligence in Ben's eyes
for a handful of never-ending moments before Ben carefully shutters the sight
of it away, pushing it down and out of John's sight. "That depends," Ben says.
"Are we going to see Aurelie tomorrow?"
 
"Yes," John says, before asking his own question. "Come to bed?"
 
Ben toes off his shoes.
 
--
 
Aurelie's standing on her front porch when John parks the Impala. Dean climbs
out of the front passenger side first and Aurelie lets fly with a loud wolf-
whistle. John can see his son grinning. Ben's more hesitant to emerge and, when
he does, Aurelie's entire expression changes. The smile drops and her eyes
narrow, turning sharp and focused.
 
John follows Ben up the walk, Dean at his elbow, and he waits as Ben and
Aurelie look each other over. Every moment ratchets up the tension, until
John's about one second away from drawing his gun. This was a bad idea, he knew
it.
 
"Ah, I t'ought t'is day would never come," Aurelie finally says. Her tone of
voice is solemn, almost strangely so. It's a tone John's never heard from her
and it surprises him out of his tense anxiety. "It is good to finally meet you,
Ben Ahrenson. I 'ave been waiting a long time. Many of us 'ave been waiting."
 
"Aurelie Bontecue," Ben says back, head tilted to one side. "So you're the
bitch I have to blame."
 
John's heart skips a beat; Aurelie has power and it's never a good idea to go
insulting a witch, especially one with her wild, unpredictable magic.
 
Aurelie laughs, though, holds out one hand that Ben takes without hesitation.
"Well, you know what they say about fate, Ben, fate and angels. What choice did
I 'ave?"
 
John frowns, wonders what that means, but then he smells something odd.
Aurelie's normal scent, warm bread and bitter chocolate, spreads outwards,
creeps around John like a tangible presence. He's frowning when it's beaten
back, mingling with a smell that John can't place. The closest he can come is
blood and iron, a viscous, tangy metal. He can tell Dean smells it as well, and
Aurelie's smile turns warm, fond.
 
"Aie, Ben," she says. "It's rare I can find someone to match me." She studies
Ben, finally nods. "Yes. I made the right decision. You, and the 'unter to 'elp
'old you back."
 
"I wondered why you did it," Ben says, a much more dispassionate tone of voice
as the smell fades into the air. "Because of John."
 
Aurelie shakes her head. "Because of you, Ben, and 'ow much 'appier 'e makes
you."
 
Ben just huffs, but he's relaxing as he steps to the side and mutters, "Oh, go
fuck yourself, you witch."
 
Aurelie's laughing as she takes a look at Dean. "I can see why your father kept
you away," she murmurs, offering Dean her hand. Dean takes it, grins at her and
bends down, pressing a kiss to the back of her hand. John thinks he sees tongue
at one point and can't help rolling his eyes. "You really are somet'ing else,
little 'unter."
 
"Not that little," Dean flirts back.
 
Aurelie laughs again, claps her hands together. She turns to John, then, and
asks, "You 'ave time for coffee, I 'ope?"
 
John smiles. He's not at ease with her, not by a long shot, and every worst
nightmare he had about her and Dean meeting is coming true right in front of
his eyes, but Dean's grinning next to him and Ben's pressed into his side, warm
and solid and there. "I don't think they'll let me leave without at least a
drink," he says.
 
She inclines her head.
 
Aurelie has always understood more than John feels strictly comfortable with.
***** Chapter 2 *****
Winter Solstice, the second year
 
John looks at his watch, then turns his attention back to the crowd, searching
for Ben and Dean. He hates being in throngs of people like this but Ben had
insisted on buying something for Christmas, for John, had to come here, to this
mall, and had expressly forbidden John to accompany him. It's their first
Christmas together; no matter how much John dislikes it, he'll bend enough to
suffer this crowd for Ben's sake. He's worried now, though. He sent Ben off
with Dean almost two hours ago and he’s starting to get nervous. They should be
here by now.
 
The second John sees them heading his way, someone in front of him calls out,
“Ben? Ben Ahrenson!” John’s mind freezes for a split-second even as he’s
reaching for a gun and a crucifix and he can see the instant Ben stops and
moves, planting himself in front of Dean. John can’t see the face of the man
who called out, can’t tell if he’s possessed or not, but, a moment later, he’s
got the gun pressed to the small of the man’s back and has the crucifix pinned
between the man’s shoulder-blades.
 
“John Winchester,” the man says. He moves slightly, and John tenses until he
sees that the man’s stretched out his arms to his sides, showing all three of
them that his hands are empty. “I mean you and your family no harm. I simply
came to talk.”
 
“So talk,” John growls, digging the gun in tighter. “Who are you? What do you
want?” His eyes flick to Ben, looking over the man’s shoulders, in silent
question.
 
Ben steps closer, head cocked to one side, puzzlement written in his eyes;
Dean’s two steps behind. “Remiel,” Ben says. “But you’re not.” He stops and
Dean almost walks into him.
 
John frowns, seeing emotions run waterfall-fast over Ben’s face, worried when
Ben’s expression closes off. “Ben?” he asks.
 
Ben’s eyes slip from the man’s face to John, then back. “Remiel,” he says
again. “Destroyer of the armies of Sennacherib. You’re one hell of an angel.
Gabriel’s not sending third-ranked captains anymore, is he.”
 
“An archangel, actually, like Gabriel and Michael, but I tend to keep that
under wraps as much as possible. I mean, the ranking can get intimidating but
the wings don't help. Add to that, they tend to throw humans off, you see,” the
man says. John can almost see the smile on this guy’s face. Ben doesn’t look
amused. “People down here usually call me Remy. Is there somewhere we can go,
in case your father decides to shoot me?”
 
“He’s not my father,” Ben hisses, and his eyes darken two shades. John
swallows, seeing it, feeling his mouth go dry. He can feel the edges of Ben’s
power sparking against him, wonders if the people scurrying around them can as
well. “My father is Azazel and you know it, Remiel. You’ve been told to mark it
well. Keep playing games with us and I’ll kill you; I’m already damned, right?
Might as well earn my place in hell. Why are you here? What do you want with
us?”
 
Remiel inclines his head in what John’s assuming is an apology. “Forgive me,
Ben. It was a clumsy test. Like I told John, I came here simply to talk.”
 
John’s expecting Ben to glare some more, or yell, or accept Remiel’s words, but
he sees Ben step back a second later, almost onto Dean’s feet, and start
looking around, searching the crowd for something or someone.
 
"No," Ben breathes. He turns, just enough for John to see Ben’s eyes scanning
the crowd, focused but frenzied. "No. Who put you up to this, huh? Did Dan?
Because I told him I was working on it and I told him not to."
 
“Ben,” Remiel interrupts. John can feel waves of calm seep through that word
and he hisses as the cross he’s holding burns against his own skin. “Ben, come
now. Danel would never gainsay your word and you and I both know besides that a
mere irin would never have the power to summon one such as I down for a simple
chat. Be thankful it’s me and not one of the upper hierarchy, which it will be
if you don’t listen. I swear to you, in the name of Jehovah, I simply came to
talk.”
 
