Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/7005235.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Supernatural
  Relationship:
      John_Winchester/Sam_Winchester
  Character:
      John_Winchester, Dean_Winchester, Bobby_Singer, Sam_Winchester, Azazel_
      (Supernatural), Demons_(Supernatural), Original_Female_Character(s)
  Additional Tags:
      Alternate_Universe, Parent/Child_Incest, Accidental_Incest, Blasphemy,
      Theology, Demons, Torture, Blood, Possession, Witches, Angst
  Series:
      Part 3 of The_Four_Quartets, Part 1 of The_Celestial_Sequence
  Stats:
      Published: 2007-11-04 Chapters: 8/8 Words: 78930
****** Under the Bridge ******
by rei_c
Summary
     John Winchester survived a fire that took the lives of his wife and
     youngest son. He raised his only remaining family, his son Dean, on
     the road, the two devoting the rest of their lives to a search for
     the demon that destroyed their family. When a new hunt emerges, John
     and Dean drive to a small city, completely unprepared for what they
     find. Demons congregate in ever-increasing numbers, the people of the
     city are split into hosts and hunters, and there's only one person
     who can end the stand-off.
***** Chapter 1 *****
Bobby calls him late on a Tuesday, leaves a message while John and Dean are
digging up a corpse in western Pennsylvania. After they’ve finished, filled in
the grave, and are back in the motel room, John calls his friend back. Dean’s
sitting on the floor near the open door, cleaning guns and chain-smoking his
way through a pack of Marlboro Lights. A bottle of Jack, half-empty, glass
smeared with grease and fingerprints, sits next to the pot of oil. John’s
yelled, lectured, ordered, damn near begged his son not to ash near the oil for
years; Dean’s never listened.
“One of the others has a lead on a new demon,” Bobby says, over a telephone
connection that’s far too crackly for John’s taste. He’s tempted to tell Dean
to run and grab the recorder so they can test it for EVP, but Dean won’t, not
with free HBO and a new episode of The Sopranos playing. “We were wondering if
you wanted to track it. Word is its big and, after seeing the info, I’m
inclined to agree.”
“Should I be grateful for the consideration?” John asks, as dry as his mouth at
the thought that maybe, finally, they’re catching a break.
Bobby laughs, says, “I sent the information to your mail drop in Cincinnati.
You might wanna stop and see that witch of yours while you’re there as well,
much as I hate to say it.” Mid-sip of tepid water, John chokes. Bobby adds,
“She called Caleb, said she’s got a few things waiting for you. From what Caleb
said she said, I’d be careful, John.”
John rolls his eyes, sure that Bobby knows what expression John’s making even
though they’re thousands of miles apart. The distance from Pennsylvania to
South Dakota isn’t much to two men who served in the same unit during the war
and have been on the front lines of a far different battle for going on
seventeen years now. “I know how you feel about witches, Bobby, and especially
her, but she’s put together some good shit for me ‘n Dean. We’d be six feet
under a dozen times over if it wasn’t for her.”
There’s no reason for Bobby to argue, not when they’ve had this discussion a
million times already and they both know the other’s not going to rethink his
position on the matter anytime soon. Instead, Bobby just sighs and says, “Call
if you need me. And for fuck’s sake, be careful with this one.” John starts to
ask what the difference is, this demon from any of the others he and Dean have
hunted and exorcised, but Bobby interrupts, says, “Just get to your dropbox,
John,” before hanging up.
John pinches the bridge of his nose and waits for the commercial before turning
to his son and saying, “They have a lead and Bobby thinks it’s serious. He sent
info to Cinci. We’ll leave in the morning.”
Dean lifts the bottle of Jack, tips it in his father’s direction, and throws
the tawny liquid back, chugging down an easy six shots.
--
John drives to the post office first, picks up his mail: a few credit cards,
applications for more, some catalogues, and a manila envelope from Bobby, taped
closed it’s so full. He slips the cards into his wallet, gives one to Dean who
scoffs at the plastic but tucks it into his back pocket, and shoves everything
apart from the quasi-package into the backseat.
Fingers dance over the tape but John sighs, stows the envelope on the seat
between him and Dean, and says, “We’ll stop and find a place for the night. You
can go out and hustle up some cash while I go see Aurelie.” Dean looks
relieved, almost gleeful, and so John feels compelled to add, “No risks, Dean.”
The stern tone of voice does nothing to change Dean’s expression; Dean just
nods mulishly and looks out of the window.
--
It’s against John’s better judgment to leave Dean at a crappy little dive bar
with a parking lot full of Harley-Davidsons and old, beat-up cars, but he
doesn’t want Dean around Aurelie, not in a million years. Oh, he’s not afraid
the crazy old witch will do something to his son, or that Dean will do
something to her. John has a sinking suspicion that the two of them would get
along like a house on fire and he’d never see hide nor hair of either of them
again. She’d take Dean, disappear, and Dean would think it’s the biggest joke
this side of the moon landing, happily go along with it.
As if she always knows when he’s close and what he’s thinking, Aurelie’s
standing in an open doorway when John pulls up in front of her apartment
building, dressed in jeans and wearing her usual shit-eating grin.
“One day,” she calls out, as he’s parking on a double yellow line, getting out
of the car, “one day, John, you won’t be able t’ keep me and your son apart. I
will meet ‘im.”
“One day,” John replies, “someone is going to kill you and I’m not gonna stop
them.”
It’s their usual teasing, banter back and forth, but there’s an element of
prophetic truth to Aurelie’s words; John sometimes forgets that she’s more than
just a typical witch.
As if she’s caught John’s change of mood, Aurelie shifts, straightens up and
moves slightly to one side. “Come in, then, you fearsome ‘unter,” she says.
“And I’ll show you the newest toys I ‘ave for you.”
--
Aurelie’s apartment always smells like fresh-baked baguettes and rich, bitter
chocolate. The scent clings to Aurelie as well, wraps around John like a warm
blanket every time he sees her; he knows the blanket can just as easily
suffocate him to death as comfort him, so he keeps his distance. She’s a witch,
a powerful one, and an accurate enough precog as well. John is a hunter and
should rightly stay away but every hunter needs a witch and no one else had
claimed Aurelie when John went looking.
For good reason, John found out at the very beginning, the first time Bobby
warned him away from her. She’s got the blood of French Huguenots running
through her veins, refuges from a very Catholic France. Her ancestors
originally settled in New Paltz and their descendents slowly worked their way
down the coast and along the Gulf through the years, picking up more than just
influence and wealth along the journey. Bobby had said something about Cajun
blood and voodoo that John hadn’t understood until the first time he’d been
standing in front of Aurelie and taken in the glitter lurking behind dark eyes,
the smile that spoke of blood and power, the aristocratic tilt of her chin and
nose.
She passes for white without issue, no one would probably guess that, somewhere
a few generations back, there’s African blood in her ancestry. No one would
probably care even if they knew, but Bobby knows and John knows that, along
with the blood, Aurelie inherited magic, a magic that grew so wild and
unpredictable her family sent her away from New Orleans and to distant cousins
in Haiti when she was nine. They taught her to control her power but it hasn’t
stopped expanding since. As if she doesn’t want anyone to forget that fact,
Aurelie still talks with the accent she learned as a pre-teen and hasn’t let go
of, just as she wields a magic as powerful, in its own way, as the weapons John
owns.
“You ‘ave time for coffee?” Aurelie asks, standing in the doorway that connects
the living room to the kitchen. “Or are you in an ‘urry t’ get back to your
oldest?”
John’s nostrils flare and he can’t stop himself from snapping back, “My only
son, you mean.”
Aurelie laughs, a delicate noise that, perversely, reminds John of the smell of
Vietnamese rice paddies, and replies, “Oh, John. You always amuse me. Coffee? I
‘ave fresh cinnamon from ‘Aiti.”
There’s no use refusing, not when Aurelie has that look in her eyes, so John
merely shrugs acceptance and perches gingerly on the edge of a leather sofa the
colour of whipped butter. He can hear Aurelie in the kitchen, whistling, but he
doesn’t move, doesn’t look at anything other than the Seurat print on the wall.
She comes back in carrying a tray, not more than two minutes later. The tray’s
crammed, holding a cafetière, two mugs, and two plates, one covered with warm
baguette slices, butter, honey, and cinnamon chunks melting into a gooey mess
on top, one with deep-fried pastries coated in powdered-sugar and dusted with
cinnamon, Aurelie’s answer to beignets.
Aurelie pours coffee, fragrant and strong, and as she hands it to John, she
tells him to get comfortable, sit down and back. He shifts, conscious of the
coffee and the colour of her sofa, and takes a slice of bread when she offers
the plate.
“You ‘ave been well, yes?” she asks, pouring her own mug of coffee, settling
into an armchair across the low coffee table, dunking a pastry into the coffee.
John can see powdered sugar fall off her pastry and start swirling in the dark
liquid. “I have, yes,” he says, tearing his eyes away from the hypnotic motion
and looking at his own coffee, unwilling to look Aurelie in the eyes when he’s
eating her food. “Dean and I, we just finished up a hunt. Bobby called,” he
says, trailing off as Aurelie laughs.
“Ah, your little friend in the middle of the country,” she says, smiling, her
teeth gleaming a white the colour of bones. “’E still does not like me, I
think. And now ‘e is sending you on an ‘unt? Demons, that is what Caleb was
telling me, yes?”
“Yeah,” John says. “That’s what Bobby said. He sent me some intel but I haven’t
looked through it yet.”
Aurelie grins, says, “You came to see me first? I am touched, John, truly.”
John rolls his eyes. “Let’s just say I’m not over-anxious to see what has Bobby
sounding like a new recruit,” he mutters, sipping his coffee.
“Mmm.” A pause, then Aurelie says, “This one will ‘urt, John,” with that tone
of voice John knows means business. “More than just physically, I think. But
you will all survive, like you always do.” She laughs, adds, “They say witches
are like cockroaches sometimes, but I think it’s more likely to be the ‘unters
surviving the apocalypse, no?”
Aurelie leans forward, puts down her coffee, licks her fingers. She looks at
John quickly, an eye-flick up and down, and John feels compelled to ask,
“What?” His skin’s crawling, the way it does every time he talks to a psychic,
as if he can feel their fingers peeling through his mind, their eyes scanning
out a future he hasn’t lived yet, following the paths of choices he doesn’t
even know are available yet.
“It’s nothing,” she says, head tilted now. A smile John’s never seen before
crosses her lips, half-regret, maybe, but it slips away as fast as it had
appeared; she stands up, brushes off her skirt, and John forgets all about it
when she asks, “Would you like t’ look through the toys, or are you still
eating?”
John puts his coffee down onto the table, remembers where he is a moment later
and uses a coaster. “I’m done,” he says, almost too fast for propriety.
Aurelie laughs, the sound pealing around him, and waves off an apology John
hasn’t given. “Let’s go look, then, and send you back to Dean.”
--
John follows Aurelie out of the front room, done in browns and creams, through
a long hallway and down into the basement. The air here is cooler by at least
fifteen degrees and smells of dirt and blood, the tools of Aurelie’s craft. The
fluorescents help but don’t lighten the corners; John’s gotten used to ignoring
the shadows that twist and writhe in the darker spots.
She leads him to a table the length of the basement, covered over with
everything from spider and aloe plants to jars filled with questionable
content, from vials of blood and teeth to half-broken bars of chocolate. At one
end, John sees pieces of something metal broken apart, gleaming rainbow-slick
with oil; that’s Aurelie’s work in progress and John never asks about those.
Instead, John follows her to the other end, scans over a plain silver compass
resting in a box filled with dirty salt, a few pendant charms and a ring carved
out of something white next to the box.
John doesn’t touch anything, has learned not to over the past few years, and
watches with his hands in his pockets as Aurelie picks up the compass first.
She brushes off a few salt crystals from the back, taps the face twice, and
then holds it out to John. He raises an eyebrow, but takes the compass.
“One of the most complicated things I ‘ave ever put t’gether,” she says, proud
smile on her face. “There are a handful more, but I boxed them up for you
already.”
John turns the compass every which way, even brings it to his nose and sniffs,
but he eventually asks Aurelie just what the hell it’s supposed to do.
“A demon ‘unter like you should appreciate this, John,” she replies, not at all
taken aback by John’s words. “Instead of pointing true north, the compass’
needle will seek out the demonic. Either a possession, a significant taint, or
one who ‘olds truck with them. The smaller the needle shrinks, the closer you
are to the source. If it’s very powerful you are very close, the needle will
shatter.”
John can’t help the look of respect that crosses his face at her explanation;
something like this should prove very useful. “Pity about the shattering,” he
finally says, as if he’s hesitant to point out the weaknesses but has to.
Aurelie grins, showing teeth. “Ah, there’s a way ‘round that, John Winchester,
but you won’t like it. It was difficult enough attaching the spell t’ the
compass without overloading it. Silver ‘as its limits.”
Knowing Aurelie the way John does, if she says he won’t like it, he’s pretty
much guaranteed to hate it. He doesn’t ask.
“The charms, they’ll ‘elp keep this demon’s ‘ands off of you and yours,”
Aurelie goes on, handling the pendants carefully. She gives them to John and he
almost drops them at the feel of power thrumming through the small golden
charms. Instead, he tucks two of them in his back pocket and strings the third
on the chain around his neck, a chain that once just held his dog tags, now
littered with all sorts of amulets and charms. Aurelie watches him with a
hawkish smile.
“And that?” John asks, lifting his chin at the white ring.
Aurelie holds it carefully, caught between index finger and thumb, and lifts it
to the light. “This, this is the best thing I ‘ave ever made.” She takes hold
of John’s right hand, turns it palm up, and drops the ring. John expects a
shockwave of power when it hits him, but, instead, the ring feels dead, a
supernatural null zone. He can tell it’s carved out of bone, but the ring
doesn’t make his skin crawl, doesn’t feel like death. “This is for the one who
‘olds your ‘eart, John. Keep it safe, and keep ‘im safe, and when you find ‘im,
put this on ‘is finger.”
John frowns, wants to ask her what she knows or has seen, what she’s guessed,
but she presses a finger to his lips and says, “Trust me, John. I am not the
only one who ‘as seen this future ‘appen.”
With a nod, John drops the ring into the front pocket of his jeans, feeling the
weight of it sit there. The thought that Aurelie’s not only seeing parts of
John’s future, but that others are and she’s reached out to ask them, that
they’re sure there’s a good chance of this precognition coming true, that’s
rare. He won’t argue, he won’t ask, but his mouth is dry and he’s finding it
hard to swallow.
“And the usual things are boxed up with the other compasses, ready for you near
the door,” Aurelie finally says. “Come upstairs; you can finish your coffee
before you rescue your oldest.”
“My only,” John says, again. He can’t summon up the anger from before, though.
It’s an old wound that’s never healed, sometimes it feels like the driving pain
of a red-hot poker running though his chest but most of the time it’s an ache
that never goes away.
Aurelie, in a rare show of comfort, squeezes John’s shoulder before brushing
past him to go up the stairs. John follows quickly, not willing to chance being
in Aurelie’s basement without her.
--
In the end, she sends him off, not only with the extra compasses and John’s
usual array of trinkets and weapons, but two boxes filled with food, baguettes
still warm from the oven and pastries still melting the sugar dusted on top, a
jar of honey butter and six sticks of cinnamon tucked into the edges. John
doesn’t mind, the food’s good and it’s one less meal they’ll have to pay for;
Dean’s ecstatic once John’s pulled him from a parking-lot brawl outside of the
bar.
They wait until John rents a hotel room for the night, then Dean tucks in to
the boxes, washes the food down with a warm six-pack. John takes out the
charms, hands one over to Dean, weighs the one still in his palm. He pulls out
the ring as well, stares at it for long enough that Dean’s finally prompted to
ask, “What’s that?”
“A ring,” John says, smirking when Dean rolls his eyes at the answer.
“Who’s it for?” Dean asks, rubbing sugar-coated fingers on his jeans.
John makes a mental note to find a laundromat and soon, shrugs. He’d considered
giving it to Dean, can’t think of anyone else who’d worm his way into John’s
heart, but he knows that’s wrong. This ring isn’t for Dean; Dean might be in
his heart, but Dean doesn’t hold John’s heart. No one has been allowed to touch
it since Mary, since Sam.
“I don’t know yet,” he says. “I don’t think I’m supposed to know.”
Dean harrumphs, goes back to the food and the television, conversation already
forgotten, John thinks. For all that Dean’s family and trained to be a hunter,
sometimes John wonders what his son would’ve been like if Sam had lived. He
can’t help but think he’d like that Dean better. Sometimes John resents his son
as much as his son seems to resent him.
--
They’re in the car the next morning, driving south, when John finally opens the
envelope from Bobby. Dean’s in the driver’s seat and Hendrix is blasting from
the speakers; Dean has a much better appreciation for the classics than John
does. Music from that era, the Rolling Stones and CCR, Jefferson Airplane and
The Doors, all those songs that came out of Woodstock and the Summer of Love,
it all reminds John of the jungle, that and ungrateful people back home who
didn’t understand everything that was at stake, didn’t want to understand.
Thinking of the war and how it was handled invariably pisses him off, thinking
of what came after simultaneously angers and saddens him.
Trying to ignore the music as best he can, John starts flipping through the
mass of paperwork in his hands. The usual things are on top: maps of the town
they’re driving towards, the nearest friendlies, hunter-approved places to
sleep and eat. What’s next in line has his eyes narrowing, reading every word
of the various reports that have them heading west.
Some hunter was on the way through a few months ago, had left the EMF in the
backseat on and couldn’t be bothered to stop and check things out when it
screamed through the whole town, too much in a hurry someplace else. He’d
called the Roadhouse, given Ellen the intel to pass along, and Ash had cobbled
together a program that started picking up weird shit right away: cattle and
crop deaths, some abnormally warm weather, week-long thunderstorms, an electric
company that couldn’t keep up with complaints.
All are typical signs of demonic infestation and John doesn’t understand what
has Bobby freaked until he flips the next page and sees that Ash’s program came
up with enough to go back and compile suspicious data for sixteen years. John
frowns and flips to the next page, sees that Ash couldn’t pin down a central
location for the demon. Instead of the usual triangulation, the entire town is
covered in little dots, slightly more on the north side of the river.
John doesn’t waste time calling the roadhouse and, when Ellen answers, he
doesn’t pause to say hello. “Let me talk to Ash.”
Ellen snorts, says, “I’m doing fine, John, thanks.” She sighs when he doesn’t
respond, finally snaps out, “Hold on a minute and I’ll see if he’s awake yet.”
John waits, feels his son’s eyes on him every so often, and finally Ash gets on
the other end of the line. “John, man. What’s the rush?”
“I picked up the info from Bobby,” John says right away. “I wanted to ask.”
“About the locations, right?” Ash interrupts, sounding slightly more awake.
“Yeah, it’s definitely nuts. Thing is, the way everything’s stacking up, either
there’s a shitload of demons constantly on the move and even more holed up
north of town near the fields, or there’s, like, two or three really fucking
powerful ones.”
John looks down at the map, sees the darker dot north of the town, like Ash
said, but shakes his head. “There can’t be that many. We’ve never seen that
many in one place before.”
“I dunno,” Ash replies, far too cheerfully for John’s taste. “You’re the
hunter. I’m just the computer genius. But you either have one that stays put
and lets others come to it, plus one that roams, or you got a ton. Must be
something good in the water there, huh?”
“Thanks, Ash,” John says, before hanging up, eyes thoughtfully tracing over the
map. Two at the very least and now he’s wondering just how powerful they might
be. No wonder Bobby thought it was big.
Dean looks over, asks, “Problems?” in that tone of voice which means he’s
almost hoping the answer’s yes.
“Challenges,” John says. “Wake me up when we get there.” He pushes the papers
to one side, deciding to go through them again once he’s more familiar with the
area, and stretches out, closes his eyes.
Janis Joplin sings him to sleep.
--
John wakes up out of a sound sleep, not quite sure why or how. He curls his
toes, shoved in boots that will need replacing soon, and looks over at Dean.
His son’s been driving for a solid ten hours, has reached that point where his
focus is on the road and only the road, eyes pitched straight ahead and
scanning the treeline with his peripheral vision. It’s a trick John taught Dean
years ago, when Dean was learning to drive -- how to slip in and out of that
mental space, how to make it last, how to draw in the surrounding noise and let
it slide out again. He feels a moment’s pride in how well Dean’s taken to it,
then curses himself for ever being in the position to make the decision to
teach his son that skill.