Dean puts one arm around Ben’s shoulders, looks straight at the angel, and
asks, “Danel?” in a tone that John’s proud of. He doesn’t think he can talk
right now, much less sound unimpressed, not holding a gun to an archangel in a
crowded mall.
 
“Dan, back home,” Ben says, distracted. “He’s an irin, a watcher.” He pauses,
looks at Remiel, and adds, “A half-breed. His father was an angel and his
mother was human. He accepted his angelic nature after his wife died, though,
and inherited a name.”
 
John doesn’t know why Ben has such a thoughtful look in the tilt of his eyes
but he knows nothing good’s going to come from it. They need to get out of here
and they need to do it before Ben breaks and lets his power out from under his
control.
 
“You got what you came for?” John asks. Ben looks at him, nods, almost as if he
doesn’t trust himself to open his mouth, as if he doesn’t know what might come
out if he did. “Then let’s get out of here. Remiel probably knows where we’re
staying; he can meet us there.”
 
--
 
“What did Gabriel tell you?” Ben asks, the instant he opens the door and the
shadow of Remiel covers the floor. John had been looking at the man, but Dean
elbows him, nods at the floor. John studies the shadow, then looks up; wings
are outlined on the floor but they aren’t visible looking at the angel. “I’m
not letting you step one foot closer to them until you tell me.”
 
“Why not?” Remiel asks. It’s not insolent, but, at the same time, it’s not an
honest question. It’s more like Remiel has a hunch and John gets it when Remiel
adds, “Are you afraid that being in the presence of an angel might give both of
them second thoughts about you, about being with you in the same manner that
they are at present?”
 
Ben growls, reaches out and yanks the archangel inside, slams the door. John
can feel a wave of Ben’s power flow outward from the kid; it doesn’t do
anything to him or Dean but the angel crashes backwards and hangs pressed
against the wall. “Tell me what he said to you,” Ben snarls, walking forward,
step by precise step, until he’s nose to nose with the angel. “Or I’ll destroy
you. I know how, did you know that? I could make you fall and hand you over to
my father or I could simply erase you from existence.”
 
John expects something from the angel, anything except Remiel narrowing his
eyes, saying, “Of course you have the power,” like everyone should know that
already. “What did Gabriel tell you?”
 
The scheming look in Ben’s eyes is back; John can see it, shivers, as his lover
turns his back on the angel and puts distance between them again. “He told me
he’d send word once he talked to Him,” Ben says. John can hear the capital but
doesn’t understand it. “Are you his word or have you just come to annoy us?”
 
“To see the day come when the prince would lump himself in with a group of
simple humans,” Remiel says, almost thoughtfully. “I never would’ve thought to
witness it myself.”
 
“And neither would the Metatron,” Ben says. Dean’s eyes widen, looking at his
father. “And neither would either of the trinities.” Something in Ben gives and
he sits on the edge of the bed. He lets the angel slide down the wall, watches
Remiel, and the angel doesn’t move once its feet are on the floor. “Why are you
here, Remiel?”
 
The angel looks at the carpet, then up at Ben, seems to steel itself against or
for something, which, John’s not sure. “The commander asked me to come down and
request a meeting,” Remiel finally says. “To be held at the time and location
of your discretion, with whichever of your cohorts you require.”
 
Ben’s eyes flicker. “I suppose he never mentioned the subject of this meeting.”

 
Remiel shrugs, replies, as if Ben had asked a question. “I think it can only be
one thing, Prince.” John watches as Ben’s shoulders slump. “We have less than
four years,” Remiel goes on, this time more hesitantly, very much at odds with
the tone John’s already come to associate with the angel. “The time of
prophecies fast approaches, prince, and the commander has been charged to ask
questions.”
 
“Charged by whom?” The look in Ben’s eyes turns fey, wild; John hasn’t seen
anything like it since the time Azazel asked Ben to recite history. "Who wants
to know, this soon? I haven't had any time, Remiel. You know that, Michael
knows that. Fuck, even the Metatron knows that, okay? This meeting, it's too
soon. Nothing good will come of holding it now, mark me well."
 
“Prince,” Remiel says, stops when Ben holds up a hand. The angel takes that as
a rebuke, it seems, then steps closer. Ben stands, but Remiel just shakes his
head, crosses over to Ben, and drops to one knee. “You are charged as our
prince as well as theirs,” the angel says, fiercely. “Do we not have the right
to fight for you as well? Even the Creator says your path has yet to firm. Meet
with Michael, please, and soon, while there is yet time.”
 
Ben reaches forward, runs his hand through Remiel’s hair; the angel shivers,
though in peace or revulsion, John can’t tell. He doesn’t say anything for the
longest time and the four of them are stuck in silence, until Ben says, “It
must sting for one such as you to beg on bended knee. Very well. I’ll meet with
your commander and let him ask the questions he’s been charged to ask.” John
thinks that’s the end of it, and apparently Remiel does as well, because his
wings flutter and he starts to move. Ben, though, has other ideas, and adds,
“But not yet, and on one condition.”
 
Remiel stiffens. “What condition, prince? I’m just an angel, I can’t.”
 
He trails off to the sound of Ben laughing. “Such a switch, Remiel. You were an
archangel before. And the wings, they tend to catch people off-guard, don’t
they.”
 
John remembers what Remiel had said at the mall, the tone in which the words
were delivered. To flip something so effortlessly, it makes him glad Ben’s on
his side, likes him and Dean. “Ben,” he says, watching as Ben turns his head
slightly, listening. “What’s the condition?”
 
“I want Remiel to swear himself to me,” Ben says after a moment.
 
The angel looks up, shocked, face drained of colour. Ben looks over his
shoulder and John swallows down acid in the back of his throat, seeing the
expression on Ben’s face. “Ben,” is all he can say, all he can get out, and the
name sounds strangled.
 
Ben turns back to the angel, runs his fingers down Remiel’s cheek. The angel
leans into that touch, just as John remembers Ben leaning into Azazel’s touch.
“Not Fall, Remiel, just swear,” Ben says, just loud enough for John to hear,
smooth as poisoned honey. “As if I’m a captain, nothing more. And I am, aren’t
I? I’m the prince. Would the Creator really begrudge you swearing to me?”
 
Remiel’s mouth opens and closes, his eyes drop to the floor.
 
“Powerful allies,” John murmurs, “and plans, plans within plans.” Ben doesn’t
move except to incline his head. “Your father’s taught you well.” There’s no
judgment in the statement, simply cold, hard, indisputable fact.
 
“I swear,” Remiel says. He sounds broken. “I swear myself, as Remiel the Angel,
Arch over mercy and compassion, as Remiel, destroyer of the armies of
Sennacherib, and as Remiel, hope and watchfulness of those who will one day
resurrect: a thrice-vowed swearing to Ben Ahrenson, as a tool of prophecy, to
Ben Ahrenson, as a prince of peace,” and Remiel looks up, eyes narrowed as if
in challenge, dredged up, even now, “and to Samuel Winchester, as a child of
dual bloodlines and gifts.”
 