Regret isn’t something that a Winchester does well, despite how many years
practice John’s had at it.
“We’re almost there,” Dean eventually says, the tone of voice almost
disconnected, bland and without pitch.
“Find us a motel, Dean, and we’ll get settled,” John says in return, a few
miles down the road. “We’ll sleep, get the layout of the town, and hunt
tomorrow night.”
Dean doesn’t respond but John knows he was heard. He closes his eyes, settles
back into the seat, and doesn’t think about the weight of the charm resting
against his chest, that or a ring carved out of bone, travelling in a box
filled with bespelled compasses.
--
The motel they decide on is crappy, more like a prison than a place one pays
for the privilege of staying, but it has two beds and a shower. The ripped
carpet, missing tiles, odd odour coming from the small kitchenette area are a
bonus, John thinks, sardonic expression on his face as he unloads his duffel
and rearranges the room for a long stay. After all, they add atmosphere.
--
A night of sleep, a cold shower in the morning, and John’s determined to try
and put Aurelie’s words out of his mind until they might approach usefulness.
There’s obviously no one who fits her criteria at the moment and John will be
damned if he lays eyes on someone and falls in love at first glance -- that
didn’t even happen the first time he met Mary and she was the love of his life.
He leaves the ring and the extra charm in the motel room, carefully placed in a
box Bobby made for him a few years back, rowan and oak with devil’s traps
carved into every square inch. Dean watches him but doesn’t say anything,
sitting on the bed with a worn expression on his face, tired and resentful and,
worryingly enough, hints of anticipation. Dean’s always better at the beginning
of a hunt, and the end; middles, the long stretch, have never been his forte.
“We’re just going for a look,” John reminds his son, who snorts as if he’s
heard the plan a million times before. “Just to get used to the town, get a
feel for the people, scope out some of the likeliest hiding places. No risks,
Dean, do you understand?”
“Yes, sir,” Dean mutters, then stands up and, with one hand on the door, asks,
“You ready?”
--
They drive around most of the morning, stop in the town library during the
afternoon, put in a quick couple hours of research to see if anything stands
out. When it doesn’t, they head for a diner, grab some food, and then go back
to the room to get ready for the first night’s recon.
John’s not keen on doing this so fast but he doesn’t want to sit still, either,
has this hunt in his nose already, so he asks Dean what he thinks. For all that
Dean can be impetuous, John knows he’ll be a damned good hunter the day he
settles down.
“We’ve got the spell and the EMF,” Dean says with a shrug. “And phones and
walkie-talkies, and that weird ability you have to know the instant I’m in
trouble or not paying enough attention. I say we go. I’ll even take the car so
you don’t have to worry about me.”
John takes a deep breath, lets it out through his nose. Dean’s right, they’re
more than adequately prepared to split up to hunt for signs of the demon.
Something just feels odd about this case, different, like a lead weight in the
pit of his stomach. John’s a good hunter, a better soldier, and he’s learned to
trust his instincts; the fact that he can’t simply accept them and let them
guide him without making him itch isn’t a good thing.
“I’ll take the EMF and see what I can find,” Dean says. He pauses, then adds,
in a rare show of cooperation and concern, “If that’s all right.”
John raises an eyebrow but nods, and Dean grabs his jacket and the car keys,
heading out of the room and letting the door slam behind him. John stands there
and listens as the Impala rumbles to a start and drives away; taking a deep
breath in the quiet.
Dean’s always been a bit of a rebel, quick-tempered and prone to backtalking,
bitter and harder on himself than John could ever dream of being, but even he’s
making an effort in the face of this hunt. That, just as much as anything else,
has John concerned.
With a sigh, John rubs his hands over his face, blinks a couple times to clear
his vision, and stocks up on weapons. He tucks a gun into his jeans, the way he
always tells Dean not to, and loads his pockets up with assorted demon-hunting
weapons: a crucifix, two rosaries, two vials of Holy Water. He looks down at
the table, eyes settling on the simple silver compass, and grabs it on his way
out.
--
John follows the spell around town, gingerly carrying the compass in an
outstretched hand. It's dark enough that he can see some of the brighter stars,
the faintest hint of the sun from below the horizon; seeing the compass' needle
point north when he knows for a fact that it's aimed towards the east makes him
shiver.
He's always tried to steer clear of witchcraft, has done his best to keep Dean
away from it as well, and likes to think he's succeeded. It's not the witches -
- he's met some nice ones over the years, even if they all have a certain look
in their eye that John's just not sure about -- and it's not the magic,
exactly. It's more the creeping sense of difference that lingers around the
people who play at the boundaries of the supernatural; it reminds him too much
of his wife burning to death above a son who died from smoke inhalation only
minutes later. It's the price of wielding control and the power itself, as
well, caught and contained and yet somehow threading its way through seemingly
every aspect of a person.
The needle moves, changes direction as it pulls John out of his thoughts, back
to the hunt. John shifts to follow it.
Not many people are out on the streets, something John's thankful for as he
walks through the very obvious bad side of town. No one's challenging his right
to be here, no one's even looking at him, and the further John walks, the more
that starts to worry him. People should be confrontational. At the very least,
they should be more possessive of their territory, that's human nature -
- something John hasn't seen change in fifty years.
He pauses right where he is, takes one hand off of the compass to brush against
the butt of his gun, tucked into his jeans. The touch of cool metal settles him
and he chides himself for overreacting. Nothing good comes from overreacting.
--
John's walked another five blocks when the needle wavers and shifts again, this
time pointing in the direction of the river. John crosses the street, stops
mid-stride as the needle shudders and shrinks. The demon's close, then, and
John breaks into a run, footsteps modulated so as not to echo on the cracked
pavement, against the tall, abandoned buildings.
He's got one eye on the compass, one eye on his surroundings, and when John's
standing at the foot of a bridge, the needle starts going crazy, turning in
fast circles as it shrinks, grows, and then shatters.
Internally cursing, John tucks the compass in his pocket and then freezes as
the wind carries the sound of two people to his ears.
There's a sound of flesh smacking flesh, hand to the face, maybe, and a hiss of
pain, almost drowned out by a short, staccato burst of laughter.
"Think your father’ll mind if you go back a little bruised up?"
John narrows his eyes, creeps closer to the bridge and the edge of the water.
He can see the faintest reflection of two people, a young kid and a man maybe
in his thirties. They're on the other side of the river; John crosses the
bridge, keeping low so that his own reflection doesn't show up on top of the
water, breathing silently so he can hear what's happening.
"Such a sweet little piece of ass, aren't you," the older man's saying. “Been
too long since I had a go, Ben.”
John grimaces at the thought of the younger kid, who looks like he isn't a day
over fourteen, being a hooker. Oh, he has nothing against working guys and
gals, has bought more than a few of them in his day and knows his son has as
well, but children selling themselves, that's another story.
"Now, come on, Ben," the older man's saying, coaxing, before his voice changes.
John's skin crawls as the man adds, "Hurt you or take you back to him, your
choice. You don’t have any other option tonight and you know it.”
That voice, it sounds as if a demon's saying it and not a man, and John's blood
runs cold. The compass' needle shattered, which meant he was close to something
or someone connected to a demon, and that voice.
John moves out of the shadows, gun in one hand and crucifix in the other.
"Christo," he says, loud and clear. The man has a grip on the kid's wrist and
looks to be getting ready to smack the kid, Ben, maybe, again, but he turns at
the name of God and snarls, eyes flooding black.
Ben flinches in on himself, then seems to realise what he’s done; he
straightens up, scowls in John’s direction. The demon stops, cocks its head and
looks between John and the kid, bares its teeth. "Oh, this is gonna be fun," it
murmurs, just loud enough for John to hear.
The kid doesn't move but something in his stance changes as if he’s getting
ready to take a punch or nine. John feels protective rage flood up inside of
him.
"Exorcizo te," John starts to chant.
The demon growls and drops the kid's wrist, hisses, "This isn't the end of it,
John Winchester," and takes off running, ink black cloud surrounding the host's
body.
John hesitates, eyes on the kid, just long enough to know that the demon's too
far to catch up with, so he sighs and turns to look at the child he's just
saved. The kid's almost as tall as John, skinny bordering on malnourished, with
startling green eyes that look older than dirt. One eye's got a terrific shiner
and the clothes are a little ragged, but the kid's holding himself with an
attitude that makes John think of Dean on his best -- worst, really -- days.
"You Ben?" John asks, determined to put a name with the kid, shaggy hair and
all. Now that he's closer, John thinks maybe the kid's older than his first
impression; sixteen, maybe even seventeen, but too skinny to look it at first
glance.
"Who wants to know?" the kid asks, sneering at John with a vehemence that
almost makes John want to step back, that or step forward with the crucifix
held high.
Instead, John raises an eyebrow, calms himself. "M'name's John."
The kid -- must be Ben -- laughs, a thin, half-desperate sound, and says, "Fuck
you, John. Thanks to you, I'll have to." He stops, glares, says, "Fuck. You.
Losing me my money, holding a gun, you think I'll drop to my knees in
gratitude? Don't do me any more favours and leave me the fuck alone."
Ben spits in John's direction and takes off, sprinting around the other side of
the bridge. By the time John's climbed the bank on his side, Ben's disappeared.
John looks around, listens, and exhales.
--
He goes back to the motel once he gathers his thoughts, double-checking street
signs and directions, landmarks, the people glaring at him from the shadows.
His hands feel empty without the compass even as the charm around his neck
burns against his skin.
Dean’s already back at the motel when John slides his keycard into the lock and
turns the handle, looks up at his father and says, “Drove up and down the
entire south side and didn’t find a thing.” John glances at the six-pack
sitting on top of the air conditioner and the half-empty bottle of Jim Beam on
the table, doesn’t have to say what he’s thinking to have Dean rolling his
eyes. “Only after I drove around,” Dean says.
“And you didn’t find anything?” John asks.
“Nothing,” Dean replies flatly. “Even checked out those places Ash’d circled on
the map. Not a peep from the EMF and I can’t say anything felt wrong. What
about you? You find anything? You went north to the river; that’s where more of
this stuff is supposed to be.”
John frowns, grabs the bottle of bourbon on his way to the chair. He catches a
glimpse of it, wrinkles his nose, suddenly understanding why Dean’s on the
floor. John heads for the bed instead, perches on the edge, swallows and
appreciates the burn of the liquor as it travels down his throat.
“I found the demon,” he says. “Or one of them, anyway.”
Dean’s eyes are wide, but then he frowns, tilts his head in a way that always
reminds John of Mary, the way she used to look at him when she thought he was
hiding something. “So why do you look like someone just trashed the Impala?”
John’s lips curve upwards, but it’s not a smile, not really. “The demon was
going after a kid,” he finally says. “Some young kid out turning tricks, I
dunno, but the kid seemed.” He pauses, searches for a word, can’t come up with
anything.
“Jesus,” Dean whispers. “How old?”
“I thought, at first, young,” John says. “Fourteen, maybe, would’ve been
pushing it, but older when I got closer, after the demon ran. Scrawny thing
with an attitude the size of the Grand Canyon, somewhere between sixteen and
eighteen, I think. The mouth on the kid, the look in his eyes.” John stops
again, shakes his head, downs another shot of bourbon.
Dean’s thinking, judging by the expression on his face; John’s relatively sure
he knows where the direction of Dean’s thoughts are going. Twenty-one years of
fathering, the majority of those through a war, John would have to be deaf,
dumb, and stupid to not know. Dean’s made a habit of picking up charity cases,
doing what he can for them in the small amount of time they spend in one place,
maybe the only good thing that’s come out of all of this. He never touches the
hookers, though; whether Dean knows it’s too late to help them or that they’d
be too contrary, too proud to accept help, John’s not sure.
“How’d he react?” Dean asks, apropos of nothing.
John looks down at the bottle, wondering if the alcohol’s already going to his
head, then thinks that maybe he wasn’t meant to have followed that thought.
He asks what Dean means, and Dean sighs, shifts on the floor, says, “You said
the demon ran, right? So you had to do something, either a gun or Holy Water,
something. How’d the kid react?”
John thinks back, pales as he realises. “He flinched,” he breathes. “I said
Christo and he flinched. But then I said the beginning of the exorcism rite and
it didn’t affect him at all.” John pauses, thinks, says, “It was almost like he
knew what would happen. But that.”
“Doesn’t make sense,” Dean says, finishing up the sentence John had abruptly
stopped. “So we’ll go back in the morning and see if we can track him down,
talk to him. Who knows, maybe he’ll be able to give us a lead.”
“Maybe,” John says, outwardly agreeing, privately worried. “It’s as good a plan
as any.”
Dean preens under the backwards compliment.
--
John dreams. He’s running, chasing someone, and when he finally catches up to
the other person, he reaches out. His hand closes around an arm, one that slips
out of his grasp. The person turns to look back at him and John’s pierced
frozen by the look in old, cunning eyes the colour of the jungle, dark and
bright, shifting and still, open and hiding, all at the same time. The kid
smiles, baring his teeth, says, “You’ll never be able to save me, John,” and
slides back into the darkness.
He wakes up with the sound of laughter ringing in his ears and the smell of
smoke filtering up his nostrils. John immediately thinks of the night his wife
and son died, that memory entwined with memories of Vietnam, of other demon
hunts, of countless pyres burning in the night.
He doesn’t fall back asleep until the sun’s starting to nudge at the crappy
blinds half-covering the window.
--
Dean flirts with every waitress in the small diner where they go for a late
breakfast, ends up leaving with a couple numbers scrawled on the back of
receipt sheets and napkins. John watches with amused patience; he remembers
doing much the same back during his time in the Marines -- women love the
uniform and the grizzled look but they aren’t so keen on all the baggage that
comes with a military man. Mary was different, raised by an army captain who
saw Europe at its most horrendous. He spares her a thought, can’t not, and
steels himself for the upcoming talk when Dean’s finally finished.
He drives back up to the river, not exactly following his trail from the night
before, impossible to mirror it precisely, the way he’d walked through gardens
and narrow back alleys. Still, they end up at the bridge and John parks,
leaving the safety of the Impala almost reluctantly. He stands at the river’s
edge and, despite the bright sunlight, he’s still looking around, touching his
gun for comfort. That’s not a good sign.
The bridge itself isn’t all that special or impressive; the river’s not too
wide, after all, so the bridge doesn’t have to be. It’s more haunting than
anything, really, an old-style arch bridge caught in time here, not at all
brought up to the speed of the new millennium. There are two archways missing
small chunks of stone and the centre beam is covered in graffiti; the railings
at the top are nearly bare down to metal.
Dean takes one look at the bridge and says, “Can’t believe there’s no one under
it now,” as if he’s seen a million bridges in disrepair like this a million
times before, each with children hooking under its shadow. John opens his mouth
to rebuke his son but then thinks better of it.
Instead, he climbs up the small but sloped bank, crosses the bridge like he had
last night, and moves to where Ben had been standing. He’s looking around at
the dirt as if there might be something there when he hears a whine coming from
behind him. John turns, sees that Dean’s got the EMF out and scanning. That
whine can’t mean anything good.
“He was standing here,” John says, moving slightly so that Dean can wave the
EMF around. “The kid was. The demon as well, holding his wrist so he couldn’t
get away.”
Dean’s eyes glitter and John knows his own have echoed the sentiment behind the
flash, though not as strongly. Dean hasn’t laid eyes on Ben yet and John thinks
the overprotective urge will change the second Dean does.
“EMF’s going crazy, Dad,” Dean says, unnecessarily. John can hear the whine
just as well as Dean, can see the reflection of the lights in the shadow that
the bridge casts.
“Must be one hell of a demon,” John murmurs, thinking. Ten hours, at least, and
the EMF’s screaming like there’s a ghost standing right in front of them.
A shuffling noise on the road approaching the bridge has Dean shutting off and
stowing the EMF in a practiced movement, both him and John drawing weapons and
slinking into the shadows in seconds. Dean looks over and John nods once, looks
around the corner of the arch and exhales slowly. He holds up one finger and
then points at the ground; he and Dean are pushing their guns away a moment
later.
“Wait here,” John mutters, and he waits for Dean to acknowledge before moving
out of the shadow and up to the bridge.
The woman slip-shuffling up the sidewalk looks at John before frowning, looking
down at the river. “What are you doing?” she asks, giving John a disapproving
once-over.
John blinks, would swear that her voice doesn’t belong to her, sounds too
young, too intelligent. “I’m looking for a kid,” John says. “Child Services
sent me, said someone’d seen a kid loitering around down here during school
hours, looked skinny.”
She doesn’t seem to believe him but she spits on the ground before looking up
at him, contemplation in her eyes. “Child Services, you say?” she asks. John
nods, and she hums, looks up at the sky. “I wasn’t born yesterday, but you’ve
got the look down if you’re hunting truants. What d’you want with the kid?”
“You know where I can find him?” John asks, eyes narrowed. It’s almost too
easy.
Her eyes flash black, pitch coal, and she lets out a low, smoky growl. “He’s
with his father,” she says, and if the voice was wrong before, it’s brimming
with lust and hellfire now. “You ruined his take last night, hunter, so he had
to go home. Out of our relative safety and into the hands of his father. He’ll
be back in a day or two, broken, bruised, and battered, and we have you to
blame for it.”
Before John can pull out his rosary, before Dean finishes charging up the
riverbank with the Holy Water, the woman keens, head thrown back to the sky,
demon flooding out of her. It flies away, tunnelling through the air, and the
woman collapses on the side of the street, unconscious.
Dean goes right to her side, checks for a pulse, and looks up at his father,
shaking his head. Not unconscious, then. “We have to find this kid, Dad,” Dean
says, jaw clenched as if he expects John to refuse. “He doesn’t react to people
throwing exorcisms around, it sounds like his family beats him, he’s tricking
for fucking demons.”
“We’ll come back tomorrow or the day after,” John says, eyes searching the sky
as if he might see some trail of the demon. “Until then, we need to get out of
here and call her in.”
--
They split up for the afternoon: John sends Dean to the library to do some
research and takes Ash’s map himself, driving around the town and getting a
feel for the demonic hot spots. Most of them are in ridiculous places, corners
of alleys, squatter houses, abandoned signal-stations near rail-lines criss-
crossing through the town. Every time he comes across a new spot, his chest
feels tighter, the way it used to when his team was creeping closer to a Viet
Cong unit. These dots, they all represent places that a young homeless kid
might frequent: dry places when it rains, a few are near vents that might
provide a little warmth, and some of the alleys run behind restaurants and
bars, where someone might scrounge through day-old garbage for food.
John feels vaguely ill as he thinks again about what Ash said: signs of demonic
presence everywhere. The kid, he wasn’t a demon, but the compass shattered,
something that Aurelie said would happen if the demonic influence was powerful
enough. The teenager, he’s at the very least tainted. Being fucked by one demon
would be enough to do that, but the way the demon that morning was talking, it
sounded like more than one.
John pinches the bridge of his nose, feeling a headache coming on. It just
figures that the one lead they have -- if they can find him, of course -- is
sleeping with the enemy, figuratively or not.
--
“I found some stuff,” Dean says the second he walks through the motel door,
though he does make sure the door is shut and locked, not to mention salted and
warded, before going on. “If the kid’s name is Ben, then he might be Ben
Ahrenson. His father’s a big-shot, moved into town about sixteen years ago,
bought up a whole bunch of land.” Dean pauses, kicks off his shoes, catches the
bottle of water John tosses at him as he sits down. “Ben started school at
four, had stellar grades according to the records I could access, and dropped
out when he was nine. The dad filed a missing person’s report, the cops brought
Ben back, and then the kid just dropped off the paper trail.”
John hums, nods thoughtfully. That would explain the malnourished look, not to
mention how quick-witted and street-smart the kid would have to be to survive;
of course, if he’s been on his own since he was nine, he would’ve had to learn
something or he’d be dead long before now.
“I have a few leads as far as teachers and cops go,” Dean adds. “I was thinking
I could go talk to them tomorrow, see what they remember about Ben. Maybe we
could stop by the Ahrenson house in the afternoon, get a read on what sort of
asshole would just let his kid leave.”
“Sounds good,” John says.
He must not be able to hide the surprise he feels at how responsible Dean’s
being about this hunt, because Dean’s whole expression changes, from some type
of relieved pride to furious anger. “Look, some kid’s out there hooking ‘cause
his father beats him,” Dean snarls. “Those are fucking hellish choices to make.
I, for one, respect the kid, but that doesn’t mean I wouldn’t like to exorcise
a demon of my own this time, okay?”
John half-smiles, holds up his hands in surrender, and ignores whatever Dean’s
muttering under his breath. “Watch your back,” he says, mildly, when Dean
scoops the keys off of the table and shoves his feet back into his boots.
Dean gives him the finger and leaves, slamming the door. John waits until the
Impala rumbles out of the parking lot, then rubs his forehead, the smile
disappearing in favour of a bone-deep, weary sigh.
--
The next day is ridiculously unproductive. The kid, Ben, still isn’t back at
his post under the bridge and John drives around all day trying to spot him
somewhere else. Dean tries to interview some people but as soon as he mentions
the family, everyone backs off. When they’re eating dinner, Chinese take-out
boxes littering the room, Dean says, “Ahrenson owns half the town.” He stops,
flicks his chopsticks through the chow mein in his box and swallows a hefty
bite before going on. “Bastard bought them with job security. No one’ll talk
about him, his business, or his family. Unless that kid comes back, we’re
looking at not a lot of options.”
John washes a mouthful of shrimp fried rice down with room-temperature beer,
nodding slowly at Dean’s words, not the laughable dating show on the
television. “He’ll be back,” John says, full of conviction. “I went through
Ash’s info again while I was looking around town. The demonic influence cycles
‘round town; he’ll be back.”
“Hope so,” Dean mutters, “because this case is starting to creep me the fuck
out. Felt like people’ve been watching me all day, no matter what evasive
actions I take.”
“For example?” John asks, intent and leaning forward, chopsticks left poised in
his rice.
Dean shifts under his father’s scrutiny and shrugs. “I dunno. Just. Like that
feeling you get on the back of your neck? I kept an eye out in mirrors and
glass, never stayed in anyone’s home past my welcome. I never saw anyone but I
swear something was watching me. Drove the car around a few blocks before I
came back here, too.”
The rice has gone cold in John’s hands; he sets the carton down on the bedside
table. For all that he’s usually sceptical of his son’s devotion to the hunt,
he can’t deny that Dean has something of a sixth sense when it comes to being
tracked. If he was spooked enough to try and shake off a tail, then someone -
- or something -- is probably watching them.
“We’ll be careful,” John says, once he realises that Dean’s waiting for him to
say something. His stomach twists; this case is starting to get the jump on
him. “You did good, Dean.”
--
John leaves early the next morning, the sky still dark, Dean still snoring, one
hand clutched around the pillow like he’s holding on to an anchor. John spares
one glance at his son, then walks out of the motel room. He drives around town
for a while, trying to get his bearings, steel himself up for a confrontation
he can feel coming, then lets the car idle to a stop near the bridge, on the
north side. John sits there and thinks, finally parks and gets out of the
Impala, walking down the riverbank.
Ben’s there already, or hasn’t left yet, John’s not sure which. It doesn’t seem
as if the kid’s heard him approaching, so John leans against the bridge, still
a good distance away, and says, “Morning, Ben.”
“Fucking Winchester, right?” Ben says without turning around. “Leave me the
fuck alone.”
John cocks his head, studies Ben’s outline. He’s sitting on the edge of the
river, tips of his sneakers barely out of the water, hunched over. John’s got a
sneaking suspicion as to why, but he really hopes he’s wrong.
“Look, just,” Ben says, stopping for a few seconds. John waits, and Ben
eventually takes a hitched deep breath and says, “What do you want?”
“How many broken ribs you got?” John asks in return.
Ben doesn’t turn around, doesn’t move except to hunch over a little more.
John’s furious, his father did that to him, and he steps closer, carefully, as
if he’s approaching a wounded animal. When Ben whips his head around and bares
his teeth, John thinks the analogy’s a little closer to truth than he would’ve
liked. He stops where he’s at, holds up his hands, and gives Ben a half smile,
says, “Look, no guns, no rosaries, no Latin. I’m not gonna hurt you, kid.”
“Yeah, right,” Ben says with a snort, turning back around. “Just. Do what you
came here to do and fuck off. I’m not in the mood to draw this out.”
John takes that as the invitation it is and moves closer. He sits down next to
Ben with an arm’s-length between them. Ben eyes him warily but doesn’t move.
“Your father do that?” John asks.
Ben gives him a narrow-eyed look but then glares in the river’s direction and
keeps his mouth shut.
“’Cause you know, even if he owns half the town, you don’t have to live like
this,” John says. He’s watching Ben out of the corner of his eyes, overtly
intent on the river. “You ran away this much, what’s to stop you from going
further?”
“Right,” Ben snorts. “If you think my father owns half the town, you haven’t
gotten very far into your research.” John frowns, looking at the kid, and Ben
stands up, one hand pressed tight against his chest, no expression of pain on
his face. “Look, leave me alone, Winchester. Nothing good’ll happen if you keep
this up. To either of us.”
John nods once, slowly, but doesn’t say either way whether he’s going to take
Ben’s advice. Ben seems to accept this and just offers John a mocking salute as
he leaves, walking up the riverbank with his back ramrod straight. Movement has
to be killing him, even before the posturing and angled climb; John’s respect
for the kid goes up a notch.
“Hey, Ben,” he calls out. Ben stops but doesn’t turn around to look at him.
“Wanna tell me why you didn’t freak out about the demon?”
“Hey John,” Ben calls back. “Wanna tell me why you’re here?”
When John doesn’t say anything, Ben nods once and leaves.
--
John stays and watches the river for another half hour before he picks himself
up and calls his son. Dean picks up on the second ring, says, “Yeah?”
“We missed something,” John says. “The research, the interviews, something.”
“You talked to the kid, then,” Dean guesses, letting loose with a sigh that
crackles the cellular connection for a second or two. “What’d he say?”
John looks around, feels eyes watching him, and adjusts his hold on the phone,
keeping it trapped between his ear and his shoulder so he can unlock the Impala
with one hand and have the other free for his gun. “I mentioned something about
the father owning half the town. He wasn’t impressed with that assumption.”
Dean’s quiet on the other end, finally asks, “Do you think he means that the
guy owns more, or that there’s another layer to this that we haven’t seen yet?”
There’s a noise from behind him; John whirls around, gun out and aimed before
he sees the paper bag fluttering across the street. He takes a deep breath,
exhales, and tells Dean he’ll be back at the room in a few minutes.
--
“None of this makes any sense,” Dean says, once John’s finished telling him
about the conversation he’s had with Ben. “I mean, on one hand, we have the hot
spots Ash put together and the fact that you already scared one demon away with
a Christo while the same one, or maybe even a different one, came back and
taunted us. On the other hand, there’s some guy that owns half the town, maybe
more, and a beat-up kid hooking his way through life. There’s only one place
they both connect, Dad. What the hell’s going on?”
John nods, rubs his eyes with one hand. “We have to get that kid to talk,” he
says, “but I don’t know how.” It’s an admittance of failure more than anything
else, and Dean knows it just as well as John.
“I’ll go back out tonight and see if he’ll talk to me,” Dean offers. Kids
usually do, Dean interacts well with them, and his son has a rapport with the
working folk of the country that John can’t dream of approaching.
He nods, reluctantly, says, “You’ll take weapons, in case he has a, a client.”
Dean nods, eyes the box of silver bullets on the table, the bottles of Holy
Water. “I’ll be fine, Dad.”
--
John almost vibrates with the tension once Dean’s left the room. He trusts
Dean, wouldn’t let him do this unless he was sure Dean could handle it, but
they’re dealing with demons and those sons of bitches are never predictable.
Not just demons, this time, either; John’s got one of Aurelie’s spelled
compasses lying on the stained bedcover, needle pointing ten degrees east of
north and he doesn’t know if it’s found a demon or Ben. The kid’s tainted, that
much is clear, but the depth of the taint, whether a simple blessing of Holy
Water would erase it or if they’d need a full-scale cleansing ritual, that’s
something John doesn’t know.
Just like witches, John gets twitchy around the tainted and marked, even if he
knows they’re still human and, oftentimes, have been tricked or coerced into
service. Being that close to demons, it changes people intrinsically, sometimes
for the better but usually for the worse.
He’s moved on from staring at the compass to ignoring it in favour of
sharpening and cleaning the knives, is almost done when the door handle moves
and Dean walks back into the room. There’s a vibrant red handprint on his
cheek, and John can’t help raising an eyebrow at the sight.
Dean scowls, presses a bag of ice against his cheekbone, and flops down into
the chair, heedless of the suspicious stains and the holes in the fabric.
“Little bastard hit me,” he says, glaring at his father.
“Never would’ve guessed,” John replies, finding the situation mildly amusing.
No one has ever done that to Dean before.
“He was at the bridge,” Dean says with a huff. “Some guy pushing him against
the stone and fucking him raw. It. It sounded like it was tearing him apart but
he never told the guy to stop.” John winces; he knows far more than he wants
about his son’s sex life and if Dean thinks it was that painful, it probably
was. “Once the guy was done, he zipped up, threw a ring of keys at the kid, and
told him that his father wanted him to check in more.”
John hisses, can’t help it, and he asks, “You think maybe we were wrong? Maybe
the father’s pimping his son out.”
“Yeah, to fucking demons,” Dean practically shouts, standing up, throwing the
bag of ice at the opposite wall. The bag splits open and ice goes flying
everywhere. “Dad, that guy, when he left, he looked at me. He smiled and gave
me the black eyes, told me I was in over my head. So I went down, wanted to
check on the kid and make sure he could still fucking move, only the kid’s
waiting for me, smacks me as soon as I get close enough, told me to fuck off
and leave him alone. I don’t know what the hell’s going on here, but that man,
Ahrenson, he’s behind all of it, he has to be.” Dean takes a deep breath, tries
to calm himself, and tells John, “We need to get into his house.”
“I know,” John says. He’d come to that same conclusion, hearing Dean talk,
putting together everything he knows about Ben. “We need a plan. Maybe a
couple.”
Dean exhales, sits down again, gingerly presses his fingertips to the reddened
part of his cheek. “We need to do something about the kid, too.”
“If you have ideas,” John says, dry and tired, “please, share with the class.”
He doesn’t feel at all bad when Dean glares at him and mutters something about
taking a shower before locking himself in the bathroom.
***** Chapter 2 *****
When John’s phone rings the next morning, he and Dean are going through land
purchase records and reports of second-quarter business earnings. He looks at
the caller ID, recognises the area code, and taps Dean on the shoulder to let
his son know he’s heading out to take the call. Dean frowns but nods and John
hurries out, opening the phone in the library’s foyer before it can go to
voicemail.
“Aurelie?” he asks, once he’s standing outside, basking in the sun. Libraries
are always cold; he’s never been able to figure out why.
“’Ello, John,” the witch says, voice smooth.
Still, John’s known Aurelie for fifteen years now and he can tell when
something has her spooked. “What’s wrong?”
She exhales, sounds as if she’s banging pots and pans around her kitchen. “Now,
why would you assume something’s wrong just ‘cause I’m calling, hmm? The case,
it isn’t going well?”
John’s eyes settle on a strip of grass and narrow. “Aurelie,” he says, half a
growl of warning.
“I did warn you,” she says. John can hear the water turning on, bouncing
around, he thinks, an iron pot. “I said this ‘unt would be ‘ard.”
“Did you know about this?” John demands to know. “The kid, the father, all the
damned demons?”
She laughs, odd counterpoint to the worried tone of her voice. “Everything I
knew, I told you.”
John hisses through his teeth. “Don’t you dare lie to me, you damned witch,” he
says. One of the young girls walking past him, up the steps into the library,
turns and gives him a wide-eyed look. “Come on, Aurelie. What else do you
know?”
There’s silence for a long few moments, both Aurelie and whatever she’s cooking
up in the kitchen. “’E won’t send you away, you’ve noticed.” John’s about ready
to argue, ask her if she’s gone crazy, because Ben’s already told him to fuck
off more than people usually get away with, but she goes on before he can say
anything. “’E ‘as never lifted an ‘and to you like ‘e ‘as with your son. Ever
think about why? Look, John, all I’m saying is that maybe you should spend more
time with ‘im. ‘E likes you.”
“He tolerates me, Aurelie,” John responds, half-despondent now. “There are so
many unanswered questions Dean and I have about this case and half of the
answers have to be wrapped up in that kid, but he runs every time we get near
and no one in this town will talk to us.”
“’E runs every time?” Aurelie asks. “Somehow, I doubt that, John. Spend time
with ‘im. Feed ‘im, if you can, ‘e never eats.”
John opens his mouth to say something, then stops, closes his mouth and thinks.
“How do you. Aurelie, what are you doing?”
She laughs and there’s background noise again, something being chopped, maybe.
“John, just talk t’ the child, all right? And stop by the desk later this week,
maybe next, I’m not sure. There might be a package waiting for you.”
Aurelie hangs up and John looks at his phone with resignation. There’s no sense
in calling her back, so he takes a deep breath, enjoys another moment of
sunshine, then heads back inside.
--
He doesn’t tell Dean what Aurelie said, not until they’re out of the library
and comparing notes in the motel room. There are some odd things going on with
the father, Ahrenson; the people coming and going from his house, for one, the
company’s business for another. None of it makes sense, though John’s starting
to get an ache in the pit of his stomach that means he’s getting closer.
“I’m going to see if Ben’s out there,” John says, pushing himself off of the
bed, standing up and stretching. Dean, sprawled out on the other bed, looks up
with a yawn and reaches for his pack of cigarettes.
“Good luck,” he says, and John thinks he can almost see Dean’s tonsils with the
width of his son’s yawn. “What, Aurelie tell you that you might get somewhere?”
John scratches his stomach, reaches for his jacket and, after a second’s
thought, another compass. “Hardly,” he mutters. “Damn witch, can’t ever say
anything helpful.”
Dean doesn’t say anything, but John can feel his son watching him as he puts on
his shoes and leaves.
--
John goes to the bridge first but he’s not surprised when he doesn’t find Ben
there, either sitting by himself or turning tricks. He holds the compass in his
left hand while the right steers the Impala through the town, following the
path of the needle. John’s telling it to take him to Ben, not one of the other
demons; since his talk with Aurelie, John’s not at all shocked when he stops
the car across the street from one of Ash’s pinpointed hot spots and sees Ben
sitting on the front step of an abandoned building.
He parks the Impala and gets out, closes the door and leans against his car.
John waits until Ben looks up at him before nodding once, not moving any
closer, showing that he isn’t a threat and that he isn’t there to buy anything,
either.
“What do you want with me?” Ben finally asks. “Why do you keep following me?”
The look Ben directs at him is tired, yes, but there’s anger simmering
underneath the fatigue, anger and the threat of death.
John doesn’t know who that threat’s directed at, but he takes it seriously just
as he takes the question seriously despite answering it with his own. “Wanna
grab some food?
Ben tilts his head, an action that, perversely, reminds John of Dean, of Mary,
and shrugs. The kid’s so skinny, in this light the action almost looks
ethereally graceful instead of indecisively sad. “You’re paying,” Ben states,
and, when John nods, says of course, he stands up. John can hear the crack of
Ben’s knees popping, echoing like gunshots down the street.
The kid’s halfway across the street when another car comes roaring down the
alley, black hybrid with tinted windows braking to a halt three inches from
Ben’s knees. The driver doesn’t move, but the back doors open on both sides.
Only one man gets out, wearing a suit, sunglasses. John raises an eyebrow,
pushes off of the car. Ben glances at him, shakes his head, and John stops,
actually stops.
“Your father wonders if you’ll be home tonight,” one of the men says.
“You can tell my father I’m doing just fine,” Ben spits out. “I’m following
instructions, but right now I’m hungry and he’s offered to pay,” he adds,
tilting his head in John’s direction.
The man turns and looks at John for a long, weighing moment, before turning
back to Ben. “Your father wouldn’t approve, young master. Hunters are not the
most acceptable company, but I can tell you, this one is especially not.”
Ben snorts and says, “You and I both know my father isn’t the most acceptable
company, Ari. Go back and tell him.” Ben stops, thinking for a moment, then
says, in the most crystal clear voice John’s ever heard before, “Tell him boni
pastoris est tondere pecus non deglubere. And then tell him he can go fuck
himself if he thinks I’m going to come running home this soon just so he can
flay me again.”
John’s not sure if Ben’s speaking literally or figuratively, decides that, with
the broken ribs, he’s not sure he wants to know. What he does want to know is
how some street kid knows Latin, and why he knows Tiberius, of all things.
“Young master,” Ari says, though he stops when Ben growls, changes track and
says, “I’ll inform him that you won’t be home tonight, though I believe I might
change the exact wording of your statement. When shall I say you’ll be
returning?”
“I’ll come home when I’m damn good and ready,” Ben says. He pauses, looks as
another man emerges from the other side of the car, and folds in on himself,
nothing physical, as if he’s pulling inward, hiding without moving. “Sorry,” he
whispers, “sorry, sorry, I’m so sorry.”
John’s eyes narrow, looking between Ben and the silent man he doesn’t yet have
a name for. This is way out of character for the kid -- or is it, John thinks,
recalling the way Ben flinched nights ago under the bridge. Out of character,
maybe, but this is exactly the same way Ben acted then in the presence of that
demon.
“Christo,” John says.
Both Ari and the other man narrow their eyes. The second man bares his teeth
and gets back in the car; the first, Ari, says, “Take care, young master,”
before sliding into the car and slamming the door.
Ben turns to John, says, “You really shouldn’t have done that.” The car drives
past, turning on two wheels as it hits the corner and heads north.
John feels sick as he looks at the kid, all of Ben’s attitude back. He can’t
help asking, “How many of them are there?”
“Too many to count,” Ben says flippantly, still standing in the middle of the
street. “Arioch, he’s all right, just a lackey, low-demon on the totem pole and
not too bad, but the other one.” Ben stops, just stops.
“You still hungry?” John asks, voice soft the way it is when he’s trying to
placate his son after a night of drinking. “I got a couple twenties burning a
hole in my wallet.”
Ben eyes John the way other hunters usually do, wondering if John’s really done
the things others say he has, wondering if he can get the drop on John if it
came down to it.
“Come on,” John coaxes. “Place down the street’s supposed to have good chili.”
“Don’t like chili,” Ben mutters, taking a step towards the Impala.
John smiles, rubs one cheek, offers, “Chicken strips?”
Ben licks his lips, shakes his head, eyes focused on John’s face. John feels
the weight of that gaze like a two-by-four to the head and he’s not watching
the way the kid moves, he’s not, not comparing Ben to a wild cat, untamed and
feral, beautiful and deadly. He wishes he could reach for his gun without Ben
seeing -- John needs the reassurance of steel and iron.
“Burger?” he asks, not moving, praying his voice doesn’t shake. It doesn’t. Ben
runs one hand over the hood of the Impala as he crosses in front of the car,
fingertips skimming the warm metal in an action almost close to a caress. “I’ll
look at the menu when I get there,” he says, and climbs into the passenger
seat.
John lets out a deep breath, wonders just what he has in his car.
--
The diner’s not big, about the size of a Waffle House with lights that seem
harsh, too jarring, after the darkness outside. John’s not complaining, though,
not when it gives him the chance to sit Ben down across a table and just look
at the kid. He’s skinny but not as much as John had originally thought; dirt
and harsh cheekbones bring out the shadows in Ben’s face and those eyes of his
don’t do much to help. They don’t match the all-knees-and-elbows of the kid’s
stature, should be young, vibrant or kicked down, one of the two. Instead,
they’re old, older than any pair of eyes John’s seen in a human before, witches
and mambos included.
“What sounds good, Ben?” John asks, passing over a menu.
Ben grins, the expression almost fey, but the unnaturalness of it fades away
from view, out of sight, when the waitress comes over. It’s as if Ben’s letting
John see something he hides from everyone else, at least everyone else that
John’s seen the kid with.
“Your usual, Ben?” the waitress asks, giving the kid a smile, pen poised over a
notepad.
“Thank you, Mrs. Visser,” Ben says, “but he’s paying.” The woman’s eyes flick
over to John, study him and seem to warn him, mama-cat trying to steer a
predator from her kitten. John wants to tell her that the kitten’s claws are
probably sharper than his own. “I’ll have a chicken sandwich, grilled, water to
drink, and a piece of pie?”