Ben’s hand, perfectly still on Remiel’s cheek, shudders. “I accept. A thrice-
sworn vow from thee to me, and may the armies of Heaven and the forces of Hell
take note.”
 
The angel arches backwards, off of the floor, and his wings flare out. His face
looks carved from marble, yet somehow in pain, as if caught in the middle of a
long, fatal scream. Remiel’s wings shake furiously as power buffets the room,
and then, as John watches, the tips of Remiel’s wings fade from white to red,
the colour of blood. Streaks flare inwards towards the angel’s back, curving
and twining around feathers, at times.
 
When the power fades, John can see that Remiel’s wings are covered in one
large, curling word of script, crimson on white.
 
“Tell Michael,” Ben says, “that he is welcome to send emissaries in the
meantime, but I will not meet with him before the summer solstice, six months
from now, and that I still think it's too soon. Tell Michael to bring whoever
he wants. And then, after that, tell the Metatron that I was right, after all.”

 
Remiel stands up, shaking in what looks like, to John’s eyes, fear, but he
nods, says, “Thy will, prince,” and disappears in glowing golden light, the
same way Gabriel did, all those weeks ago.
 
“Why did he look terrified?” John asks, the only thing he can bring himself to
ask, now that the celestial presence has left.
 
“Because I sent him back to Heaven,” Ben says, still facing the spot where
Remiel had been, “and the only other angel to have wings with colour is
Azra’il.”
 
John frowns, but Dean says, “The angel of death.”
 
“His wings are more of a red-black,” Ben says, “and they’re all colour, no
white. The rest of the angels will be able to tell the difference.”
 
“You’re on speaking terms with the Metatron?” John asks. He can hardly believe
it. His lover, his son, orders around demons with impunity and holds
conversations with angels. It boggles the mind, it really does.
 
Ben shrugs, frowning, his head tilted to one side as if he's listening to
something that John can't hear. "He's an ass. But we have an understanding."
 
Dean opens his mouth but it takes another long, silent moment before he asks,
mildly, "An understanding?"
 
"Yeah," Ben says. "Don't worry. You'll probably get to meet him, too."
 
"At the meeting," John says, taking a step closer to Ben. "In six months?"
 
The smile on Ben's face is shadowed, just as his tip-tilted eyes hold a
serpentine intelligence. "Before then, if I know the Metatron."
 
 
                                   --.--.--
 
Groundhog Day, the second year
 
It's not the first time John's thought of it, but their most recent lead takes
them right through Nebraska. Ben's sleeping in the back seat when John makes
his decision and he isn't awake to ask why John's getting off the highway and
merging onto a state road with more potholes than smooth cement.
"Dad?" Dean asks.
John glances over at Dean, sitting in the passenger seat with a book open on
his lap. John's eyes skim the book then turn back to the road; something about
electronics, beyond him.
"We'll stop at the roadhouse," John says, answering Dean's unspoken question.
"It's been a while since we've checked in on Ellen."
Dean makes a noise, then closes the book. They're a couple hours away and Dean
always likes to nap first; something about seeing Jo after he's had sleep and
won't get short-tempered with her. Personally, John thinks that Dean getting a
little irate with the girl wouldn't hurt a thing. She'd probably laugh it off
in the end.
Still, before Dean settles back for some shut-eye, he asks, "Is this a good
idea?" Dean sounds worried, moreso than John had anticipated. "I mean, if word
got around. You know. Ben's one of the least inconspicuous kids out there."
 
John looks over at his son, then at the rear-view; Ben looks like he's still
asleep, eyes closed and breathing even, steady, but that's no guarantee. "No,"
John says, just as quietly as Dean had asked. "I'm not sure if it's a good
idea. But it's time. I thought once."
 
Ben shifts and John stops mid-sentence, but the kid only readjusts, burrowing
deeper into the seat and pulling the blanket up under his chest, curling into
it. John frowns; he checks the heat but if he turns it up any higher, he and
Dean are going to end up sweating.
 
"You thought?" Dean says, prodding John to keep going.
 
"I thought once, before we found out he was," John says, stops there. "Anyway,
I thought we'd be able to set him up with Ellen, give him a home-base and Ash's
know-how, let him freelance for all of us."
 
Dean snorts. "Good thing we found out before we tried that. Shit. Dad. You
think it's safe enough to let 'em all know we have someone with us who knows
the ins and outs of the hierarchy, how to exorcise them, and you don't think
they'll ask how he knows or who he is? You don't think any of them will ask
questions?" 
John's lips thin. "They'll ask," he says, sure of it. He's had dreams about
other hunters asking, nightmares about them finding out the truth. "We'll stick
to our cover story."
"Ellen won't believe it," Dean says.
"That's all she's going to get," John replies. "But we owe it to the others.
What Ben knows, if it'll help."
Dean sighs. "Yeah."
--
Dean and Ben wake up when John turns off the road and onto the gravel parking
lot. Dean's awake almost instantly but Ben yawns and stretches, rubbing his
eyes before peering out of the window. John's stomach twists to see it; Ben so
rarely acts his age and to see this moment of vulnerability never fails to pull
at John's heart. The eyes Ben pins on him, though, a second after he sees the
roadhouse, don't show any hint of weakness.
"Where are we?" Ben asks, mild, even though he must be able to guess.
"Harvelle's Roadhouse," Dean says, twisting in his seat. "Dude. You'll love
this place."
Ben snorts and doesn't say anything until John's parked the car and the three
of them are walking towards the front door. "We'll see," he murmurs, edging
closer to John. "Though it doesn't matter if I like it, does it, unless they
like me."
John has no idea what to say but they're at the door, Dean pulling it open, so
the moment passes.
It's dark inside, calm under the low hum of voices and the crack of a good
break on the pool table. Ellen's behind the bar with a glass in one hand and a
rag in the other; Jo's standing next to her, elbows on the bar as she talks to
Ash. All three of them glance at the door as it opens and, as John stands there
with Dean on one side and Ben on the other, they all smile.
Everyone else stops talking, though, the sudden quiet unnerving as the three
men around the pool table all stand up straight and pin watchful eyes on John.
"Hey, Johnny," Ellen calls out.
Focus sharpens -- John can feel the edges of it pinch down his spine -- and he
nods at Ellen, gives Dean a nudge to get walking. Dean does, intent on everyone
else, and John pushes Ben to go next, between the two Winchesters. Eyes follow
them as they move, single-file, to the bar; it looks natural for Dean to lean
his back against the bar, for John to angle his body outwards. Ben, though,
simply slides onto a stool, giving the rest of the roadhouse his back.
That heightens the atmosphere; no one sane would turn away from the other
hunters, all of them giving off a vibe that clearly invites danger. For Ben to
do so either means he's an idiot or that he's not scared at all. It's been over
a year since they took Ben from his city but word spreads fast through the
community and everyone in the roadhouse right now knows where Ben came from and
has heard every rumour about who and what he is.
Ellen puts down the glass and rag, pins her gaze on Ben. "I'm Ellen. You must
be Ben."
"Guilty as charged," Ben replies, grinning wide and easy as if he doesn't have
a care in the world. "It's nice to finally meet you. John's said good things
about you and this place. I'm sorry I've been too nervous to come and meet
you."
John blinks and then frowns. There's nothing in their plan that calls for this.
Dean's tense as well; John can see the muscles in his son's arms tighten and
then loosen, ready for anything.
"Nervous?" Ellen asks, one eyebrow raised. "Of us?"
Ben shrugs, almost dismissive, as his gaze moves from Ellen to Jo. "John's been
teaching me about, well, things, but there's still so much to learn. I keep
telling them I don't measure up but they don't seem willing to cut me loose
yet, so I guess there's hope."
Ellen's studying Ben, trying to read anything and everything into his words,
his tone, the way he's sitting there watching her. The other hunters, they're
waiting as well, ready to take their cue from Ellen. "Not many hunters," she
finally says, "would admit something like that."
"I'm not a hunter," Ben replies. "Not really. They just let me tag along
because I like the books and because Dean's crap with Latin." 
Silence spreads out, thick and creeping like fog, as Ellen stands there, eyes
locked with Ben's. Finally, just as John's about to admit that maybe Dean was
right and this was a huge mistake, Ellen shifts and lets the smallest of smiles
pass over her lips.
"That he is, Ben, that he is. Get you something to drink?"
Just like that, Ben's in and their cover story's been accepted. John would be
relieved it worked if he wasn't pissed off beyond belief and trying to hide it.
--
They leave, three hours later, after John's touched base with everyone and
passed along his new cell number to those he deems worthy. Once they're in the
car, ten miles away, he looks over at Ben and says, "That could have gone pear-
shaped, Ben, and fast."
Ben smiles, leans over and runs his hand up the inside of John's thigh. "It
could have. But it didn't."
 