The waitress’s smile returns as she looks at Ben, and she says, “We got apple,
cherry, and strawberry-rhubarb, sweetie. What sounds good?”
Ben bites his lower lip, flicks his eyes at John, then says, “Cherry, please.”
“And you?” The waitress looks back at John, and the tone of her voice is less
than impressed.
“Burger with everything, fries, and a coke. Please,” John adds, giving Mrs.
Visser a tight smile.
She flounces off, one last, motherly look at Ben, and stands behind the
counter, putting in their order and glaring at John.
“She seems,” John starts to say, before he can think of a word to finish that
sentence with, something that’s flattering instead of taken-aback or
distasteful. She obviously cares for Ben and he must spend a great deal of time
in here to have a usual; he doesn’t want to jeopardise the slight truce he’s
reached with the kid because of a waitress.
Ben seems to know what John’s thinking, or at least follows the track of John’s
thoughts. His grin widens and he ducks his head down, peering at John through
bangs that speak of a curl more than a wave, even though his hair’s greasy,
lank. John finds himself thinking that the kid would be pretty if he was clean,
then swallows, pushes it out of his mind.
“Mrs. Visser’s nice,” Ben says. “She can be a bit over-protective, though.”
“And how do you know her?” John asks. “You in here a lot?”
Ben laughs and the sound is startlingly carefree, joyous, even as his eyes are
weighing John, taking measure and trying to decide if John’s worthy of being
let into Ben’s own thoughts. Evidently John passes muster, because Ben says,
“Mr. Visser, her husband, pastors a church on the other side of town.” When he
goes on, his face is wiped clean of emotion. “He taught me Latin when I was
having trouble with some of the reading. A little Greek as well, and some of
the older rites that my father wouldn’t.”
John leans back in his chair, keeping his eyes fixed to Ben’s. He’s relatively
sure that Ben’s answer is a test as much as anything else, a question of his
own, but John’s not sure how he’s supposed to react. His footing with this kid
hasn’t been established yet, he feels too off-balance, and John’s ready to
curse Aurelie for how useless her information was. Take the kid out for a meal,
right.
“How old were you when you started your lessons?” John asks. “My son, he knows
church Latin, enough to get by even though he’s not keen on the language. He
started when he was seven and I can guarantee he wouldn’t know Tiberius if the
general came back to life and smacked him on the head.”
Ben’s eyes gleam at the mention of Dean but, again, John doesn’t know why,
where that gleam comes from. “My father raised me to speak it fluently,” Ben
says. “There were some lessons I didn’t understand, though, so he sent me to
Mr. Visser.”
“And the demons?” John asks, tentatively. “Did Mr. Visser teach you about those
things, too?”
The kid starts to laugh, again; John’s not sure why. The waitress comes back
with their drinks, plunks John’s down with little attention but pulls out a
small napkin for Ben. “Food’ll be up in a couple minutes,” she says, speaking
to Ben.
He smiles his thanks and, as John’s thinking that Ben’s teeth are in damned
good condition for a kid on the streets, Ben says, “My father did, of course.
Be pretty stupid not to, living in that house.”
John stops, stares wide-eyed at Ben, who just sits there and smiles in a manner
that’s starting to infuriate John.
“Your father beats you,” John says, voice quiet even though they’re the only
customers in the small diner and he’s pretty sure Mrs. Visser knows all about
it. “And he has demons staying in the house. Since when?” Ben’s expression is
clear, implacable. John’s face must be showing how worried he is, how much he
doesn’t believe what he’s hearing. “It’s not that I don’t believe you,” he
hurries to say. “Just, Jesus. Raising a child in a house full of demons.”
Ben shrugs. “Ari’s not so bad. I like him better in a male body than the last
host he had, but he’s decent and keeps me away from the other ones when I’m
home.”
“And when you’re not?” John asks. He’s. He’s shocked. He feels like he’s going
into shock.
“Then I’m on my own,” Ben replies.
Before John can organise his thoughts, before he can say anything or react in
any way, Mrs. Visser comes back with two plates, thumps one in front of John
with no care if the food actually stays on the plate or not, places the other
lightly on Ben’s paper placemat, ruffles the boy’s hair.
“I’ll bring your pie out when you get halfway through your sandwich,” she says,
firm. “Not a moment before. Enjoy.”
John’s still too stunned to start eating; he watches as Ben picks up his knife
and cuts his sandwich in half, then quarters, as if he’s had long familiarity
with knives. The kid eats quickly but cleanly, wiping his face after every
third bite-and-swallow, sipping at his water without using a straw.
“How long have there been demons in your house?” John asks again, realising Ben
had never answered his question.
Ben gives John a slight smile, says, “Since before my father and I moved in,”
as if that’s a stupid question. John’s stomach turns, all appetite leaves, and
he can only watch as Ben finishes half of his sandwich and Mrs. Visser brings
over a huge piece of pie with ice cream on top.
“Why did you flinch when I Christoed that demon under the bridge? And then
again tonight?,” John asks. He’s watching Ben’s face closely, would’ve missed
the tightening of the skin around Ben’s eyes, the way he parts his lips in a
stolen breath, if he hadn’t been. The kid’s a master of his body language,
though, the way he’s only dreamed of teaching Dean, so Ben might be faking.
John’s not sure. Not being sure doesn’t scare him like it normally would; it
sends a thrill of challenge down his spine.
Ben shakes his head, takes a sip of water and a bite of pie before he answers.
“Markos,” Ben starts to say. He stops, shakes his head again. “Ari, Arioch, is
a lower-level demon and decent enough. Markos isn’t.”
That seems to be all that Ben’s going to say on the topic, so John lets it
drop.
--
John goes back to the motel, writes down the names of the demons that Ben had
mentioned, Arioch and Markos, on one of the sheets Bobby mailed him. By the way
Ben was talking about Ari’s hosts, he assumes that those are the names of the
actual demons, not just the bodies they’re inhabiting. The problem is, John’s
never heard of them.
Dean’s not in the room but left a message, something about getting information
from some of the other street-walkers around town. John spares a minute to
smirk, wonder if his son’s actually working or taking advantage of the time
John’s leaving him alone, but his smirk fades as he looks again at that short
list of two names.
He’s got books in the car but John takes out his phone, calls Bobby, unmindful
of the time of night. For good reason, apparently, as Bobby answers his phone
on the second ring with a muttered, “There better be a good reason you’re
calling me, John.”
John laughs, relaxes enough to do that. “Because you’re the best?” he asks.
When Bobby throws a muffled curse in his direction, John says, “I have a couple
leads but I wanted to see if you’d heard these names before I spend hours
trying to find them in the Goetia.”
“Demons?” Bobby asks, surprised. “Real, honest names? Not host names?”
“I know,” John says. “But there’ve been some,” he pauses, “some strange
complications in this case. We have a witness who can apparently recognise the
demon inside of the host, no matter how often he switches. He gave me a couple
names.”
Bobby whistles, low and long, finally says, “That’s a difficult skill to
develop,” as if John doesn’t know that already. “Either that or it’s inborn.
How old’s this witness?”
John loathes the idea of saying anything about Ben, almost as if he wants to
hoard the boy to himself, which makes him say, “The kid’s sixteen, maybe
seventeen. Raised from birth in a house of demons. I don’t know if he was
taught or exposed, or was born with the gift; he’s a hard sell.”
“Which names?” Bobby asks after a moment of silence, as if he’s taking in
everything John’s saying as well as everything John isn’t saying. John doesn’t
want to know what sort of vibes Bobby’s picking up from him.
“Arioch, which the kid keeps calling a low-level lackey, and Markos, who
terrifies the kid,” John says. Bobby’s silent for so long that John says,
“Bobby? You still there?”
Bobby coughs, says, “Yeah, I’m. I’m here. John, you sure about that?”
John looks at the note, thinks back, says, “I am, yes, one hundred percent.
Why? This is bad?”
“Arioch is a lower-level demon,” Bobby replies. “One of the fallen whose name
appeared in a grimoire somewhere between Egypt and Turkey during the Dark Ages.
By all accounts, he’s pretty harmless, a lackey who gets traded around between
the bigger names when they have something they need to protect. But Markos, if
that’s who I think it is.”
Bobby stops there, and John has to call his friend’s name to bring Bobby back
into the conversation. Bobby being distracted like this, almost sounding close
to worried, it’s not a good thing, not good at all.
“Markos, short for Marchosias, as in, Marquis Marchosias, who’s one of the
second-sphere dominions named in the Goetia and ruler over thirty legions,”
Bobby says. “Word went around that he was exorcised back in the late eighteen-
hundreds; took close to two dozen hunters to trap him and kick him out and only
half of them survived. No one was sure why he was on earth to begin with and
we’ve counted ourselves lucky he hasn’t made a return appearance.”
“Is there anyone else that could apply to?” John asks, almost desperate for
Bobby to say yes, to tell him that the demon Ben’s so afraid of isn’t one of
the Goetic demons, usually the worst around.
Bobby exhales, says, “No,” plain as day. “And if those two are around, chances
are that some of the higher-ups are as well. Marchosias wouldn’t leave hell for
anyone other than a prince, not after the exorcism, and Arioch’s too much of a
prize to serve a mere dominion. We’re talking a fallen seraph or cherub, John,
nothing less than that. And if one of them’s around, you can be sure he brought
an army with him.” John sits down on the bed before his knees can give out.
“What the hell’s going on down there, huh?” Bobby asks.
“If I knew,” John says, “I’d tell you.”
Bobby hums, then offers, “If you need me to come down, I will. Just say the
word.”
John sighs. “I know. Thank you.”
--
John waits up until Dean comes back, clothes on but hair mussed, lips swollen,
and a self-satisfied smile on his face, one that fades when he sees that John’s
still awake.
“You get something?” Dean asks, as if there wouldn’t be any other reason for
John to be up and waiting for him. “Find the kid?”
John cracks a grin, raises an eyebrow, asks, “You pull up any useful
information?”
Dean grimaces, self-consciously, John thinks, and runs a hand down his chest as
if smoothing out wrinkles or checking to make sure there’s nothing
incriminating on his clothes. “Some,” he says, taking his boots off and
throwing his jacket on the bed, sprawling out on the floor and peeling off his
button-down, rolling up the sleeves of his t-shirt.
“A couple talked to me,” Dean goes on, “not about Ahrenson, but about the
house. There’s a couple guys who work there, some kinds of bodyguards or
secretaries, lower-level guys, that like to rent out women every so often.
And,” he adds, reaching for the bottle of Jack, “they said that a lot of the
men there like the kid. He’s off-limits to everyone except the father when he’s
in the house -- unless the dad says it’s okay -- but when he’s on the streets
he’s fair game. Is there any way to explain that? I mean, come on, the kid
would rather let demons rape him? What the hell’s his dad doing to him?”
John looks down at his hands, then back at Dean. “I talked to Ben tonight,” he
starts off, slow and easy, trying not to show how skittish this case, this kid,
is making him. “The dad, he’s in deep with demons. Taught the kid Latin before
he could even talk, sent him to a preacher for lessons and help learning some
of the old rites. He’s grown up around demons, Dean, and he’s a name-giver or a
claircognisant. He can name demons, not the host they’re in, but the actual
demon.”
Dean reacts much the same way as Bobby, eyes wide, letting out a whistle. “Dad,
that’s. Is it inborn?”
“I don’t know,” John admits. “I didn’t want to ask. But either way, that’s
something we could get a lot of use out of. The only thing is, the demons he
named? They’re connected to something big.”
There’s a long silence from Dean’s corner of the floor, until he says,
“Something big. How big?”
John shakes his head. “Big enough that I’m glad Aurelie gave us those charms.
Big enough I called Bobby to see if he was free in case we needed him. Dean, we
have to be careful with this one. Bobby said we might be dealing with a fallen
seraph on this one.”
“We have to get that kid out of there,” Dean says, no pause required to think
that one over. “Shit, Dad. He can’t be safe, even if he’s a name-giver. Maybe
especially if he’s a name-giver.”
“His father beats him,” John says, something his mind keeps coming back to.
“Gave him a couple broken ribs the last time he went home. I don’t know how the
father’s connected, whether he deals with demons as an equal or sold his soul
or what, but we have to find a way to get in that house and give the kid a
reason to never go back. Between his talent, his knowledge of Latin and the old
rites, even the basic Greek he says he has, any hunter would pay to take him
on. Hell, we could drop him at the Roadhouse and let him centralise.”
Dean nods, thoughtful. “So,” he says, before taking a sip of Jack and swilling
it around his mouth. “We need to get the kid out. We need to figure out where
the father fits into this. We need to start taking care of the demons. We need
to find out which big-shot’s in town. And why,” he adds. “Without attracting
too much attention. That’s a lot of crap. Are you sure we shouldn’t call in
Bobby?”
John eyes his son, says, “You’re not usually one to call in backup,” mildly, a
little surprised but asking why more than making a statement.
“This isn’t our usual case,” Dean comes back with. “Is there anything we can
out-source?”
A knock at the door stops John from answering. He looks at his son, nods as
Dean’s pulling out a gun and cocking it, the bottle of bourbon forgotten next
to him. John takes out his own gun, loaded with blessed rock-salt rounds, and
stands up. Dean gets into position before John’s at the door, and he gives John
the go-ahead to open the door.
John does, letting the door swing open to reveal a young woman with black eyes.
Both guns are aimed right at her but neither of them shoot. The salt lining the
doorway should keep her out, not to mention the normal warding runes John has
taped to the door.
“I thank you for taking care of the young master,” the woman says, her voice
soft and mellifluous. “He was well-pleased with your offerings. The master
would prefer you keep your distance but sends his regards for your
thoughtfulness.”
“You mean, he’s grateful I didn’t kidnap him and take him away,” John replies
flatly.
The woman smiles, ducks her head the slightest bit. It would be cute if it
wasn’t for the eyes. “The master would find his son in a matter of hours, Mr.
Winchester, but the inconvenience of doing so would displease him. His
tolerance of your presence in this city would, I think, greatly diminish.”
John narrows his eyes and says, “You’re Arioch, aren’t you.”
“And you are very perceptive, Mr. Winchester,” the woman says. “Your reputation
precedes you. Marchosias was pleased to find that it does not seem to have been
exaggerated.”
“I’ll bet,” John mutters, skin crawling at the memory of Ben’s eyes filled with
fear, the normally cocky young man flinched in and terrified. Arioch bows from
the waist and turns to leave. “Wait,” John says. The woman, the demon, pauses
but doesn’t turn back around to look at John. He’s almost thankful. “Where is
Ben tonight?”
The woman laughs, the sound tinkling over the darkened parking lot. “Why, Mr.
Winchester. One might think you cared.” She looks over her shoulder, black eyes
glinting, and says, voice low, “It’s never a good thing to wish possession of
what the master owns. If you want to live long enough to challenge the
hierarchy on the young master’s behalf, I suggest you keep your eyes, your
hands, and your mind off of him as much as possible. Good night.”
She disappears into the night; John shuts the door and locks it, stands there
for a moment then bites off a curse. He turns, looks at his son, who merely
says, “Well, that was fucking interesting. What the hell.”
--
John calls Bobby the next morning, puts him to work researching which of the
possible fallen both Arioch and Marchosias might be willing to serve. As soon
as he hangs up, he calls Ash, gets the computer genius on Ahrenson’s
background, because there’s something incredibly shady about the business he’s
running. With reluctance, he sends Dean to do some recon on Ahrenson’s house on
the edge of town, practically a mansion if the blueprints from the library are
still accurate.
Once he’s alone, John takes a deep breath and thinks about the extra charm
Aurelie gave him. If there’s one person John doesn’t want to see possessed,
it’s Ben, not with the kid’s verve and gift. A demon with the power to see
people’s, other demons’ names, it’s not a comforting thought. That draws him up
short, though: why hasn’t the kid been possessed already? And what deal does
the father have with the demons about Ben? They buy him when he’s on the
streets but can’t touch him in the house; Arioch seemed almost as if he served
Ben or was on-duty to look after him, but other demons scare Ben to pieces.
There are too many contradictions, so when John leaves the motel, it’s in
defiance of Arioch’s warning from the night before.
--
John drives around for a while and doesn’t see Ben, not until he’s moving
parallel to the river, towards the bridge. He pulls to a stop on the south side
of the river, sees Ben and an older man on the north side, where Ben normally
is. John sits in the car and waits, watching, as Ben and the man appear to
talk, even argue. When the older man slaps Ben, John gets out of the car in a
huff, taking the safety off his gun and stalking down the incline.
“Get away from him,” he calls out, gun aimed at the man and steady in John’s
hands. “Now.”
“John, fuck off,” Ben says, voice cheerful and half-friendly though his posture
is all wrong, doesn’t match one iota.
John glances at Ben, only a quick eye-flick; all of his attention is on the
man. “Sorry, Ben,” he says in return, now right next to the river, close enough
so that there’s no way the man could escape a bullet. “Don’t think I can do
that at the moment. Wanna tell me what’s going on?”
“You’re not wanted here, hunter,” the man says, eyes flooding black. “This
doesn’t concern you.”
Ben’s shoulders are tight; he hasn’t taken his eyes off of the man next to him.
“I’d listen to him if I were you, Winchester.”
John lets his lips curve up the slightest bit as he says, “I’ve never listened
well. You Marchosias?” The man grins, showing John his teeth. “Jesus,” John
breathes, the demon growling in pain. “How often do you guys switch hosts?”
“As often as we’d like,” Marchosias replies. “Now, I believe the young master
told you to fuck off.”
Ben swallows, but just when John thinks the boy’s going to slink away from the
demon, Ben steps closer, standing in front of it, between the demon and John’s
gun. “John Edward Winchester, this does not concern you. You don’t understand
everything that’s going on and therefore you are close to making a serious
mistake.”
“So tell me what’s going on,” John retorts. He sees Marchosias move, relines up
his shot. The demon places his hands on Ben’s shoulders; though the kid
shudders, he doesn’t move away. If anything, he moves backwards, closer to the
demon. “Tell me and maybe I’ll agree, maybe I won’t, but at least I’ll
understand.”
Marchosias leans down and whispers something in Ben’s ears that has the kid
clenching his jaw and turning white, but he nods, once, a sharp, brittle action
that looks as if it should be splitting the ground apart with the force of it.
Marchosias laughs, then, and calls out, “Oh, Winchester. You’ll never learn,
will you?” before the host man throws his head back and the demon emerges from
his mouth, spinning into the sky.
The host falls to the ground and Ben steps away from the body gingerly. John
has no hope that the human’s still alive -- none of the hosts ever seem to
survive the Goetic demons. With a deep breath, trying to keep his nerves from
showing, John lets the gun fall to his side and stares at the kid.
“Ben?” he asks. “Can you tell me what’s happening?”
Instead of answering that, Ben says, “Your son got caught at the house.” John’s
blood runs cold but he can’t move from the spot. “Markos and I bargained for
his safety. He’ll return to you untouched.” Ben stops, then adds, “Don’t send
him to the house alone and if you’re that intent on killing yourselves, try
breaking in on Monday. My father’s usually out of town during the morning so
security is more relaxed.”
“Ben,” John says, confused and halfway to desperate. “What?”
The kid sends John a weary smile, then turns his back and trudges up the hill.
John looks up, sees another man, a different man, standing there with ink-black
eyes. He’s praying its Arioch, but the man looks down at him and smiles, and
John knows its Marchosias.
John shivers, shudders as Ben stops in front of the man and lets the demon wind
its hand in his, pull him away. John scrambles up the bank on his side of the
river and is climbing into the Impala, watching Ben get into the passenger side
of one of those huge SUVs with black-tinted windows. Marchosias gets behind the
wheel and drives off, tires spinning and leaving John in seconds. He turns the
Impala on, tries to follow, but they lose him in seconds, even with all of his
experience in tracking and hunting.
John pulls over, exhales, then punches the steering wheel once before taking
out his phone and calling Dean.
“I got some stuff,” Dean says as soon as he answers. He sounds out of breath.
“Dad, get back to the motel room, I’ll meet you there and we can.”
“No,” John says, stopping his son mid-sentence. Dean pauses, caught up short,
and John asks, slowly, clearly, “Where are you?”
Dean says, “Dad, what,” before he checks himself and says, “I’m on my way back
to the room. On the north side of the river, but not by much.”
John turns the car around, asks for cross-streets, and, once Dean tells him,
hangs up and drives towards his son.
--
Dean’s leaning against a building, run down and shuttered up, spray-paint on
the bricks. He pushes off when the Impala rumbles to a halt next to the curb
and slides into the seat. Funny, but even through John’s anger and, he hates to
admit, fear, he sees hints of Ben in Dean’s movements, though Dean is all
efficiency and wrapped-up bitterness and Ben is all grace and oozing with
intelligent ferality.
“Dad, what’s wrong?” Dean asks; he has to know that something is.
John’s about ready to yell, so he looks out of the door window and tries to
swallow back some of the anger instead. It doesn’t work, not entirely, so he
sounds sharp, abrupt, when he says, “They said you got caught at the house. The
kid, Ben? He made a bargain with Marchosias so that they’d let you out
unharmed.”
Dean pales, whispers, “What did he bargain with?”
“Himself, I think,” John answers, perversely glad to see his son’s upset now,
too. “What the hell happened, Dean?”
Dean sinks in the seat, looks down at his hands, the fingers threaded together,
white knuckled. “I went to the house,” he starts off. Though it’s taken John
years to drum the need for thorough reporting into Dean’s head, he wishes his
son would get to the point a little quicker this time. “One of the girls from
last night was there; I tossed a little Holy Water in her direction and asked
if she’d let me in, show me around. I didn’t think there were any problems, but
we get into the kitchen and there are other people in there, just hanging out.”
“How many other people?” John asks.
“Four,” Dean says after a moment’s thought. “Three guys and a girl, all
business-types. Anyway, they grabbed me once I got inside the room and just, I
dunno, just held me there. I let loose with the Christos and that didn’t do
anything ‘cept piss ‘em off. One of them gagged me and a different one, one of
the guys, made a phone call but I don’t know who to.” He pauses, then says,
thoughtfully, “Y’know, for being held by demons, it wasn’t that bad, actually.”
John scowls, looks away before he can remind Dean just what that safe hostage
situation might have cost. “Ben said we should try again Monday,” he says,
instead. “Said his father’s usually out of town in the mornings.”
Dean nods once. “All right.”
--
It’s late Saturday before John sees Ben again. Dean’s left town to go on a
different hunt, a quick salt-and-burn, and he’s planning on stopping by Bobby’s
on the way back to pick some stuff up, books and charms. John’s spent the time
driving around town, cleansing all the spots on Ash’s map. He’s kept an eye out
for Ben, but, on a hunch, he goes back to the diner for a pre-bedtime slice of
pie and sees the kid sitting in one of the corner booths, an older man across
from him.
Ben looks up when John walks in, gives John a half-hearted narrow-eyed glare,
and the man turns around to see who’s caught Ben’s attention. John nods and the
man glares as well, then turns back to Ben. He must ask Ben a question because
John sees the kid shrug; John decides to go over there and make sure it’s not
Marchosias again.
“Hey, Ben,” John offers in greeting, once he’s closer to the table. He eyes the
other man but doesn’t address him at all, won’t until Ben introduces them.
The kid seems to understand, because he rolls his eyes and says, “Alan, this is
John Winchester. Winchester, this is Pastor Visser.”
John’s surprised at the man’s identity, uses the surprise to hide how hurt he
is at the way Ben’s addressing him, Winchester instead of John. That’s almost
more distant, more cold, than telling him to fuck off might be, in comparison
to this polite greeting.
“Nice to meet you, Pastor,” John says, holding out his hand.
The other man, Alan, takes it with a firm grip, and nods. “Ben’s said good
things about you,” he says. “Can’t say my wife has, but she doesn’t take kindly
to any of Ben’s friends.”
John gives the kid a raised eyebrow; he never thought he’d be lumped in with a
group of demons, just like he never thought he’d see the day where someone
might refer to demons as friends.
“She serves a good piece of pie,” John smiles, shrugs, almost sheepishly. It’s
as much an act as anything, and Alan seems to recognise that just as Ben does;
one of them grins, one of them scowls.
“The fuck are you doing here, Winchester?” Ben asks, apparently not at all
concerned about swearing in front of a minister. “Haven’t you and your son done
enough?”
Alan looks between the two, confusion written on his face, and John feels sorry
for the guy but he’s not going to take the time to explain. “Not nearly enough
good to balance everything else out,” John says, grabbing a chair from the
table behind him, swinging it around and straddling it. “’Sides, we thought
maybe we’d hang out here, at least until early next week.”
Ben nods even as he wrinkles his nose, getting the unspoken message, and Alan
glances between the two of them. He studies Ben and finally says, “I should get
going. Claire should be ready to leave by now.” He slides out of the booth,
gives John a respectful nod. “Good meetin’ you, John. If you ever need me, I’m
on the west side of town, right next to the church.”
John smiles his thanks, waits for the man to walk behind the counter and go
through the employee doors, before moving to sit in Alan’s old seat, leaving
the chair in the aisle. He looks around as he does so, notes that he and Ben
are the only customers in the place.
“I wanted to say thank you,” John says, and by the time he gets to the third
word, Ben’s already shaking his head. “What?”
“You don’t have to thank me for anything,” Ben says, before glancing away, out
of the window. “You don’t have anything to thank me for.”
John frowns, puzzled. “But you saved Dean,” he argues back. “You bargained with
Marchosias for my son; what do you mean, I don’t have anything to thank you
for?”
Ben looks at him, and John’s confused by the expression he can see in Ben’s
eyes, doesn’t know how to interpret it. “I bargain with demons all the time,”
Ben shrugs. “Markos’ price wasn’t anything I haven’t paid before, and this time
there was actually something useful to come out of it. Listen,” he goes on,
before John has the chance to argue. “John, there are a lot of things you don’t
understand here, okay? Just think about what Ari said when he talked to me,
when he talked to you, and maybe that’ll clear some of them up.”
Ben stands up and John does as well, intent on keeping the kid with him, here,
in the diner where it’s safe, or taking Ben with him back to the motel then out
of this town with all of its demons and power plays. “Ben, come on, son,” John
starts to say.
“I’m not your fucking son, Winchester,” Ben hisses back, eyes hooded, turning
dark but not black, never black. “And with the way you’ve been looking at me,
you should be glad of that. Can’t think of what your precious Dean would say,
can you?”
John’s pale, shocked, trying to understand what Ben’s saying, and in his pause
to muddle through Ben’s words, the kid slips around him and out. John turns,
intent on going after Ben, but he sees Ben climb into the black hybrid from
before, can’t see the driver or who else might be in the car.
“Fuck,” he breathes.
--
John throws a couple bills on the table, then goes back to the motel to sit
down and think about what clues Ben’s given him. He starts off by writing out,
as best as he can, the conversation he overheard on the street, then from when
Arioch came in the woman’s body to his front door, tries to recall everything
that Marchosias said down by the river. Nothing clicks, but then John looks
down, over the pieces of paper in front of him, and sees it: young master, the
title they called Ben, never once by his name.
John leans back on the bed, ignores the television news program and wonders
what that means. Obviously Ahrenson is the ‘master’ they refer to, which only
makes sense if the demons are serving him, and why they would do that when
John’s beginning to think that Ahrenson might not be possessed, John doesn’t
know. Young master, though, might mean either that this is a hereditary title
or that Ben’s being groomed for something.
That thought makes John shiver, especially as, the more he thinks about it, the
more it starts to click. Arioch’s good at protection, the demonic equivalent of
a high-priced bodyguard, and he never seems to leave the kid alone. If he’s
protecting Ben and Ben’s in training, he’d have to learn to bargain with
demons, to get to know the ins and outs of demonic power plays and hierarchies.
“Shit,” John murmurs. The kid must be in training to be some sort of demonic
go-between, some highly prized human. When he’s out on the streets, that’s when
he’s learning his lessons, and if he goes home, what, his father’s
disappointed? It must mean that Ben’s not learning fast enough, not doing
enough to make sure he’s being protected and watched for, so the guy’s
disappointed, beats his kid in hopes it’ll serve to cement whichever lesson it
is Ben’s having trouble with.
“And the Latin, the rituals, the Greek, it’s all in case he needs to protect
himself from an overzealous demon,” John whispers, then looks at the papers
again, all of those conversations he transcribed as close to word-for-word as
he could. Marchosias, Ben’s bargained with Marchosias a lot; Marchosias is
high-enough to protect Ben if shit goes down but John’s willing to bet his
favourite gun that Marchosias’ price is pretty damned high as well.
John springs to his feet, is halfway to the door, before he stops. He’s not
sure what he’s doing, why he’s leaving or what he hopes to accomplish by doing
so, so he goes back to the bed, sits down, and thinks.
He’s coming to realise that his sense of the hunt, of objectivity and focus,
has been badly shattered by Ben. Granted, he’s not sure he’s been looking at
Ben the way the kid seemed to insinuate, but John won’t deny that there’s
something pulling him to Ben, the way he can’t seem to leave Ben alone, goes
out looking for him at every opportunity, trusting his word over the facts of
the situation.
John rubs his face, decides to take a cold shower and get some sleep. He’ll
look at the information again in the morning, see if he can’t dig up some
better blueprints for the house and maybe get some recon done before Dean gets
back.
He’s in bed, trying to fall asleep, when he wonders if Ben was telling the
truth about his father being gone on Mondays, that security will be more
relaxed. The kid had no reason to lie, probably hasn’t about any of this, but
John just doesn’t know anymore if he can trust that or not.
--
Sleep doesn’t come easily. When it does, it brings along dreams that have John
tossing and turning, legs twisted up in blankets, pillows dropping to the
floor, limbs flying every which way. He dreams, of Marchosias and Arioch,
dreams of a kid with his hands tied above his head, hooked to a low ceiling,
back being flayed open, dreams of Dean caught and tortured by demon after demon
after demon.
He wakes up in a cold sweat at five in the morning, panting, and can’t get that
last image out of his mind, Dean tied down and being carved open, a demon
wielding a knife with a sadistic smile, Ben watching with smoky black eyes and
a laugh on his lips.
--
Dean gets back late Sunday night, stumbles into the room under the weight of a
dozen books. John raises an eyebrow, unspoken question, and Dean drops the
books on the chair that neither of them likes to use, shrugs. “Bobby sent me
along with these,” he says. “Told me we might need them if we get close enough
to the fallen to use them.”
John nods, gets up from where he’s sitting on the bed, and starts paging
through them, whistles quietly when he sees the book on the bottom, an old
grimoire that no one thinks made it through the Inquisition -- most of the
hunters John knows use copies of copies of copies written by people who read
the book once and then wrote down what they could remember.
While he’s looking through the books, Dean’s studying the wall; John’s put up
every clue, every hint, everything he could find pertaining to the case, and
then cross-checked everything, cross-referenced everything, so that the result
is a wall of the room covered in paper with string cluttering things up and
making spider-web patterns.
John knows the instant that Dean’s stumbled across the most damning evidence
yet, because Dean taps a finger on the wall and turns to look at him. “You’re
sure about this?” Dean asks, not in doubt but in obvious disbelief at how big
this has gotten.
“That house is swarming with demons,” John says, sitting back down, returning
to his methodical system of weapons maintenance. Cleaning his weapons, the guns
and knives, the crossbows and crucifixes, calms him, centres him, and John’s
gratified to know it does for Dean as well. “I went back earlier today and
counted at least nineteen different possessed humans at any given time. The
demons there, though, they swarm, travel between hosts with an ease I’ve never
seen before. There’s no telling how many there really are.”
Dean grimaces, shakes his head. “That’s fucking ridiculous,” he says. “Nineteen
and there might be more? Don’t they know it’s never a good thing to group in
one place?”
John grins, showing his teeth, and says, “If not, they’ll learn.”
--
They both catch a few hours of sleep and leave early on Monday, an hour before
the sun’s even thinking about coming up. The ride to the house takes about half
an hour, way on the north end of town, near the edge where cornfields are
starting to creep in between the houses and the streets intersect at straight
right angles. John’s letting Dean drive, is taking the opportunity to look
around and get another layout of the land. They park a mile back from the
house, pull off of the road and onto a little ditch between cornstalks, hide
the car as best they can.
John’s got his two favourite guns and his favourite knife, as well as a
smaller, shorter dagger strapped around one ankle if things get desperate, and
his pockets are stuffed with Holy Water, chalk, and rosaries. Neither of them
are entirely sure how useful the Christian elements will be between Marchosias’
reaction and those of the demons in the house who took Dean, but better safe
than sorry. He looks over, sees that Dean’s stocking up as well, has an
implacable look on his face that says that the demons inside of the house won’t
get the drop on him this time.
With a nod at one another, they leave the relative safety of the Impala and her
devil’s traps and move towards the house like silent ghosts.
--
The back of the property is covered with trees. John and Dean use the tree
cover to slip closer to the house, hopefully unseen. No one’s set off an alarm,
and John doesn’t see the guards that were patrolling yesterday, so John’s
keeping his fingers crossed that they’ll at least be able to make it to the
back door.
When they get close enough, John tells Dean to wait and cover him; before his
son can argue, John’s crouch-running to the back door and moulding his body to
the brick, peering around the edge of a full floor-to-ceiling glass window. He
can see people inside, makes the educated guess that they’re all possessed, and
does a quick head-count: five there, watching television and lounging,
completely off-guard. He moves back, flashes a couple hand signs at Dean, who
sees them and nods, jaw clenched.
The lock in the back door turns; John freezes, sees Dean duck and take aim
behind a large bush. With careful, quiet movements, John shifts his gun to one
hand and takes out a vial of Holy Water, uncapping the lid and getting ready to
dump it on to who- or whatever steps outside.
Door open, John waits for the barest hint of movement before dumping the entire
vial out on the person. He’s expecting screams, hissing, the sound of burning
flesh, the end of their surprise advantage, but all he hears is a muffled, “You
are such a clueless ass, Winchester.”
John frowns, looks down and sees Ben there, standing with hands on hips and
glaring at him, shaking wet hair out of his face. “What are you doing here?”
“You’re a hunter,” Ben says with a shrug. “Figured you’d come today, even if I
tried to warn you off, ‘specially after what you said Saturday. You’re just
lucky I wasn’t one of them. Holy Water doesn’t affect them all; if I were you,
I’d kill the host and wait for the demon to leave in search of a new one. It’s
quieter.”
Dean’s taken the chance and slipped up over the patio while John and Ben were
talking, is on the other side of the door with two guns out, not bothering with
Holy Water or any of the dozen rosaries the two hunters are carrying between
them.
“You gonna give us up?” Dean asks in a harsh whisper.
Ben turns around and gives Dean some kind of look, doesn’t even dignify the
question with an answer. He turns back to John, says, “Look, if you really want
to go inside, fine. My father’s study is on the lower level, near the front;
there’s a big window in there that you can leave out of. Five of them are in
the TV room, six are in the kitchen, and most of the rest are upstairs, still
asleep.”
“What about the ones who aren’t?” Dean asks, pushing when John wishes he really
wouldn’t.
“They’re in the basement,” Ben answers, without looking at Dean. “Which is
where I’ll be, so don’t expect any more help from me. Once you’re in the house,
you’re on your own.”
John tilts his head the slightest bit, looks at Ben, and reaches in his front
pocket, pulls out the last of Aurelie’s charms. “Put this on,” he says, holding
it out to Ben. “It’ll save you from possession. You won’t have to worry about
any of them burrowing their way inside of you.”
Ben grins, wide and carefree. “John, John, John,” he sing-song whispers. “You
think my father would let them do that?” Ben turns around, heads back inside,
leaving the back door open. When John follows a split-second later, the charm
tucked back in his pocket, the kid’s already out of sight.
--
John keeps his gun loose in his hand, ready for anything, and his ears are
peeled for any sound or movement. Dean’s behind him, tracking his footsteps and
watching their rear; they make it to the study without being caught.
Dean immediately closes and locks the door, starts ransacking desk drawers and
file cabinets. John, though, is caught by a map on the wall, behind glass, pins
stuck all over the country. There’s one red-tipped pin in Kansas that has him
worried, right in the heart of Lawrence, and at least one of the same colour in
about half of the continental states. A few more, yellow-tipped, litter the
country, with most of the bigger cities sporting at least half a dozen green
pins. John’s not sure what they all mean but he knows he doesn’t like them.
He’s got a camera out, is taking pictures of the map as a whole before taking
close-ups of the cities, when he stops, caught dead by a scream. The sound
echoes through the house, says everything of pain and torture, and it rings in
his bones for a long moment before another comes, then another.
John’s half-turned, because he knows the sound of that voice, knows it’s Ben in
the basement, probably keeping demons busy so they don’t come up and catch him
and Dean, but he stops himself, turns back to the map and the task at hand.
“Dad,” Dean whispers, frozen over by the large file cabinet in the corner,
crouched and picking the lock on the bottom drawer.
“Focus on what we’re here for,” John orders, ignoring the way his voice shakes
as another scream almost interrupts him.
Dean swallows audibly but does as he’s told.
Ben’s still screaming when they open the window and slip out of it, running
full-tilt across the landscaped lawn into the nearest cornfield.
***** Chapter 3 *****
Their trip wasn’t entirely useless; once they get back to the motel and put
everything together, they’ve learned enough to know that they’re dealing with a
fallen cherub at the base of everything and to know that Ahrenson’s a mean son
of bitch to more people than just his son.
“D’you think Ahrenson’s possessed?” Dean asks.
“That’s the million dollar question, isn’t it,” John says in reply. “To be
honest? I just don’t know. It seems like he should be, but I haven’t seen any
evidence that he is and nothing you pulled out of his office would indicate
that. For now, we go on fact and assume he’s not. Agree?”
Dean thinks it over, but soon nods. “Agree.” He pauses, then adds with a far
more vicious tone, “Either way, the first time we see him, I think we try
silver shot and blessed iron, just to see.” John doesn’t think that sounds like
a bad idea, says as much. “What do you think happened to Ben?” Dean asks,
hesitantly. John’s not sure what his son saw when he and Ben were talking in
the back of the house, doesn’t think he wants to know.
“I don’t know,” John says. Dean doesn’t say anything else.
--
John goes out looking for Ben on Tuesday, finds the kid almost by accident. He
stops at an Army/Navy surplus store to stock up on a few essentials that he and
Dean are running low on and misses a step as he walks in; Ben’s sitting on the
counter, feet swinging in the air as he talks to the man who’s perched on a
stool behind the cash register.
The man stops mid-sentence as John walks in, gives him a narrow-eyed look, and
John doesn’t understand why until he looks around and sees the symbols carved
into the wall. He’s willing to bet that the foundation’s layered with salt,
that there are protective and expelling sachets in each wall, that the drinking
fountain’s been blessed.
John breathes a little easier, seems to relax with the amount of protection he
can almost feel thrumming around him, and the man unwinds even as he
straightens up, calls out a friendly, “Anything I can help you with?”
Before John answers, Ben pipes up and dryly says, “I’m sure that John can find
his own way around,” giving John a raised eyebrow, clearly expecting John to
say something to that. When John doesn’t, Ben’s wry smile fades into something
closer to a real one. “He’s a hunter,” Ben adds, more quietly.
The man looks John over, says, “Is that so,” in a tone that makes John think
that the guy’s not questioning him, just stating that he’s heard Ben and
understands what the kid is telling him, gets the difference between, say, a
deer hunter and a demon hunter. “Well, in that case, please let me know if I
can help you with anything.”
Confused by the interchange, John doesn’t say much more than thanks, and turns
off the main aisle to browse. He keeps an eye on Ben even as he’s looking
around, convinced that there’s more going on here than he’s seen; the cashier’s
reaction to being told he’s a hunter just one new piece of evidence that
doesn’t seem to fit. Ben had said the same thing to the preacher, and he’d
reacted much the same way, with friendly acceptance.
The only thing that would make sense is something John doesn’t want to think
about. Hunters come through here enough so that part of the larger community is
aware of them and approves? No, it would have to be something more than that,
especially with the way that the cashier keeps looking at him, with the
protection symbols all over the place. Hunters and demons must live side by
side here, each group probably aware of the other. It’s enough to give John one
hell of a headache that he’s relatively sure he can blame on the kid sitting on
the countertop.
He listens with one ear as the two up by the register keep talking, wonders
what Ben’s doing inside here but is more relieved that the kid can make it
through the wards than he cares to think about.