                                   --.--.--
 
Easter, the second year
 
"I'd like to go to Mass," Ben says. John shifts, looks down at the man
currently draped all over his chest. "What?" Ben asks. He leans up, weight
resting on an elbow, chin settled in the palm of his hand. "You don't think I
can walk in a church, is that it?"
 
John reaches up and smacks the back of Ben's head. "I know you can walk into a
church," he says. "The question is, what brought this up? It's random, Ben,
even for you."
 
Ben grins, bends down and gives John a kiss that leaves them both breathless
and panting, hard again. "Jealous, old man?" Ben asks, voice low and full of a
promise that John wants nothing more than to cash in on.
 
Still, he tries to hold it back long enough to get an answer. "Why Mass? Why
now?"
 
The laugh that spills out of Ben's mouth is at John's expense, he knows that,
but he can't help smiling at the sound. Ben's laugh is richer and deeper than
it had been back in the city, seems to stretch out and grow more honest every
day he's on the road with John and Dean.
 
"It's Easter this weekend, you idiot," Ben says. "I should go and pay my
respects."
 
--
 
Ben takes John's hand during the recitation of the creed and signs the
Winchester code for 'leaving, now,' into John's palm. John looks over at Ben
for some kind of explanation but sees Ben already in the aisle-way,
genuflecting as if he wasn't raised by a demon and expected to release the
seven bound princes of hell onto the face of the earth. With a curse barely
stifled -- and the disapproving eyes of the woman on John's right -- John
follows Ben, taking a moment to bow in the direction of the crucifix and altar.

 
John emerges into bright sunlight. There's no sign of Ben.
 
He stands there a moment, waiting for some kind of sign, and feels a knot in
his stomach loosen, a different one tighten, as the breeze carries the sound of
Ben cursing towards him. Moving fast, John rounds the church, weaves through
the cars in the parking lot, and turns the corner only to stop, rocking on his
feet.
 
Ben's facing off against some tall guy dressed in designer clothes, shirt-
sleeves rolled up to his elbows and showing off a gleaming silver watch that
has to be expensive with the way it's reflecting the sun.
 
John moves, intent on backing Ben up, but he's driven to his knees when he's
ten feet away. It's not pain, exactly, that forces him down, but it's something
more, something deeper and richer and as close to perfect as John's ever found
apart from Mary, outside of Ben's arms. He almost wants to cry, it's so
peaceful, but then he looks at the ground and sees the shadow of wings.
 
"Ben," he gasps, reaching out. "Make it stop."
 
The guy -- the angel -- doesn't say anything, throwing a dismissive, disgusted
glance at John before asking Ben, "Far be it from me to agree with a demon, but
he's not much to look at, prince. What do you see in him? I'm curious; out of
all the humans your father threw at you, you pick this one? This loathsome
little hunter?"
 
Ben snorts. "You just can't see out of your own ass. You really never change,
you know that?"
 
"Can the mouthpiece of the One be faulted for consistency?" the angel snarks
back. "If the Creator doesn't change, I don't either."
 
Mouthpiece. John swallows, mouth dry, as he studies the Metatron. The angel
isn't what John expected; he has too much swagger in his shoulders and stance,
too much disdain in the way his lips curve into an impatient smirk. After
Gabriel, after Remiel, after wondering about Michael, John finds himself almost
disappointed with this one.
 
As if he can sense it, the Metatron glares at John, a cold enough look to send
frost creeping its way on the cement towards John's knees.
 
"Now, now," Ben croons. The ice melts and Ben's own brand of power surrounds
John, gives him the strength to stand up, though he can't otherwise move closer
to Ben or farther away from the Metatron. "That's not nice, is it? Not very
generous."
 
"I'm not generous, prince," the Metatron says. "And neither is the reason I'm
here." His eyes are just as calculating as Ben's, hold the same edge of studied
hatred. "And if you would stop swearing and your lover would stop glaring, I'd
tell you why I had to come to this piece of hell-bound shit."
 
Ben relaxes, every trace of distrust gone, as he motions for the Metatron to
continue. The angel looks at John, who forces a parody of a smile across his
lips as he stands there, waiting.
 
"Humans," the angel mutters. "Half-breed filth."
 
"Yeah, yeah," Ben says, words covered in poisoned honey. "We all know how you
feel about us. Get to the fucking point already. I know you wouldn't be here if
He wasn't sending word about something. Tell us what it is and you can get the
hell back to heaven."
 
The Metatron sneers. "Hell," he spits out. "Funny you should mention that." Ben
straightens, instantly tense. "The One wasn't pleased when He saw Remiel's
wings, prince. Not pleased at all."
 
Ben studies the angel, finally says, "Maybe not, but He expected it. He's made
His plans around it."
 
For his part, the Metatron drops all arrogance at Ben's assertion, simply nods.
It's not the cloying sweetness of Remiel, nor the matter-of-fact respect of
Gabriel, is something emotionless and other and alien. This is an angel that
lacks fervour and passion, lacks heart and caring. John doesn't like him.
 
"He holds His knowledge as close as you," the Metatron says. "In that, you are
your Father's child. He has not even shared your destiny with me. But He asks
that you give weight to Michael's plea, and soon. Three months until your
meeting in the northern place and still you have not begun the work of your
father, nor that of your Father. You are running out of time to make your
decision."
 
"I know," Ben replies. His hands are clenched into fists and his face is pale.
"And He knows I know, okay? Does He think this is easy?" Ben takes a deep
breath, looks as if he's trying to calm himself, and asks, "What's the
message?"
 
John opens his mouth to ask what the hell they're talking about -- Michael's
plea? Ben isn't doing Azazel's work or God's, and John doesn't even know what
work that is. Ben has to make a decision? Granted, God is a God, apparently, of
free will, but John's not sure how much free will matters when there's a
prophecy at stake.
 
He wants to ask questions but nothing comes out when he tries to speak. John
lifts a hand to his throat but Ben doesn't look at him. He hadn't expected the
angel to do so, but Ben, Ben he had.
 
The Metatron glows, head tilted back to the sky and eyes closed. John can see
the outline of his wings though it hurts to look, the angel radiating a light
so piercing that even closing his eyes doesn't seem to help. Since it doesn't,
he keeps them open, watches through the tears as his eyes water and water,
endlessly.
 
"He shall send you one of His own, one of His treasured, to be your voice to
the host," the Metatron says. His voice echoes with bells, rings with
assurance. "In this, the armies of heaven shall be as the forces of hell, to
lend credence to your lineage as others have named you: Ben Ahrenson, the tool
of prophecy, the hope of hell and heaven both, general of Samael the fallen and
captain of Remiel the destroyer." The Metatron looks at Ben, then, and says,
"He does not wish you to forget your dual bloodlines, Ben Ahrenson, who was
once Samuel Winchester. There is power in both. Do you understand?"
 
Ben glares, arms folded, as he visibly thinks over the Metatron's proclamation.
"Who will He send?"
 
The light around the Metatron fades into a glimmer, then disappears entirely.
Even the outline of the angel's wings are gone. The Metatron grimaces, says,
"One of them I'm glad will be away from me," and disappears.
 
John finds he can move again; he goes over to Ben, immediately, and grasps
Ben's shoulders. "What," he says, has to stop and start over. "What the hell,
Ben?"
 
Ben's grin creeps up slow, but it's there and it goes deep. "I get my own
angel," he says, tone full of glee. "My very own angel. And I don't even have
to wait."
 
"What are you gonna do with it?" John asks. "And what do you mean, you don't
even have to wait. Wait until what?"
 
Ben's smile grows. John doesn't get any answers.
 
--
 
A week later, they're on a hunt in the forests around Wheeling, West Virginia.
The three of them shack up in a run-down, tired motel in as close to the
treeline as they can get; the place is quiet and empty, like most of the town,
but it suits them. No one's there to see when John and Dean traipse back to the
room at sunrise, boots covered in mud from the melting snow and guns resting on
their shoulders.
 
They're trying to figure out what it might be, throwing around ideas that get
more and more outlandish with every step towards bed they take. Dean says
werewolf but he always says werewolf. Then again, one time it will be a
werewolf, and they'll never hear the end of it. John's still not sure and Ben's
not having any luck with the research. It makes for a particularly frustrating
night, made all the more so when John unlocks the room he's sharing with Ben
and sees an unfamiliar man under the covers of his bed.
 
Said complete stranger's completely naked. Ben's nowhere in sight. John cocks
his shotgun.
 
The noise is enough, it seems, to catch Dean's attention, as John's son comes
racing into the room. "Who," Dean says, then shakes his head and curses.
"Where's Ben?"
 
John shrugs but the man in the bed says, to Dean, "He went to get me clothes.
Are you John? He left a message for John."
 
"I'm John." The words come out with half a growl but the man doesn't seem
perturbed by them. "What's the message?"
 
"That his name is fucking Castiel," Ben says, pushing past John to throw a
plastic bag on the bed. "And apparently we're angel-sitting. Do you know that
there's no damn twenty-four hour store here, anywhere? You better appreciate
those, Cas, for all the work I had to do to get 'em."
 
Castiel reaches for the bag and gives Ben an earnest, wide-eyed look. "I do.
Shall I put them on?"
 
"Please," Ben drawls. "After you've had a shower. You still reek of heaven."
 
"I'm sorry," Castiel says, shoulders slumping. "I didn't mean to offend."
 
Ben shrugs, points at the bathroom. "At least you're using contractions. One
thing at a time, I guess."
 
The angel stands up, completely unashamed of how utterly naked he is, and takes
the plastic bag into the bathroom. Ben yells to close the door and Castiel
apologises, again, before following directions.
 
"Do I even wanna know?" Dean asks, still standing at the door.
 
"Probably not," Ben replies.
 
It's good enough for Dean. He leaves, mutters something about sleeping until he
wakes up on his own this time, and the door to the room next to them slams
before the lock clicks into place.
 
John looks at Ben, raises his eyebrows, and feels a thrill of victory ripple
down his spine as Ben drops his eyes.
 
"Remember how the Metatron said that He'd be sending an angel?" Ben asks,
expression halfway toward wincing. "Well, we got a fucking newbie. But he's
mine. He'll learn quick or die trying." Ben pauses, lets his eyes rake over
John's body, and the wince dissolves into a leer. "And he can sleep in the car.
Or with Dean."
 
"With Dean," John echoes faintly. He knows how much his son would appreciate
that. Ben does as well, judging by the way his eyes light up.
 
Resisting the urge to groan, John bends down to untie his boots. His hands get
swatted away a moment later as Ben kneels in front of him, hair curling every
which way and making John's hands itch to bury themselves in those flyaway
strands, to pull them taut and guide Ben's head to where he wants it.
 
Ben makes quick work of John's boots, then peels John's socks off as well,
before settling on his knees and leaning forward, inhaling as he rubs his nose
against John's crotch.
 
"Keep that up, I won't be responsible," John warns, frustration from the
fruitless hunt riding his words, just as much as the never-ending need to mark
Ben as his own, to lay claim to the smooth and slippery man who's wormed his
way into John's heart.
 
With a grin on his face, Ben looks up and says, "Aw, John. So nice to get a
warning. But sometimes you're all bark and no bite."
 
John hauls Ben up, throws him on the bed, and strips as he stalks toward Ben.
"Seems like you've got plenty of experience with my bite," John says, tone mild
even as his hands settle into familiar, worn-away places on Ben's hips.
 
Ben squirms as John straddles him, lets out a breath as John leans down and
sucks on the pulse point of Ben's neck. Still, he finds it him to say, "Enough
to know it isn't much of one, old man," and John is not going to let that one
fly.
 
Ben's gotten tall but he's still slight and John's got years and weight on his
side; within moments, Ben's naked as well and on his stomach, pressed down into
the bed as John teases Ben's hole.
 