“Your father got home later last night than normal,” the cashier’s saying. John
straightens up, pauses as he’s looking through pots of oil. He doesn’t look
over, but he can hear Ben tense.
“Your point?” The kid sounds cold now, distant. It must be hard weighing
friendships with these people against loyalty to his family; John’s only just
now realising that the kid’s doing a masterful balancing act on a tightrope
that has to be thinner than air.
The cashier doesn’t say anything for a few minutes, but then replies, “We’re
just worried about you, that’s all. The way things have been lately, can you.”
Ben cuts him off, says, “That’s enough,” in a tone of voice he had to have
learned from one of the demons. Even across the store, it makes John shiver,
makes his head ache.
John clenches his teeth, picks up one last thing, then makes his way to the
counter. Ben jumps off, gives him a mocking salute, and saunters off, leaving
the store and turning the corner.
“Find what you were looking for?” the cashier asks, standing up, looking
through the few things John’s brought to the counter.
“Yeah,” John says. “Listen, about the kid.”
The cashier laughs, starts ringing things up, putting them in brown paper bags.
“Ben likes you, John. I’d take that as enough for now.” He cashes John out
without taking any money and holds up the bags like an offering. “I’m Dan.
Anything you need, you call me and let me know.” The tone’s serious, and John
can’t help but give the man a sceptical look. “If you’re here to do something
about Ben’s father, we’ll all help you any way we can. We’ve tried, but,” he
trails off, shrugging.
“My son said that Ahrenson had the town under his thumb,” John admits, willing
to let Dan know that John’s behind, at least in this regard. “Everyone he
talked to wouldn’t say a thing.”
“That was before we knew about you and Ben,” Dan replies, much the same tone.
“So I apologise for that. It’s something we have to do to keep him safe. Now,
like I said, if there’s anything we can do, give me or Pastor Visser a call.”
John hears that for the polite dismissal it is, so he nods, takes the paper
bags, and leaves. Ben’s nowhere in sight and John has no clue what the hell’s
going on.
--
“So what the fuck’s going on?” Dean asks. He blows out smoke, lets it hang
around his head while he ashes into a plastic coffee cup. Dean’s exasperated,
that much is easy to see, exasperated, worried, and pissed off.
John really can’t blame his son. “Evidently the town publicly kow-tows to
Ahrenson but at least some of them hate the man behind his back,” John says,
shrugging. “Some of them are hunters, I think, or at least act like it. I don’t
know much more than that. Once they started to realise that Ben likes me,
they’re willing to talk.”
Dean leans back against the headboard of the bed he’s sitting on, puts his
hands behind his neck and looks at the wall above the television, peeling
wallpaper and water spots. “And how do they know he likes you?” Dean asks. “I
mean, the kid swears at you, smacked me. If the way he was acting at the house
is the same way he’s acting when you two are with the unpossessed, how the hell
do they equate that with liking you?”
“I’m not really sure,” John says. He purses his lips, doesn’t waste time on his
feelings about the kid, and says, “It’s something we can use. That’s good
enough for now.”
“Dad,” Dean says, after a few minutes of silence have passed. Dean has one hand
wrapped around a can of beer and takes a sip before asking, “Dad, do you know
what you’re doing? Do you have any idea what’s going on between you and that
kid?”
John levels even eyes on his son, waits until Dean’s looking at him before he
answers. “Keep your mind on the job, Dean. Don’t worry about me.”
“Dad,” Dean says, but John shakes his head, cuts him off.
“Stay out of it, Dean,” he says. It’s an order as much as a suggestion. Dean
accepts it, though he obviously doesn’t like it.
--
Ash calls the next day as John and Dean are sitting in a small, family-run
restaurant eating a late lunch. He skips the small talk and starts rambling in
a worryingly serious tone of voice. “Ahrenson’s got his fingers into
everything, John; you name it, he owns part of it. This is a guy who’s spent
time buying stocks and companies and people all over the fucking country. I’ve
spent days trying to find the end of it but I can’t.”
John sighs, rubs his forehead. He and Dean have known that Ahrenson has power,
but John had been hoping that power was finite; turns out it isn’t and he’s not
really surprised. Whatever this guy did -- selling his soul, making deals,
whatever -- means he’s got access to everything and he’s got connections
everywhere.
“John?” Ash asks. John hums in question instead of saying anything, still
thinking. “John, what are you gonna do with this one?”
“Finish it,” John says, then hangs up. He thinks for a few seconds, tells Dean,
sitting on the other side of the table and ripping Texas toast into pieces,
what Ash said and asks what Dean thinks.
Dean shrugs, says, “You were right. We finish it.” John raises an eyebrow, and
Dean huffs. “Look, I might have issues with the kid, how he fits in with all of
this, and I might think that you’re getting too close to him, but we’ve never
left a hunt behind. None of them have ever gotten away. We do what we do and we
do it all the way.”
Their waitress comes over, one hand on her hip, and stops humming long enough
to ask if they need anything else. John shakes his head and she smiles,
flashing demon-black eyes. “Good,” she says, voice throaty and raspy. “Because
the master’s starting to get a little tired of your aimless meddling,
Winchester. If you leave now, he promises not to take anything else of yours.”
“Christo,” Dean says, the word hard and inflexible, just like the power it
contains.
The demon laughs and shakes her head. “Parlour tricks, child. It’ll take
something with a little more oomph to get me scared and shaking.”
John tilts his head, eyes narrowed as he looks the demon in the eye. He’s just
about ready to say something when Ben moves into his field of vision and taps
the waitress on the arm. Ben looks steady enough, but there’s a sheen to his
forehead John doesn’t like the look of and the kid’s pale, seems as if he’s
holding himself too rigidly.
She turns, smiles at the kid, and Ben says, “Quaesumus, Domine.” John
recognises the beginning of the prayer of the dead, and he doesn’t know how
this is supposed to make a difference. He looks at the waitress, whose face has
turned pale.
“No,” she whispers. “Young master, how have I displeased you?” She sounds
desperate, especially as Ben continues.
“Pro tua pietate miserere animae famulae tuae Natalia, et a contagiis
mortalitatis exutam,” Ben says, going on without a break.
The waitress has half-collapsed by this point, her knuckles white as she grips
the table John and Dean are sitting at in order to remain vertical. It looks as
if she’s suffocating, trying to stop it from happening, one clenched around her
throat as she gasps for breath. John looks around, sees that everyone else in
the diner is studiously ignoring them.
“Please,” she coughs out. “Please, young master, I was only doing as the
marquis instructed. How am I supposed to refuse him?”
Ben smiles and John sees something of himself in the expression: the
willingness to bring about the death of something supernatural, the desire to
see it through, the need to do whatever’s necessary so long as it brings about
an end to the hunt. “And is Marchosias above my father?” Ben asks. “Does
Marchosias command your loyalty, instead of my father and his lineage? No,
Kokabiel, you are not obeying the people you should be. When I disobey, I am
punished. I think it’s only fair the same happens to you.”
The waitress tries to plead, and John sees Dean watching in unhealthy
fascination. John can’t really blame his son.
“In aeternae salvationis partem restitue. Per Christum Dominum nostrum. Amen,”
Ben finishes. The waitress screams before the demon emerges in a rush of black
cloud from her mouth, swarming near the ceiling before disappearing through one
of the vents. The woman is on the floor, silent and still.
From the other end of the diner, two men stand up and head towards the
Winchesters’ table. John moves, is halfway to pulling out a gun, but Ben throws
him a quelling look.
“Enochian, not Goetic,” John says, instead, in as conversational a tone as he
can manage. “And she’s dead?”
“Kokabiel killed Natalia,” Ben replies, talking to the two men and not John.
Ben takes a deep breath and John thinks maybe he sees the kid’s hands shaking.
“She won’t be coming back but it’s best to take precautions in case. I heard
rumours that we’re expecting Paimon soon.”
The men look at each other before bending down and lifting the body. “We’ll
make sure she’s taken care of,” one of them says. “And we’ll let Pastor Visser
know.”
The other man glances over John and Dean, looks back at Ben with a raised
eyebrow. “You can trust them,” Ben says, eyes taking in the entire restaurant,
addressing everyone inside of the building. “Hunters and smarter than the
others who’ve ridden into town.” He looks at John, but then turns back to
everyone else, and adds, “He’s not like the others,” in a tone of voice that
knows, beyond a shadow of doubt, that means he’s serious and has evidence to
back himself up. “He’ll stay here until this is done, one way or another.”
John can see Dean open his mouth, but the men nod and leave with the waitress’
body, and Ben slips out as fast and as silently as he’d entered. The rest of
the people in the diner go back to their food and conversations, as if the past
ten minutes had never happened. John gets chills thinking about what they must
see if they can treat this as commonplace.
“Dad,” Dean says quietly.
“I know,” John replies. “We’ll hit the books and call Bobby.”
--
Bobby doesn’t have much to tell them that John hasn’t already guessed. Paimon’s
another fallen Dominion, like Marchosias, and The Book of Raziel says that
Kokabiel can command one thousand different spirits for every day of every
year; neither of them are demons to play around with.
“This is bigger than I thought anything could be,” Bobby says. “There hasn’t
been a communion of demons on the planet like this since the seven deadly sins
threw a party in Europe during the Dark Ages. Even Hitler only bound two of the
Thrones and a Power to his service. Something’s going on down in Hell for it to
be this busy up here.”
John sighs, moves the phone slightly away from his mouth to repeat Bobby’s
words to Dean. To John’s pleased surprise, Dean just nods, goes back to
cleaning his guns.
“I know you said you don’t want me there,” Bobby says, “but I’m coming down.
I’ll call Ellen and let her know some of what’s going on; we should see if some
of the other hunters can make it, too.”
“I don’t want too many of them here,” John says, cutting off his friend. “The
town’s, well. I think I’d like it better if you were close but not here,
because things are definitely not what they seem. We saw a demon get exorcised
in a restaurant this afternoon; the host didn’t make it. Bobby, no one even
blinked.”
Bobby exhales and says, “Fine. I’ll hole up in the next town over. If I leave
within the hour, I can make it by midnight. I’ll call and you or Dean can come
‘round and fill me in. Agreed?”
“Agreed,” John says. “Drive safe.”
--
John waits for it to get dark, then picks up a spelled compass, puts on his
coat, and heads for the door.
“Where’re you going?” Dean asks, and when John turns to look, his son’s staring
at the television, as if the question doesn’t mean anything.
“Wait for Bobby to call and then go fill him in,” John says. “Keys are on the
table next to the phone.”
Dean turns at that, takes in the fact that John’s leaving on foot and without
his cell phone, and shakes his head. “Dad,” he says. “Dad, what the fuck are
you doing?”
John doesn’t answer, just leaves. Dean stands in the doorway and watches him
cross the parking lot, gravel crunching under his feet. He looks back before he
turns the corner, half-following the compass to the north side of town, the
river and the bridge, and Dean’s shut the door, probably locked it as well.
Not for the first time, John wonders what the hell he’s doing. He and Dean
never talk to each other like this, with any amount of openness and honesty,
usually have to deal with a certain sense of distance, of disconnect, to their
communication. That’s just one problem among many -- both of them are stubborn
and hard-headed and they both blame themselves for losing two people. John’s
made a habit of being hard on Dean but never harder than Dean’s been on
himself. Sometimes, when they’re lying in their own beds, John thinks that
maybe Dean deserves the bitterness he heaps upon himself.
John knows that Dean doesn’t, intellectually knows that there was nothing Dean
could have done to save his brother but that knowledge has never managed to
sink down to John’s heart, a place stopped up by the deaths of his wife and his
son, minutes apart from each other.
This case, it’s making it seem as if Dean’s in the hunt for more than just
revenge, for more than just another method of penance and punishment both, and
Dean’s not acting as cynical as usual. John would like to chalk it up to Ben
but thinks it has more to do with the number of demons present in this town,
the puzzles that keep surfacing and twining around each other. Dean’s off and
John’s off and maybe having Bobby around will be a good thing.
“I’d offer you a nickel for your thoughts,” someone says behind John, who drops
the compass, whirls, and draws a gun at the same time, glaring when he realises
he has the barrel aimed at a demon, ink-black eyes marring an otherwise pretty
face. “But I don’t have one and I doubt that would be enough to pay for them.”
“Which one are you?” John asks, taking a careful step back and debating the
wisdom of pulling out some Latin. “And why are you here?”
The woman, youngish with laugh lines around her mouth, inclines her head. “This
body has been named Elizabeth,” she replies, “but I think you’re asking for my
name, are you not, John Winchester?” She stops and John’s expecting anything
from her except what comes next. “Very well. In exchange for your cooperation,
I will tell you who I am and how to exorcise me.”
John frowns, takes another step backwards. “I don’t negotiate with demons,” he
growls. “I don’t cooperate with them.”
The demon laughs, claps her hands together once, twice. “You are as pleasing as
he said.” Before John can ask what that’s supposed to mean, she goes on, says,
“All I ask in return is that you allow me to lead you to the young master.”
“Why?” John asks, suspicious now. She might be Arioch but he doesn’t think so,
not when she reminds him more of the woman on the bridge, and he doesn’t know
why a demon would want him near Ben, not when the kid’s immersed in their plans
and power-plays.
She drops the amused look and her expression turns troubled, worried, as she
replies, “The young master is very ill. He trusts you. It is far too dangerous
to take him to the master, not in this condition. All I ask is that you follow
me to him and take care of him until he is recovered.”
John stares at the demon, trying to read any hint of duplicity in its black
eyes, but he can’t find any. “You swear that’s all you ask and that I won’t
come to any harm if I follow you?”
“This isn’t a trap, Winchester,” she says, almost sounding offended at the
implication. “I give you my word, you will come to no harm by my hand or with
my knowledge while we are in the same company.”
“The word of a demon isn’t something I exactly trust,” John says. “I’ve never
had reason to before. Why are you so concerned about the kid? Shouldn’t you be
following your master’s orders?”
She nods, folds her arms across her chest. “I am bound to follow certain orders
of my master’s, but I serve the young master. His welfare is my existence;
without him, I am return to hell. Do you agree?”
This case is fucking with John’s head, with his perception of things, with his
objectivity. He and Dean hunt demons, they don’t make deals with them, and,
yet, he finds himself saying, “I agree. Tell me who you are and how to get rid
of you, and I’ll follow.”
The woman looks relieved as she nods again, blond hair falling into her face.
She clicks her tongue impatiently, pushes the strand behind one ear. “I am
Eisheth Zenunim. The only way I can be forced out of a host is if I hear the
oratio contra luxuriam. Crucifixes, Holy Water, the rite of exorcism, none of
those have any effect on me.”
John raises an eyebrow but he lowers the gun and puts it back in his jeans,
takes out a rosary. His eyes glance to the compass on the ground, broken into
pieces. “Lead the way, Eisheth,” he says. She offers him a half-bow, and starts
moving west. John can’t believe he’s following her, but he does.
--
Eisheth leads John to an apartment not that far from the motel. The doorway’s
covered in runes and symbols that John’s never seen before and the walls are
littered with Latin and Greek.
“To keep out the others,” Eisheth says, seeing John studying the writing. “It
works for most of them. Now, come on. The young master is in my bedroom.”
John tears his eyes away from the walls, from what, apparently, is better than
salt at keeping out demons, and follows Eisheth down a narrow hallway to the
bedroom at the end. The door’s partially closed but John hears the harsh
breathing of a person in the middle of a fever coming from inside. He brushes
past Eisheth and opens the door, can’t help pausing and looking at Ben with
wide eyes when he sees the kid.
John had thought, earlier, at the diner, that Ben looked like he might’ve been
fighting off some type of cold, but now he looks like he’s seriously ill.
“A couple of his ribs were broken after you arrived in town,” Eisheth says,
moving next to the bed on John’s right, leaning over Ben. He wants to tell her
to move away, to leave the kid alone, but stops himself when he sees her
brushing Ben’s hair off of his forehead, using a rag to cool him down. “They
had been healing well, until Monday morning.”
John thinks of Ben’s screams, the way they sounded, and can’t make his feet
move. “What did they do to him?” he asks.
Eisheth doesn’t look at him as she replies, too busy fussing over Ben. John
never thought a demon could be that concerned about a human. He still doesn’t
really believe it. “He made a deal with Marchosias, three hours of play for the
safety of some human.” She sounds dismissive, but they both know she’s
referring to Dean, to the bargain Ben made for Dean. “Marchosias was up to his
usual tricks but he invited one of the others to join in. The young master is
fighting off an illness of some kind, something he was given down in the
basement. I’d take care of him but I can’t keep him here much longer, not
without someone coming to investigate, and there’s no way to protect him inside
of a hospital.”
Eisheth turns back to look at John, and this time he doesn’t even look at her
eyes, seeing naked desperation written all over her face. “Please,” she says.
“They’ll leave him alone if he’s with you.”
“Seems like you have a pretty decent set-up here,” John says, gesturing back at
the hallway, speaking of the runes and writing. He’s stalling but it’s more of
a show than anything; he’s itching to get closer to the bed, to take Ben far
away from all of this even as he knows how impossible that is. “How do you know
they won’t come?”
The demon smiles, and caresses Ben’s cheek. “The master has given orders that
no one is to touch you,” she says, and the words send chills down John’s spine.
“You belong to him and so does the young master. None would go against his
word, not in this, not even Lord Belial in all of his glory.”
Belial, now that’s one demon John’s heard of, and he stops at her mention of
him, feels his heart skip a beat. He and Dean, they’ve been sure that the
ringleader of all of this is a seraph, something big, and, oh, fuck, not even
Belial would argue with this demon?
Eisheth laughs, though the sound is strained, and says, “The master has
powerful allies, Winchester, and spins plans, plans inside of plans,” and John
realises he’d been speaking out loud. “Will you take him?”
There’s only one way John can answer: he reaches up, pinches the bridge of his
nose, and says, “Yeah. Yeah, I’ll take him.”
--
It doesn’t take long to get Ben back to the motel and tucked into bed. Dean’s
gone, as is the Impala; he left a note saying that Bobby’s arrived in the next
town, gave the name of the motel and the alias he’d checked in under. John
doesn’t expect Dean back until the next afternoon but texts his son and tells
him to steer clear of the motel room until John gives the all-clear.
That done, and ignoring the phone when it rings a few minutes later, John pulls
the chair up next to Ben’s bed, rolls his eyes at the stains and perches on the
edge of it gingerly. One hand reaches out then stops, hovering halfway between
John’s lap and Ben’s head, but there’s no one else around to see him, so John
lets his fingers brush Ben’s cheek, feeling for fever.
Ben shivers, turns his head and mutters something under his breath, something
that sounds like, “Daddy, please, no.”
John wants to kill someone. Instead, he stands, grabs the ice bucket and gets
halfway out of the door before he stops, sighing. He can’t leave the kid, not
now, maybe later, so he goes to the bathroom and fills the bucket with cold
water, picks up a washcloth, and sits back down.
--
John doesn't sleep. He sits next to Ben all night, getting up to refill the
bucket with cooler water when he has to, using the toilet at the same time so
he's not far away for very long. Ben's fever spikes before dawn and the kid's
dreams turn into delirious, disjointed ramblings as the sun rises.
Around noon, after hours of hearing Ben plead with his father to stop, hours of
hearing Ben beg demons and humans alike, just enough words for John to put two
and two together to come up with four, there's a knock at the door. John
brushes his hand over Ben's, murmurs, "I'll be right back," and picks up a gun.
"Who is it?" he calls out, once he's closer to the door.
"Hector, from the front desk," a man's voice answers. John peers through the
peephole, sees a familiar guy holding a package. Very carefully, gun to one
side and ready to shoot, John opens the door. Hector leans, says, "Hey, man,
just wanted to drop off a package. It came for you yesterday. I told your son,
but I guess he didn't pass the message on?"
John gives Hector a tight smile, reaches out for the box. It's wrapped in brown
paper, tied over with twine, and he recognises the writing, done in black
Sharpie. "Thanks," he says, and shuts the door on Hector's reply.
He waits for the man to leave, watching his shadow through the blinds, then
puts the gun down, exhales and turns back to the bed.
"Hurts, Markos, please," Ben's whimpering, hair plastered to his skin with
sweat. He'd be tossing and turning if the fever wasn't killing him. "Markos, I
know I, but, stop. Serviam, please, only stop."
John's fingers twitch; he longs to pick up his gun and exorcise the son of a
bitch, but he can't leave Ben. He stalks across the room, plants himself in the
chair, and doesn't hesitate to reach out, cover one of Ben's clammy hands with
his own. Ben tries to move away, but John doesn't let him.
--
He's not sure how long he sits there, like that, watching the kid, before he
remembers that there's a package on his lap. He tears his fingers away from
where they've entwined with Ben's and turns the box so that he can see the
return address. Cincinnati, right downtown, Aurelie's handwriting scrawled
across the paper -- John suddenly remembers that she'd said something about a
package coming in when he talked to her last week.
Frowning, John glances at Ben before reaching over for a knife and cutting the
twine off from around the box, slicing through the tape. He's not sure what to
expect, hasn't ever gotten a package like this before, and so he's almost
holding his breath when he finally tears the brown paper wrapping off and opens
the box.
Inside, there are a few rolled bandages cushioning something that John's never
seen before: it's a knife that looks as if it's been forged by hand out of
gold, with runes up and down the blade. John doesn't touch it, reaches instead
for the folded piece of paper along the edge of the box.
          John,
          Forgive me for not including food, but the spell covering
          this package could only go so far. The weapon is old and
          comes from my family in Haiti; it was brought to this
          region by an ancestor of ours from Africa, and has been
          handed down in our family since we can remember.
          This knife, John, comes from the fertile crescent and it
          will take care of your cherub with this caveat: the one who
          uses it must be the one most wronged by the fallen. Our
          thoughts are that, perhaps, the one who will someday wear
          your ring will also have the power to wield this and not be
          destroyed by it.
          Tell your oldest I said hello, and leave the child alone
          for a few minutes. He needs ice more than he needs your
          fretting. I daresay the break will do him good.
          Yours in faith,
          Aure.
John puts the letter back into the box, tucks it between rolls of bandages, and
stares at the knife. Nowhere, in all of his research, has he ever heard of a
knife that can kill demons, especially demons from the first circle. His eyes
flick in Ben's direction, thinking about Aurelie's near-order to get ice, and
moves the box to the floor, kicks it under the bed, before he stands up.
"I'll be right back," he says. Ben's eyelids flutter but nothing else changes.
John stands there, hesitates, but mutters a curse under his breath and picks up
the ice bucket before walking out of the room, gun tucked into his jeans.
He gets to the middle of the row, ducks into the alcove with the ice machine,
and can feel eyes on the back of his neck. With one hand pushing, with the
sound of cubes clattering into the bottom of the plastic bucket, John looks
around. He doesn't see anyone but that doesn't mean anything, not when demons
are involved. One hand casually reaches to scratch his back, and John trails
his fingers along the butt of the gun, action surreptitious, before he digs
into his back pocket and pulls out a small rosary.
Still feeling as if he's being watched, John takes the rosary out of his pocket
and winds the strands around his hand. With slow and careful movements, he
presses the cross against the ice machine and murmurs a blessing on it and its
contents before doing the same against his bucket, the ice already inside.
It can't fill fast enough for his taste, but then it's done. John looks around
again, walks to his room with his back to the wall; nothing's going to get the
drop on him. John holds the bucket in one hand while the other turns the
doorknob, and he's inside, got the door closed, before anything can make a move
towards him.
John turns, puts the bucket down on the table, and sees that Ben's bed is
empty. He feels his stomach plummet, breathes out, "Ben?" and then there's a
blur of motion in front of him.
"I won't let you!" Ben screams, starts and can't stop as he attacks John. His
hands beat against John's chest and if the kid hadn't been sick for so long, it
might actually hurt. As it is, John reaches up and grasps Ben's wrists with
little difficulty. That sets Ben off even more, though, as if he feels like
he's being held hostage. "Let me go, let me go! I hate you, I fucking hate you
all, I'm going to fucking kill all of you, I swear it, I'm going to send you
back to hell where you belong and kill you, I don't care, let me go!"
John looks, sees nothing but feverish madness in the kid's eyes, and can't help
the feeling of relief that wells up inside. Some sort of hyper delirium, then,
nothing more sinister than the sickness. "Shh," he whispers, pulling Ben
closer, holding him tight even through Ben's manic attempts to escape John's
grasp. "Ben, shh, it's me, it's all right. You're safe here, I promise. It's
John, just John, I promise."
When that doesn't help, starting to worry about Ben's muscles and body, already
weak from the infection, John starts reciting some of the Latin prayers, hoping
they'll help to calm him down. It's not a surprise when they do -- Ben thought
John was a demon, that much John is sure of, and no demon would be able to
listen to the wide range of prayers John's murmuring, not without a reaction of
some kind.
It takes time before Ben stops kicking and starts sobbing, fists caught in
John's shirt and clinging, his body going limp in John's arms. "I'm sorry,"
he's crying out, tears turning John's shirt wet. "I'm sorry, I'm not good
enough, not strong enough, I can't, I'm sorry, Daddy, please, I'm sorry."
John can't take much more of this, especially when the crying calms down and
the hitching breaths sound far too painful to be up and moving. He guides Ben
back to the bed, helps the kid get under the covers, and starts disentangling
himself.
"No," Ben whispers, eyes wide but unseeing. "Please don't leave me."
John wants to go back and get the ice bucket, wants to go hunt down some demons
and make them pay, but fresh tears start running down Ben's cheeks. John can't
move away. Without much more thought than needing to make things right, John
helps Ben scoot over, then settles on top of the comforter, one hand curled
into Ben's, the other propped under his head so he can look down and watch as
Ben slips back into sleep.
It doesn't take long for Ben to stop crying, doesn't take much time past that
for the kid to start breathing evenly, heavier, little echoes of rhythm along
the edge that speak of pained ribs. John counts Ben's exhales and the sound of
them lulls him into sleep.
--
He wakes up with a jerk and almost falls out of the bed. A double's plenty big
for him by himself, especially after having been awake for nearly twenty-four
straight hours, but clearly doesn't have enough room for him and a kid who's
almost sweated through the motel's idea of a comforter. A kid who's clinging to
him like he's trying to burrow his way into John and who's probably underage,
Jesus.
John rethinks the benefits of falling out of bed, especially when he realises
that Ben's got one knee curled right up in John's crotch and John's dick
doesn't seem to mind.
He rolls out of bed and stands up, unsteady on two feet, and watches as Ben
frowns in his sleep, trying to move closer to a person who isn't there.
"Not good," John mutters. "Not good at all."
John takes a shower in what must be water pumped straight in from an iceberg,
gets dressed in clean clothes, and sits down on the edge of the other bed,
unslept in and cold. He looks at Ben, shivering even though he's under as many
layers as he possibly can be, and suddenly starts to see everything that other
people have already noticed.
Before today, John would never have said he was attracted to the kid, probably
would have argued if someone said that his concern for Ben went beyond
propriety's boundaries. Sure, he's been drawn to Ben, feels for the kid, wishes
he could get Ben out of this miserable situation, but nothing that would even
hint at anything more.
Now, though, seeing this side of Ben, this vulnerable, emotional side, having
slept with the kid in his arms, knowing what it feels like to have Ben's hands
in his shirt, Ben's forehead under his lips, waking up with Ben's head tucked
under his chin, it scares John how different he feels. It scares John that he
can sit there and stare at a child and wonder what it might be like to take him
away from all of this, to protect him and keep him.
Ben shifts again, burying his face in John's pillow. John wants to see if the
kid feels any cooler, thinking that he looks like he's sleeping easier, maybe
the fever broke overnight, but after his little revelation, John's leery about
laying hands on Ben, touching him in any way. Still, there's only one way to
find out, so John leans over, cups his hand on the nape of Ben's neck, and
ignores the way his body reacts, ignores the way Ben gives off a pleased sigh.
He's still warm, though not, John thinks, as warm as the night before; ice
would probably be overkill, might even make it worse. He decides to dump out
the bucket, all of the ice melted and the water now room temperature, and
refills it with cool water from the bathtub, going back to Ben and running a
damp washcloth over the back of Ben's neck.
Ben moves to stretch, then curls in on himself, holding his chest. It's such a
far cry from that kid John met under the bridge, who'd walked up the bank with
his back ramrod-straight despite the pain, that John doesn't know how he feels.
"'M awake," Ben mutters, turning his head, blinking in John's direction. He
doesn't look awake, doesn't look as if he's back to healthy at all, but his
eyes are lucid enough. "Where 'm I?"
"Eisheth found me," John replies, taking the opportunity to get the washcloth
damp again and press it against Ben's forehead. "I brought you here, back to my
motel room. She said it would be safer."
Ben closes his eyes, opens them up again with something of a struggle. "F'cking
Winchester," he says. He stops, as if that's taking a moment to sink in, then
starts pawing ineffectually at the comforter. "Have to. Have to go home. Father
won't."
John bites back a growl but it's close. "You aren't leaving," he says, softness
of his voice doing nothing to hide the firmness. "You're staying here until the
fever wears off. Your father will just have to deal with that."
Ben closes his eyes, but doesn't argue. "Eisheth?"
John's not sure if that's a question or if Ben thinks the demon's still around,
maybe even possessing John. "She drove us here, then left," John says. "She
tracked me down, was worried about you."
"Eisheth," Ben whispers, then, before John can feel jealous of a fucking demon,
the kid on the edge of falling back to sleep, "John."
--
Dean calls twice, Bobby once, but John doesn’t answer his phone until he sees a
Cincinnati area code.
“Aurelie, what the hell’s going on?” John asks, his only greeting.
The witch on the other end laughs, says, “If I didn’t know better, I’d think
you were ‘olding your phone and waiting for my call. John, you must relax.”
John doesn’t hold back the snarl, but it only makes Aurelie laugh more before
she sighs. “Oh, John. ‘E ‘as turned you upside down, ‘asn’t ‘e. I warned you.”
“You didn’t warn me about anything,” John says, cutting her off. “Aurelie, you
gave me charms and never explained them, you told me to feed him and never said
you were playing fucking matchmaker, you sent me a knife and you expect Ben to
use it?”
“So ‘e is the one who ‘olds your ‘eart?” she asks.
John can imagine the raised eyebrow on her face, the curl of her lip. He wants
to punch her smile away, thinks about taking the washcloth off of Ben’s
forehead and wiping his own face down but knows it won’t help. “Aurelie,” he
says, “Aurelie, usually I can ignore it when you get cryptic, but this? Come on
already.”
She sighs, says, “Keep ‘im safe, John. And for the sake of everything ‘oly,
don’t turn ‘im away just to ease your conscience. You want ‘im, so wait for ‘im
to get better, then keep ‘im around. If you send ‘im away and ‘e knows you
don’t mean it, you might as well ‘and the entire planet to the cherub.”
He skips a breath, looks at Ben, and asks, “Ben’s that important? We guessed
that he’s a name-giver, and he’s being trained for something, but.” John trails
off; it’s hard to believe that the kid huddled up under the blankets and
looking washed out could be the literal key to hell on earth.
“’E is the beacon,” Aurelie says. “And ‘e knows the power ‘e ‘olds. Why do you
think ‘e knows all of the ‘unters in town, ‘mm?”
“In case he gives in,” John whispers. “In case they get to him. He’s asked them
all to kill him?”
Aurelie hums, says, “If it comes down to it. Now, John, ‘e’ll want a bath when
‘e wakes up. I’ve called for food, it should arrive once he’s done.”
She hangs up before John can say anything else. One of these days, he swears
he’s going to get the last word.
--
Ben wakes up an hour later, slowly. John’s sitting on the other bed, making a
conscious effort to not keep looking at the kid bundled under the covers,
sweating out the last of his fever, and losing miserably; he notices the
instant Ben shifts out of sleep. John gets up, goes into the bathroom and
starts running a lukewarm bath, then leans in the doorway and watches the kid.
John tries not to smile, fondly or otherwise, as Ben makes a displeased noise
at the amount of sunlight coming in through the blinds, moves around and tries
to hide under the blanket. He can’t help the smile, though, as Ben emerges with
a distinctly grumpy face and bleary eyes, hair mussed and sticking up every
which way.
“Good morning,” John says. “Sleep well?”
“Feel like a fucking wrung out dishrag,” Ben mutters. He rubs at his eyes, then
pushes himself up, barest hint of a grimace on his face at what must be awful
pain from his ribs. “Where the fuck am I?”
John snorts, says, “I guess you don’t remember that conversation, then.” Ben
glares, and John gives in, actually gives in. “This is my motel room. Mine and
Dean’s, actually, but he’s.” Ben’s glare ratchets up a notch and John sighs,
changes the track of his sentence. “Anyway, I went out looking for you and
Eisheth found me, told me you were sick, and convinced me to take you in until
you’re feeling better.”
Ben’s still glaring but now there’s a hint of something else under the
expression, resignation or fear, something along those lines. “Eisheth’s a
bitch,” Ben says, tone conversational. “Let me get a bath and I’ll get out of
your way. Your son can’t be too happy about me taking up his space.”
John crosses his arms and replies mildly, “You’re not exactly well yet. And
that’s not Dean’s bed.”
The look that crosses Ben’s face comes and goes too fast for John to decipher,
but he’s sure it meant something important.
“You slept with me last night,” Ben says.
He’s waiting for John to argue that, to disagree or justify the statement, but
John’s already talked to a witch today: he’s been warned. “I did,” he says, a
simple agreement. He’s wary of pushing too far, still can’t believe he’s
actually thinking about taking Aurelie’s advice, but Ben looks caught between
grouchy and tired. It’s so much more adorable than anything John’s seen before
apart from Mary, wearing the same look, and it makes his chest tight. “I’d do
it again tonight, too, if the damned bed was any bigger.”
Ben’s eyes narrow. He reaches up, brushes hair off of his forehead, and is
looking at John as if he’s not sure whether this is a joke or a method to
placate him. “Christo,” Ben says, head tilted. “Gloria Patri.”
John laughs, looks down at the floor and shakes his head. “I’m not possessed,”
he says, looking back at the kid in his bed. “And the water’s getting cold.
Come on, get in the bath and get clean, and then I want to find out how good
your Latin is.”
“My Latin’s perfect,” Ben says, bristling as he climbs out of bed, untangling
his limbs from the sheets. “I’m fluent.” He stands there, stretches, and when
he sees that John’s eyes are caught on the strip of skin visible between boxers
and t-shirt, purrs, “Bet I’m better than anyone you’ve met before.” Ben brushes
past John, unceremoniously shoves him out of the way to close and lock the
bathroom door.
Despite the demons, the case, Dean and Bobby in the next town, the heat curling
in his belly, John laughs.
--
Ben makes noise about leaving but John merely raises an eyebrow then looks over
at the table, covered with Bobby’s books and a pizza oozing with cheese and
dotted with pineapple chunks. Ben’s glare as he sits down is half-hearted at
best.
“The fuck am I supposed to be doing with these?” he asks, after he’s
practically inhaled one piece of pizza and is working his way steadily through
a second. John remembers the way Dean ate when he was this age, on the far
edges of puberty but still getting taller by the hour, and glances Ben over,
drawing the conclusion that, despite whatever his childhood’s been like,
there’s a good chance that Ben’ll end up as tall as Dean, maybe even taller.
Dean’s going to love that.
John walks over, looks over Ben’s shoulder at the first text, an extant copy of
the Liber Luratas, and puts it aside, pulls out The Book of Watchers, watching
for Ben’s reaction. The kid doesn’t react at all. “Translate the parts of it we
can’t,” John says.
Ben snorts, looks up through long eyelashes and says smoothly, “John
Winchester, I can quote The Book of Enoch backwards and forwards in three
different languages. If you’re going to test me, then fucking test me.”
John thinks about doing it, about sitting there and quizzing Ben on everything,
to see how much Ben knows, but he remembers the way Alan Visser looked at him,
remembers what Ben’s said before, remembers the things Ben said during his
fever, and can’t bring himself to do it.
“We actually can’t translate part of the Watchers,” John admits. “We think some
of it’s wrapped up with Kabbalistic notions and there aren’t many of us who
know about Kabbalah beyond the Tree of Life permutations. We’re hunters, not
scholars, and all of our researchers stick to more practical things. What we do
know hasn’t helped.”
Ben nods, wipes his hands off and starts flipping through the text with a
reverence that John’s surprised to see. Growing up with texts like these, he
assumed Ben’d be used to them. He asks about it and Ben can’t seem to tear his
eyes away from the pages in front of him.
“My father never let me touch them,” he says, glancing over a list of fallen
angels and turning to the next page. He sounds distant, as if he’s giving most
of his attention to the text. “We worked from printed out copies.”
John leans over, turns the pages, and shows Ben a paragraph, asks, “Can you
tell me what that means?” It’s something that no one in the hunter’s history
has ever managed to make sense of, early on in the text, and John’s filled with
anticipation at the thought that they’ll finally get an answer.
Ben stands up, slipping around John, and stands in front of the window, arms
folded across his chest. “It’s not important,” he says.
John frowns, looks back at the book, and asks, “What does it say, Ben?”
“It’s not,” Ben starts to say, before he huffs and turns around, face
implacably blank. “And I proceeded to where things were chaotic. And I saw
there something horrible: I saw neither a heaven above nor a firmly founded
earth, but a place chaotic and horrible. And there I saw seven stars of the
heaven bound together in it, like great mountains and burning with fire,” Ben
quotes. “Enoch asks about it and Uriel answers, says that it’s about the fallen
angels being bound on earth. My father said differently.”
Ben turns back to the window and John’s puzzled, can’t figure out why this
passage seems to upset Ben. He thinks it over, mouths the words again, what he
can remember, but nothing makes sense. John crosses the room, stands behind
Ben, tentatively puts one hand on Ben’s shoulder.
“What does your father say it’s about?” he asks.
Ben exhales, tenses as if he expects John to step back and away once he speaks,
and says, “He says it’s about me.” When John doesn’t respond, Ben adds, “He
says that the place, chaotic and horrible? It’s something I bring about, a
literal hell on earth with the seven princes of hell bound on the surface until
I free them. He says it’s about the Lightbringer coming to the surface,
beginning His reign of terror.”
John’s hand on Ben’s shoulder tightens, and he spins Ben around, hates the way
the kid looks beaten down and furious at the same time. Without any thought,
John pulls Ben into his arms and holds him tight. “I won’t let that happen,” he
promises. “You won’t let that happen. You’ve been making plans so it won’t
happen and it won’t, I swear it.”
“Fuck you,” Ben hisses, pushing his way out of John’s hold, looking, for all
that he’s a human teenager, like a spitting cat. “Fuck. You. You think you’re
here now, so suddenly everything’ll be better, like it’s magic? No fucking way.
You have no idea and you never will. You’re just a fucking pretender,
Winchester. Fuck you and fuck your son and stay the hell away from me.”
It must be the first time in John’s entire life that he’s actually thankful
Dean was such a pain in the ass to raise. He’s not fazed by Ben’s words, can
look past the profanity and the anger to the kid underneath the words.
“My wife was killed by a demon,” John says, as calmly as he can. “Pinned to the
ceiling and sacrificed in a blaze of flame. And my baby son died as a result of
that same fire not ten minutes later. I’ve been hunting ever since and I raised
my son to do the same. When a Winchester says he’s going to do something, he
does it and that’s the end of it. Now, you can either believe your father or
you can believe me, but you can’t believe both of us. You’re going to have to
choose, Ben, and I think you already have, somewhere.”
“He’ll kill you,” Ben says, in much the same tone, the anger swallowed down and
hidden somewhere. It’s a mastery of emotional control, an amazing ability that
even John can envy. “You think losing one person to a demon is something? The
demons I was raised with would consider that nothing, not even an appetiser in
a course of destruction. I’m not being glib, John: you literally have no idea
what they can do.”
John steps closer, opens his hands and arms, and says, “Then tell me.”
Ben sighs, looks away for a split second, but it’s enough and they both know
it. John reaches out, touches Ben’s arm, and when Ben glances at him, John
says, “Sit down. You’re still getting over that fever. What was that, by the
way?”
A wry smile cracks its way across Ben’s face and he shrugs, makes his way back
to the chair at the desk, sitting down with a sigh and rubbing his chest.
“No, come on, what was it,” John needles, sitting on the edge of the closest
bed. He adds, more seriously, “Eisheth said something about the basement, about
Markos and a different demon?”