"No bite," Ben says, even as he's wriggling, pushing back against John's
fingers.
 
In answer, John leans down and digs his teeth into the curve of Ben's shoulder-
blade, digs in and bites down. The yelp Ben makes has John worried, thinking
maybe he's gone too far, but Ben's saying something that turns into words when
the pounding blood in John's ears calms down enough.
 
"More, harder, again," Ben's chanting, over and over. "Come on, old man,
again."
 
John grins, rubs his nose in the bloody wound he's just made, and makes a
mirror of it on the other shoulder-blade. "You like that, huh," John says,
pushing one finger in and moving it, slowly, back out. "What d'you think about
my bite now?"
 
Ben snorts. "Think you're out of practice," he says, somehow, even as John's
using two fingers, scissoring Ben open. "Think you, fuck, think your bark's
still worse. You gonna show me otherwise, John? Gonna prove me wrong?"
 
"You'd like that, wouldn't you," John murmurs.
 
"I believe he would," Castiel says.
 
John flinches, pulls back and nearly knocks his elbow into the angel's nose.
Castiel is right -- he's right fucking there and watching. "Shit."
 
Castiel looks concerned, now, and John can't decide whether he wants to laugh
or cry more. Talk about a mood-killer. "Would he not? I don't understand. What
are you doing? What does he mean about your bark? I thought only dogs barked."
 
"Oh, go fuck yourself," Ben snarls.
 
The angel doesn't move, simply says, "I'm sorry, I don't know how to do that.
What does it mean?"
 
Ben turns, grinning wide and cruel, as he starts to say, "You take your fucking
fingers and," before John slaps a hand over Ben's mouth.
 
Killing the angel is one thing, John knows that Ben's capable of that, that and
more, but something about teaching sex to an angel just seems wrong to John,
past some invisible line he never knew he had. He can't explain it, doesn't
know how to feel about it, but he gathers enough of himself to tell Castiel,
"Look, go back in the bathroom, okay? Grab a pillow and sleep in the tub. Dry
it first."
 
Castiel nods, and once the door's closed, John rolls off of Ben, lies on his
back and stares at the ceiling.
 
"Talk about a mood-killer," Ben grumps, moving to his side, curling into John.
"Fucking angels. Or not, I guess. Fuck."
 
                                   --.--.--
 
April Fools, the second year
The werewolf's sprawled out on the ground by the time John comes sliding to a
halt. Dean's leaning against a tree and Castiel's got a cigarette lit already,
one foot on the werewolf's neck.
"Took you long enough," Castiel says. "Dean 'n I've been waiting."
"Not for that long," Ben says, coming up behind John, hands in his pockets as
he saunters in, casual as always.
Dean snorts, pushes off the tree, moves closer and aims at the wolf's head as
Castiel steps back, aiming his own weapon at the shifter. "One more down," Dean
says. "Cas tracked it; I think he should get the head-shot this time."
Ben holds up a hand and says, "No. We don't have to kill this one."
"What?" Dean says. "Ben, come on, man." John thinks his son has a point, until
Dean adds, "We've left three vampire covens alive, didn't destroy a fairy ring
in the Appalachians, and you keep letting the demons get away, okay? I want to
salt and burn something."
"Not this one," Ben says. His voice echoes with command; Ben rarely lets that
happen but it sends chills down John's back every time Ben slips.
Dean and Castiel exchange glances; Castiel looks just as disappointed as Dean
when the angel says, "Fine," and steps back. 
John's not entirely sure how he feels about this turn of events. Still, he has
to ask, "Ben? We're not going to stand out here all night. You wanna keep it
alive, fine, but what are we going to do with it 'til sunrise?"
"I think," Ben says, quietly. "Yeah. Hold on."
Ben holds out one hand, then pulls it back, fingers clenched into a fist.
There's silence for a minute, then the werewolf shifts, the sounds of bones
crunching and breaking a painful counterpoint to the howling turned into
screams.
"I wasn't aware you could do that," Castiel says, tilting his head as he takes
in the man in front of him, naked and panting on the ground.
Ben smiles, just a quirk of his lips, and he takes a step closer to the
shapeshifter. John makes a cut-off move to stop Ben; he doesn't like it when
Ben acts like this, never has, but he's getting more and more used to it.
"Joseph Cantrell," Ben says. "Your sire was your uncle, yes? Johnnie Campbell.
And your entire family shapeshifts."
Castiel's not gaping but it's a close thing, probably only the difference of a
degree. "You," he says, stops there even as his lips move.
Ben turns to Castiel and John can see the glint of humour in Ben's eyes.
"You've known what I am, Cas. Gabriel and Michael told you. Even the Metatron
warned you." Ben grins, showing teeth, and adds, "Actually, you should've
listened to everything about me the Metatron said; he has a more realistic view
than either of the others."
"But," Castiel says, eyes wide. "But, Ben. I've never seen." He stops, again,
and shakes his head. "Name-giver," he breathes, the words more of a title than
anything else, spoken with a reverence John rarely hears from Castiel anymore.
Dean coughs and, once everyone's looking at him, says, "Can we please do
something about the naked guy now?"
Joseph grins and waves, both actions weak, when eyes turn to him.
 
 
                                   --.--.--
 
Mother's Day, the second year
"We're having a guest," Ben announces. 
John, sitting next to Ben, looks across at the table at his son. Dean's
actually put down his burger, has one eyebrow raised in a mirror of John's
usual reaction to Ben's random announcements. Ben, saying that, in that tone of
voice, usually means demon. 
"When?" John asks.
"About now, I'd expect," a man says. John looks up, takes him in before the man
slides into the booth next to Dean. John doesn't miss the way Ben tenses; that
isn't good. Ben never gets tense in the presence of demons.
"Where is the angel?" the demon asks, nose wrinkled as if he can smell Castiel
on them. For all John knows, he can.
Ben shrugs. John's close enough to detect the stiff cant of Ben's shoulders.
"Sometimes he goes off and does his own thing. Keeps him from being underfoot
all the time. There's only so much righteousness I can handle at one time."
The demon nods, as if he understands. 
"Aren't you going to introduce us?" Dean asks. John can't see his son's hands,
figures they're under the table holding a gun and a cross. "Seeing as how I'm
sharing air with this one, I figure I should know a name."
Ben's smile isn't pretty. "Dean, meet Belial."
John's thankful he doesn't have any coffee in his mouth; it would've been all
over the demon's host. He narrows his eyes at the demon, demands to know, "How
could you find Ben?"
"He's Belial," Ben says. "And you might want to go. You and Dean both."
The demon smiles, asks, "Ben, really? I wanted to meet the family. Your
father's looking forward to having John and Dean around for a long conversation
in a few years."
Ben bares his teeth. "John? Leave. Now."
As much as John wants to argue, he thinks he'd better listen.
This time.
--
Ben doesn't talk for four days.
He wakes on the fifth as if a switch has been flipped from 'off' to 'on' and
doesn't shut up for an hour except to suck John's dick.
 
 
                                   --.--.--
 
Memorial Day, the second year
 
They stop in Peoria for gas and end up meeting one of Ben's few friends.
 
It’s not a planned pause, not when they need to be on their way out west in a
hurry. John's in the backseat, trying to fall asleep, and Dean's driving. No
one trusts Ben behind the wheel, so he's in the front passenger seat, sitting
on one leg, half turned into the seat so that his back can rest against the
window.
 
John finds it impossible to keep his eyes closed when the curve of Ben's neck
is right there, bitemarks from last night fading slowly. He grins, territorial
and possessive, wants to mark every inch of Ben's skin so that people know he's
been claimed, taken.
 
Ben mutters, "Stop staring and get some fucking sleep, old man," and Dean
snorts but doesn't look away from the road.
 
"Not my fault I'm tired," John argues back, crossing his arms over his chest.
 
Ben glances back, gives John a smirk, and says, "If I recall, you were the one
mauling me last night."
 
"I don't need to hear this," Dean says, lifting one hand to rub at his
forehead. "I really don't need to hear this. Or know it. Or see it."
 
"Poor Dean," Ben teases lightly, tossing his head. John's captivated, watching
Ben's curls float in the air. The Impala slows down and John tears his eyes
away from Ben, frowning.
 
"We're stopping to get some gas," Dean says, eyes on the road, tone even, not
looking at either of them. "And if you two wanna disappear, get this worked out
of your system, I'm not stopping you. But you have to shut up in the car about
it. Rules, remember?"
 
Ben leans over to Dean, tugs on his earlobe, and says, "You're the best, jerk,"
scampering out of the car as soon as it stops.
 
John wants to poke at Dean for his casual acceptance, for the way he’s looking
after Ben's departing figure with a smile on his face, but he doesn't say a
word, not when Dean's smile suddenly turns to a frown. John looks, follows
Dean's gaze, and sees that a girl coming out of the gas station is looking at
Ben with shock written all over her face.
 
"That can't be good," Dean murmurs, reaching for a gun, undoing his seatbelt
and opening the door.
 
John agrees, checks his own weapons, gets out of the car and stretches,
watching the girl approach Ben warily.
 
He's close enough to hear her ask, "Ben?" as if she can't believe it, close
enough to see Ben nod.
 
"Ava," Ben breathes, half-question, and then John's watching as the girl lets
out one, choked sob, and flies into Ben's arms. "Ava, hush now, it's all
right," Ben says softly, loud enough for John and Dean to hear.
 
John looks at Dean, confused, because no one's ever prompted that tone from Ben
before, never, and worried for much the same reason. He's moving closer, one
hand resting on his gun, the other on a bottle of Holy Water, and then he sees
it, the mark on her hip, peeking out from under low-rise jeans. He's willing to
bet it spans the width of her back, curls and slides over her skin. It's
demonic script. John doesn't know what it means but he can guess.
 
"Dad?" Dean asks, standing at John's elbow, watching with narrowed eyes. "Any
idea who she is?"
 
"Ben knows her," John says, "and he sounds like he's used to comforting her,
protecting her, even. She's his age and that tattoo, it's script. I can't say
for sure, but I have an idea."
 
Something in his voice must help Dean put it together, because John's son
swallows, says, "One of the psychics. One of Azazel's chosen."
 
A guy comes out of the convenience store, tall, mean-looking motherfucker, and
he’s glancing around with his forehead furrowed, as if he’s trying to find
someone. John catalogues him then dismisses him, changes his mind when the
guy’s eyes land on Ava and narrow.
 
“What’d the bastard say,” Dean says, low and quiet, “something about their home
lives?”
 
John frowns, steps closer to Ben, puts one hand on the small of Ben’s back,
fingers tightening in warning. Dean moves forward as well, stands loose and
easy, ready to fistfight or draw weapons, whatever it comes to first.
 
“Ava,” the guy growls, walking furiously in her direction. John can feel Ben
shift as Ava stiffens, takes a deep breath.
 
“You have more power than he can stand,” Ben whispers, running a hand over
Ava’s hair. John can see her look up at Ben, frown. Her eyes are red-rimmed,
bloodshot, and John notices the fading bruises on her cheekbones, around her
throat. “If you want it now, all you have to do is take it.”
 
She shakes her head, says, “Ben, it’s not, I can’t, not yet.”
 
The guy pauses, looks Dean and John over, bares his teeth and cracks his
knuckles. “The fuck are you?” he asks. “The bitch is mine. Piss off.”
 
Ben moves, tucks Ava under one arm, pressed to his side, away from the guy.
“Ava? You can. You just have to ask.” Dean makes a move to step forward, but
John reaches out, touches his son’s arm, shakes his head when Dean looks at
him. John’s not sure what’s going on here but he knows that Ben hasn’t asked
for their help yet. In fact, it looks like the man’s trying to move but can’t,
which means that Ben’s using his psychic mojo. Strange, but John thinks that
Ben doesn’t even realise he’s doing it for all that he’s dismissed the guy.
“Ava?”
 
“I do,” she whispers, sniffing. “Ben, I do, but I’ve tried, it doesn’t work.”
 
John doesn’t need to be looking at Ben to see the smile on his lover’s face;
it’s all over his voice as he says, “Hold on tight, pretty girl.”
 
Ben does something with his power, because John can feel the whip-crack of
electricity in the air, feels as it floods over his skin and makes his hair
stand on end. He smells blood, looks but can’t see any, until Ava’s reaching
around to her back, shoving her fingers under the band of her jeans. She’s
pressing them against her tattoo, John doesn’t know why, but he can see over
Ava’s shoulder when she brings them up and looks at them. Her fingers are
coated in blood.
 
“Now reach,” Ben coaxes. “I know you can smell it. All you have to do is one
teensy little thing and then it’s all yours. Just reach, Ava, and then you can
do whatever you like to him.”
 
Ava growls. John can’t see her face, but he can see the guy standing across
from Ben shift, his expression changing as he doubles his efforts to move.
 
“Mine,” she snarls, sounding completely different. “Mine.”
 
"Of course it is," Ben agrees, before moving. He pries Ava away from his body,
pushing until he faces her, then he leans forward, gets right into her face,
and says, “Take it. My order, your will.”
 
Ava’s face whitens, goes blank, and then a rush of power explodes outward from
her body. John can feel it fly over him with the speed of a whirlwind,
unfocused and twice as deadly, and he shivers in its wake. Her power is nothing
like Ben’s, is untrained and wild, violent, where Ben’s is precise and
deceptive.
 
She shakes, almost falls to the side, but Ben catches her, takes her chin and
tilts her face up to his. He looks as if he’s studying her, trying to find
something, and he must, because his lips curve into a relieved smile.
 
“Welcome,” he says, simple, plain.
 
Ava takes a step back, squares her shoulders. “General,” she says, the same
tone. John shudders, half from the address, half because Ava looks like a
completely different person now, confident, almost aggressive, nothing of the
scared, crying girl she’d been only minutes before.
 
Ben looks for just a second longer, then tilts his head, asks, “What are you
going to do now?”
 
She appears confused, as if she doesn’t know what he means. She shakes her head
in question, but Ben doesn’t do anything, so she looks around. First, she sees
John, standing behind Ben, one hand still curled in the kid’s shirt, and
smirks; she lays eyes on Dean and her gaze turns frankly speculative. Then, and
only then, does she notice the guy who’d scared her so much before, who, John’s
guessing, beats her and probably forces himself on her. Her lips curl and she
starts to move, but Ben holds out one hand, grazes her shoulder. “What are you
going to do?”
 
“Kill him,” she says, as if he’s an idiot for thinking anything else.
 
“And then?”
 
John’s not sure when he decided to let Ben talk about killing humans this
candidly. He should say something, he knows he should, and yet. And yet. He
looks at Dean, sees that Dean seems just as torn about this as he feels
himself, and it reassures him the slightest bit.
 
Ava looks puzzled, once John turns his attention back to her. “Well, then I’m,”
she starts to say, before stopping. “I’ll.” She sounds stumped. “I can’t go
back, can I.”
 
“After you’re done with them, twist Adramalech,” Ben says. John has no idea
what that means but Adramalech, that sounds like a demon’s name. “He’ll help.
It’s what he was made to do, after all. If he gives you any shit about it, tell
him you answer to me. That's all he needs to know.”
 
She nods, gives Ben a hug and a kiss on the cheek. “And if I need to find you?”
she asks.
 
Ben kisses her back, smoothes down her hair and says, “Just call.” He taps the
side of her head, then his own, and John wishes he could see the look on Ben’s
face, because he doesn’t understand what that means, not at all.
 
Ava opens her mouth, frowning, then closes it again, her frown disappearing
into a smile, one edged with sadness and a certain sense of desperation. John’s
seen that look before, usually on soldiers who’re leaving the rest of their
unit to go home and exist with people who have no clue what keeps them up at
night, gives them nightmares, sends them in search of an answer or, barring
that, an escape. To see it on this girl, after he’s seen it on Ben so many
times, gives John chills.
 
“Take care, Ava,” Ben says, kissing her other cheek. “And try not to make a
mess, okay?”
 
“My guardian angel,” Ava whispers back. Ben laughs as he backs up right into
John, and John’s arms move, enfold Ben in an action much more instinctive,
natural, than planned-out. It’s as if their bodies are made to fit this way,
and judging by Ava’s smile and Dean’s annoyed sigh, it looks the same to other
people.
 
Ava lifts her chin up, narrows her eyes and purses her lips, then turns to the
guy, the one that John’s pretty sure is going to die in a very messy way, and
says, “Let’s go home. I wanna talk to Dad.”
 
--
 
John waits until they’re back in the car, back on the road heading west, before
he asks any questions. Dean’s been driving, practically vibrating behind the
steering wheel, and Ben hasn’t opened his book back up, which means that, not
only does he expect the inquisition, he’s giving his permission for the
Winchesters to ask.
 
“She one of the other psychics Azazel was talking about?” John says, breaking
the ice. He’s leaning forward, all thoughts of his nap or sex pushed to the
side, for now, at least. “We saw the tattoo she had. And she’s never been able
to access her power before but she can now?”
 
“Yes, to both,” Ben replies. He stretches, puts his feet on the dash and gives
Dean the finger when Dean complains. “I’ve met Ava a few times now, always at
the house. I think she was surprised to see me up here, not to mention without
my father or Marchosias.”
 
Dean’s eyes flick to the rearview, but John doesn’t react, either to Dean’s
implicit question, or to Ben’s title for the demon. It’s something John’s come
to grips with, slowly.
 
John doesn’t know how to phrase his next question politely, so he just asks,
“Your grandfathers, were they the same demon?”
 
“No,” Ben says, carefully. “But father bound her, as well. In that respect, I
suppose she’s my half-sister; blood, magic, and sacrifice trumps everything
else.”
 
“Not everything,” Dean says.
 
John waits for Ben to agree, finds himself the slightest bit worried when Ben
says, "I think it's time to start heading north."
 
"We have time," Dean argues, immediately. "We've got three weeks before the
solstice and a hunt waiting for us in Arizona. We can't just ditch it."
 
Ben strokes the spine of the book; John watches, imagines how that would feel
tracing down his spine, and shivers. "Call one of your friends," he says. His
voice is quiet, careful, as he adds, "We need to head north."
 
John thinks back, thinks through the time since he and Dean first drove into
Ben's city. Almost two years, and John still has trouble reading Ben sometimes,
still finds himself at once completely off-balance and completely steady when
it comes to Ben. Right now, though, he's thinking back to their first meeting
with the four succubae of Samael after taking Ben on the road with them,
putting his city in their rearview and never looking back.
 
"There won't be much time between their awakening and the time of prophecies,"
John says. "That's what Agrat said, wasn't it?" He shakes his head, says, "But
we've still got three years. Ben, I don't understand."
 
Ben looks down and John's eyes focus on the curve of Ben's neck, on the
bitemarks and bruises that have become near-permanent, on the flyaway curls of
Ben's hair, moving in the breeze from the vents. "My father didn't expect them
to awaken until the end. I didn't like that plan very much. The angels should
be made aware."
 
Dean glances over, then lets his eyes flick to the rearview before going back
to the road. "You've changed the playing field, haven't you."
 
"Yes," Ben says. He sounds bitter as he adds, "I'm the general. I'm their
fucking prince. It's past time I started acting like it. Three years," he says,
quietly. It gives John goosebumps. "We're already running out of time."
 
At the next intersection, Dean turns right, heading north for the highway.
 
 
                                   --.--.--
 
Summer Solstice, the second year
 
John shifts on his feet, studies the angel standing across from Ben: red hair,
gleaming brown eyes, and laugh lines etched into the corners of his lips, his
eyes. Ava, on the other side of Sam, is practically hissing; Castiel, on the
other side of Dean, has placed his hand over his heart and inclined his head.
 
"Prince," the angel says. As one, he and the score of angels behind him drop to
one knee. Gabriel is grinning. Remiel is not.
 
Ben nods, slowly. Time stretches out as he says, "Michael."
 
Wind howls around them as Ben moves from John's side and crosses the space
between their two groups. John can only watch as Ben stretches out a hand to
Michael and says, "It has been some time."
 
Michael takes Ben's hand, stands up slowly, nods. "It has, prince. I see that
you have found the greatest of the three."
 
John frowns, wonders what the hell that's supposed to mean.
 
"I have," Ben says. He tilts his head, steps back towards John, and wraps an
arm around Ava's shoulders, pulling her close. John bites down on the jealousy
pouring through his body; the worry only grows as Ben adds, "But Naamah was my
teacher as well and she had me much longer than you ever did."
 
Michael's smile tightens, then fades, then disappears completely.
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