Ben’s jaw clenches but he doesn’t otherwise react except to say, “Gressil was
there.” At John’s look of incomprehension, Ben rolls his eyes. “Gressil, the
fallen Throne, the demon of uncleanliness and impurity? Fuck, do you know
anything about the demons you’re hunting?”
“Look, Ben,” John snaps back, “we had no idea there were this many demons here,
especially such high-ranking ones. It’s not like we’ve had any help naming
them.”
“You’ve been here for days,” Ben argues, leaning forward, eyes focused and
narrowed. “What the fuck have you been doing all this time? Just perving on me?
And what about Dean, huh? Has he been spending all of his time fucking whores
and drinking?”
John’s perilously close to raising a hand to the kid and Ben seems to know it,
because he leans back, smile on his face.
“We have a knife,” John says. Ben looks as if he’s about to interrupt, but John
adds, “One that can kill the damned cherub in charge of everything here.”
Ben pales, lips parting. John can’t decide whether he wants to smirk in triumph
or kiss the look off of Ben’s face. He grits his teeth, stands up and stalks to
the other side of the room. When he turns around, Ben’s watching him with
almost clinical curiosity.
“You want me,” Ben says, like it’s nothing more than a fact. “Why don’t you act
on it?”
John swallows, has Aurelie’s words playing on repeat in the back of his mind.
“Because you’re ill,” John says, “and because it’s going to take me some time
to get used to that fact. How old are you?”
Ben smiles, looks down with false coyness, and says, “I turned seventeen in
May, so over the age of consent, if that’s what you were worried about.”
Something in his expression shifts, though, and he asks, “What do you mean,
used to that fact?”
The kid’s used to tricking, John reminds himself. He’s used to bargaining with
his body, probably used to treating it like more of a weakness than anything
else, so it shouldn’t surprise John that Ben’s baffled by John’s reluctance.
“I was married for seven years,” John says slowly, “and I’ve never considered.”
He stops, tries to decide how to explain the way he’s feeling, the way that Ben
makes him feel. “It’s been a long time since I’ve, since the last time I had
sex with another man. And you’re younger than my son. It’s going to take some
time until I can reconcile all of this with the fact that I.”
“That you want to fuck me,” Ben says. His eyes are gleaming as he says, “That
you want to throw me against a wall, or push me down to my knees, or bend me
over the nearest flat surface.” Ben licks his lips, smiles. “Sounds like fun,
Winchester.”
John shakes his head and tears his eyes away from the teenager. “You’re ill.
Tell me about Gressil.”
Ben mutters something about breaking the mood that John ignores, looking back
at the kid with an expression that means business. Ben sighs, leans back in his
chair, and lets one hand play with the binding on The Book of Watchers.
“Gressil’s a bastard and he’s usually pretty harmless.”
“But?” John asks, pushing.
“But after a few hours with Markos, it’s not like I could put up much of a
fight,” Ben finally says, tone a combination of fatigue and fury. “Look, Markos
might be a Dominion, might be second sphere, but my father trusts him as much
as anyone can trust a demon. I’m not sure what he has on Markos, but the demon
serves as my father’s second-in-command.”
John debates his next question, trying to decide if he should push for a full
listing of the demons hanging around the town, but instead asks, “Is your
father possessed?” Ben’s lips press together and thin, turn white. “Ben?”
Ben looks away, says, “The demon comes and goes, but there’s not much
difference, possessed or not.”
“The demon that possesses him,” John asks, “is it a cherub?”
Ben opens his mouth to answer, then closes it, looks at John with tilted head
and narrowed eyes. “You said something earlier about a knife,” he says. “And a
cherub. You think there’s a fallen cherub in charge of all this. In fact, you
seemed pretty sure about it. So that must mean you think my father’s in charge,
with the cherub working through him.” John nods once, cautiously, and is
vaguely surprised when Ben laughs. “Who told you it was a cherub?”
“What makes you think I didn’t put it together myself, with Dean?” John asks in
return. It’s sad to think, but he’s actually enjoying the verbal exchange, the
look of challenge on Ben’s face and in Ben’s posture doing nothing but bringing
John to full attention, every cell in his body focused on the kid.
Ben snorts, and the sound has John narrowing his own eyes, studying Ben. “You
don’t know anything about the hierarchy or how it works,” Ben says, echoing
some of his words from earlier. “You’ve never met my father and the other
demons shift enough so that you’d never know who’s up here on the surface.
Unless someone else told you, you’d assume it was a seraph. Hunters always
assume the worst.”
John nods, admits to it. “I did, yes. I have a friend in Ohio who told me, the
same one who sent me the knife.” John pauses, decides to take a chance. “There
are runes all over the blade but they aren’t anything I’ve ever seen before.
Would you like to see it, see if you recognise them?”
Ben looks hesitant at the mention of the knife again, then deep in thought
after John’s offer. “Ohio,” he says, as if seeking confirmation, purses his
lips when John nods again. He looks as if he’s trying to trace something and he
doesn’t react when John shifts, moves to reach under the bed and pull out the
box.
John knocks the lid off, offers the box to Ben even though some part of him
desperately wants to keep Ben away from the knife, what it might mean. Ben
blinks, looks down, and turns ghost-white as he stands up, knocking the chair
down in his hurry to move away.
“Put it away,” Ben whispers, eyes locked on the knife. “Please, put it away, te
deprecor.”
Unsure as to why Ben’s reacting the way he is, John cradles the box to his
chest and closes the lid, watching with confused eyes as Ben drops to his
knees, touches his head to the floor, and starts whispering something. John
slides the box back under the bed, then goes over to Ben, puts one hand on the
kid’s shoulder and leans down, finally hearing the words.
“…remitte mihi, Pater, remitte mihi, ne simul perdas me cum iniquitatibus meis
neque in aeternum iratus reserves mala mihi,” Ben’s muttering over and over
again. At first John thinks that the kid’s reciting the Prex Manasse, but then
he hears the subtle differences and realises that Ben’s praying to his father.
“Stop,” John says, voice firm, shocked but firm. He takes Ben by the kid’s
shaggy head of hair, yanks backwards so he can see Ben’s face, says it again.
“Stop, Ben. Don’t you dare call on a damned cherub, not while you’re with me,
not in my room.”
Ben inhales, air hissing between his teeth, and yanks his head away from John’s
touch. “How did you get that?” he growls, snarling when John reaches out again.
“How the fuck did you, of all people, get your hands on that knife?”
John sits back on his heels and raises an eyebrow. “I told you already. I have
a friend in Ohio.”
“Who,” Ben demands, moving forward, ducking around John’s arms to stand right
in front of him, yell right in John’s face. “Tell me, John. Who’s this friend?”
“She’s a witch,” John says.
As John says her name, Ben’s eyes narrow and he steps back, echoing John.
“Aurelie,” Ben says, voice flat. “You’re friends with Aurelie Bontecou.
Friends. And she had the knife all along.” Ben nods, as if that answers a
question, and steps back again, away from John.
“Ben, what’s the knife got to do with anything?” John asks. He makes a move
forward, but Ben shakes his head, tells John to stay away from him.
“What else has she given you?” Ben asks, walking backwards, hand searching for
the doorknob.
John reaches out, can’t hide the confusion, the desperation, at the thought
that Ben might leave. The kid’s not well, John has too many questions, and he
wants to know what the hell is up with this knife.
“She gave me some charms, a few devices, spelled compasses.” He doesn’t say
anything about the ring, not yet.
“That’s how you found me, wasn’t it,” Ben says. “Those damned compasses. I bet
the needles shatter when you get close, right? And there’s a way to keep them
from doing that but she didn’t tell you how.”
John frowns, rubs his forehead. “Would you sit down?” he asks. “Please?” Ben
doesn’t move, not that John thought he would, but it was worth a try. “Aurelie
made the compasses, yes, and they shatter. I’ve broken three since Dean and I
got into town, though one of those I dropped when Eisheth was looking for me.”
He half thinks that maybe Ben’s going to be distracted by the mention of the
demon, but Ben doesn’t look at all like he acknowledges John’s suggested change
of subject. “How did you know about the compasses?”
Ben rolls his eyes and says, “Because my father came up with the design.”
John’s blood runs cold and he can’t respond. Ben sighs, says, “He decided they
were far too troublesome and unreliable, so he leaked the plans to some of the
hunters around Chicago. He didn’t care what happened to the design, whether
anyone used it or not.”
“She said they were the most complicated things she ever created,” John says,
shaking his head once, as if he can’t believe what he’s hearing. He can’t.
The kid’s giving John a look as if he thinks John’s an absolute idiot; at this
point, John almost agrees. “She did create them, Winchester. All he leaked was
the design and the underlying theory. She had to put them together, attach the
spells to the metal, make sure it worked in practice.”
John breathes out, turns around, tries to align the obvious distaste Ben has
for Aurelie with his own fond exasperation for the witch. “What about the
knife?” he asks. “Will you tell me anything about the knife?”
“You don’t need to know anything about it,” Ben says firmly. John turns back to
face the kid, face a picture of surprise, he knows, but he can’t help it. “Keep
it under the bed, keep it in the box, don’t tell your son anything about it, or
anyone else. That thing will get you killed faster than you poking around my
father’s business and home. If any of them were to find out you have that.”
Ben trails off, stops and shakes his head. John looks closer, can see the kid’s
pale, almost shaking under the bravado, and he curses internally. “All right,”
he says. “Forget the knife. You’re still not over the fever. You need rest.”
Ben looks ready to argue, so John raises his voice over the inevitable protests
and says, “You get into bed, I’ll let you read one of those books for an hour.”
Ben snarls, wordless, but moves for John’s bed and perches like a cornered
tiger on the mattress. “In it,” John orders.
He watches as Ben bares his teeth but pulls his body onto the mattress, plumps
a pillow and sits up, bringing the sheet up to his lap. John nods, satisfied,
and asks which book Ben wants. “The Book of Raziel,” Ben replies, half-
question. John picks up the text, hands it over to Ben, and sits down, watching
as the kid touches the tome with reverence, turning the pages carefully,
stroking the paper in a way that makes John want to shift in his chair.
It doesn’t take long before Ben’s yawning, eyelids fluttering, and John takes
the book from Ben’s hands. Ben doesn’t even argue, just curls up, scooting to
one side of the mattress, clearly leaving space for John.
John places the book on the desk, looks at his phone, then his bed, and goes
into the bathroom. He doesn’t come out for half an hour, by which time Ben’s
already sleeping.
***** Chapter 4 *****
Instead of getting into bed with Ben the way he wants to, John sits down at the
desk and takes out the sheet of paper from days ago, Marchosias and Arioch’s
names scrawled across the top. He adds a few to the list, Paimon and Eisheth,
Gressil and Kokabiel, then, at the bottom, writes ‘fallen cherub?’ and circles
it, underlines the circle.
John leans back, looks at the six names and leans forward, resting his forehead
on one palm. He honestly has no idea where to start. Ben was right: for all
that John’s one of the best hunters out there, he knows nothing about the
demonic hierarchy, no clue as to how it works or where he might even find
someone else who knows, other than the teenager currently sleeping in his bed.
Or, he realises, maybe Aurelie.
At the thought, John looks over at Ben, frowns as he remembers how Ben talked
about the witch. It’s another mystery, really, because there’s no reason for
Ben, who has always lived here, to know about Aurelie, who she is and where she
lives, much less what she does. There’s even less reason for him to feel so
obviously opposed to her.
“You knew about the compasses,” John says quietly, watching Ben. “You knew she
could make them, you didn’t even doubt that. How?”
With all of the questions John has, he might as well make a list. Between the
hierarchy and Ben’s reaction to Aurelie, not to mention what the deal with the
damned knife is, the kid’s practically swimming in questions and doesn’t seem
inclined to answer any of them.
John takes a breath, decides he needs to get some space, and opens the door to
the motel room. He looks, carefully, picks up a gun and a rosary even though he
doesn’t see anything, and steps outside, leaving the door’s lock turned so that
the door can’t close him out. Times like these, John almost wishes he smoked;
that would give him an excuse to be out here, something to do with his hands.
As it is, he merely leans against the wall, hands in his pockets, and breathes
deeply.
A noise from the parking lot has John crouched to the ground and aiming his
gun; it turns out to be nothing more than a squirrel, looking back at him. John
exhales, stands up, puts the gun away. He’s far too on edge and he knows this,
but something about the kid inside has him tense and wired, simultaneously
tired and humming with energy, which worries him even more than anything else.
To think he’s attracted to someone younger than his own son, that would be the
same age as.
“No,” he mutters to himself, taking a deep breath and rubbing his eyes with the
heels of his palms. “No.” He’s half-inclined to tell himself to get over it,
but then he remembers Aurelie’s words, that Ben is the only thing holding back
hell’s advent, and the look on Ben’s face as he quoted from The Book of
Watchers and then prayed to a fallen cherub, the demon possessing his father.
In that moment, John makes a split-second decision. He won’t ignore it any
longer. He won’t justify it or try to hide it, he won’t be ashamed of it or
deny it. He wants Ben, wants him the way he hasn’t wanted another human being
since Mary died, pinned to the ceiling and screaming. He’ll be honourable about
it but he’ll be damned before he lets Ben go.
John sneaks back inside, picks up his phone and goes outside to make a call.
The phone doesn’t ring twice before Dean’s on the other end, saying, “Dad? Dad,
are you all right? What the hell’s going on?”
For once, John doesn’t mind the rapid-fire interrogation. It sounds good to
hear his son’s voice, one steady island in the midst of this massive confusion
Ben seems to leave everywhere in his wake. “I’m fine, Dean. There’ve been some
complications.”
“The kid, right,” Dean says, almost sounding tired. “It has to do with the kid.
What’s happened now? Have you.”
Dean stops, but John knows what his son was about to ask, would have to be
stupid not to at this point. Dean’s probably known the direction of John’s
feelings since the beginning. “No, I haven’t slept with him. Yet. But that’s
only indirectly related to why I sent you away.” Dean makes some token protest,
but John says his son’s name, once, in a tone that Dean knows very well and
always listens to. Once it’s silent, John goes on. “He’d been infected by a
throne of pestilence in the basement on Monday. One of the demons who owes its
allegiance to Ben, not his father, asked me to take care of him.”
“Dad,” Dean says. “Dad. Wait. A demon asked you to babysit and you agreed? You
sent me away so you could play nurse?”
John can hear noise on the other end of the telephone connection, can hear
Bobby’s voice, indistinct, until Bobby’s talking to him instead of Dean.
“Tell me what’s happened, John,” Bobby says. The tone of his friend is cautious
but willing to hear John out; John’s never been more relieved that Bobby got
into the hunting business as well.
“One of the fallen thrones infected the kid here, the name-giver I was telling
you about.” John pauses, waits for Bobby to say he remembers, and can’t help
the small smile that crosses his face at the sound of Bobby’s affirmative. “I
went out looking for Ben, the kid, and a different demon, Eisheth Zenunium,
tracked me down and asked me to take care of him until he recovered, said
something about how it wouldn’t be safe to take the kid back to his father
while he was ill. That’s what I’ve been doing. His fever’s broken and he’s
tired but getting better. I wanted to let you both know it was safe to come
back and that there are other things I want to talk to you about once you get
here.”
Bobby hums and John can picture the other hunter sitting there, taking in
everything John’s said and digesting it, trying to make sense of it and
examining it from every angle. “Eisheth Zenunium’s a demon of prostitution,
John,” Bobby finally says.
There’s a snort from Dean, something that comes through loud and clear, and
John rolls his eyes. “I know, Bobby, and whatever you’re thinking isn’t the way
it happened.”
“Dean’s been saying some pretty interesting stuff about this name-giver,” Bobby
says, halfway changing the subject. “Things like he grew up in a house of
demons, makes deals to save humans by bargaining with his body, tricks on the
outside and gets beat half to death on the inside.”
There’s an inherent question inside of that recitation, Bobby wanting to know
the same thing as Dean: does John know what he’s getting himself into? John
sighs, finally says, “There’s more you two don’t know. Come back in the morning
and we’ll talk, all of us, but not until then. I want Ben to get some sleep.”
Silence, another long pause, and John’s about ready to ask if Bobby’s still
there when the other hunter says, “All right. We’ll pick up some food on the
way, be at yours ‘round lunchtime.” As Bobby hangs up, John can hear Dean’s
voice in the background.
After John shuts his phone off, he takes one last breath of night air, then
goes back inside. He locks the door, activates the wards on the room and pours
another layer of salt before kicking off his boots, using the toilet and
washing his hands, face. The room’s dark when he goes back inside, shutting off
the bathroom light, and he waits for his eyes to acclimate before taking
another step.
He crawls into bed with Ben, tucks a gun under the pillow, and pulls Ben’s back
flush to his chest, taking comfort in the warmth and feel of another body. John
closes his eyes, counts the rhythm of Ben’s heartbeat, under his palm, and
falls asleep.
--
John’s not quite sure what wakes him up. He measures his breath, tries to
listen for something that’s changed, that might be moving or trying to sneak up
on him, and shifts as normally as he can, like he’s still asleep and not
repositioning so that he can grab hold of his gun.
“I know you’re awake,” a familiar voice says, and John opens his eyes glaring,
catching sight of Ben sitting on the other bed, surrounded by books, bookmarks
of various types sticking out from between pages. He doesn’t look as if he’s
been up long enough to have gone through all of the books haphazardly, not with
his hair mussed-up and sticking every which way, bangs covering eyes still
half-crinkled with sleep. Ben’s holding a cigarette in his left hand, tapping
ashes into an ashtray that Dean’s hardly looked at.
It hits John that Ben’s not even legally old enough to buy a pack on his own.
John tries not to think about it, doesn’t say anything about it, instead
pushing himself up and stretching as he asks, “What’ve you been looking at?” He
doesn’t have his eyes closed, trying to take in the picture Ben makes, sitting
there so easily, so he sees when Ben’s eyes move down John’s body as if
wondering what might be hiding under the clothes and how he should go about
finding out. “Besides me,” John adds, laughing when Ben’s eyes snap back to
John’s face and the kid sticks out his tongue.
“You’re awfully full of yourself this morning,” Ben retorts, almost cattily.
John briefly flirts with the idea of making some joke out of it, that or
calling up some sort of innuendo, but Dean’s always had the quicker tongue
between the two of them. John almost winces at the thought of Dean trying to
hold his own against Ben in a verbal battle, then shakes it off; there’ll be
time enough later and plenty of it to deal with that inevitable confrontation.
Something inside of him almost warms at the thought of Ben being around for
that long, and this time John doesn’t ignore the feeling, doesn’t push it away.
“What?” Ben asks, this time hesitant. When John raises an eyebrow, Ben says,
“You’re smiling. It makes you look like an idiot. Or maybe like your son, but
that wouldn’t exclude being called an ‘idiot,’ he adds, pretending
contemplation, as if he isn’t watching John for a reaction.
“Dean will be coming back here today,” John says. He glances at the clock, not
before he sees all expression except a measure of hard resignation wiped from
Ben’s face. “Him and another hunter, a friend of ours who’s much better versed
in demonic hierarchies and histories. I think you’ll get along with him.”
Ben’s eyes narrow and he holds John’s look before taking his eyes off of John
and settling them on the books. “A friend of yours,” he echoes, before nodding
once. He grinds the cigarette into the ashtray, then reaches down, swiftly
removes all of the makeshift bookmarks from one book before moving to the next.
John’s not sure what provoked this reaction but he knows, knows beyond a shadow
of a doubt, that Ben’s doing something with those marked pages, looking for
something important. “Hey,” he says, starting to get concerned as Ben removes
all of the bookmarks from a second book, then a third. “Ben, what are you
doing?”
“Considering the people you call friends,” Ben says, voice as sharp as the
action required to divest two more books of their placeholders, “I’d rather not
take my chances. I’ll be out of here in a few minutes; give me time to piss and
put my shoes on.”
“No,” John says, voice firm. Ben doesn’t pause in what he’s doing; he rips the
next bookmarks out almost violently and flings the book away, not taking any
care with it like he had the night before. John winces as it lands on the floor
with a thump, seeing enough of the cover to know that it’s Bobby’s copy -- a
priceless copy -- of the second codex from the Nag Hammadi library. “Ben, stop.
You’re behaving like a child. Tell me what the problem is or take it out on me,
not the books.”
Ben looks up and the expression in his eyes makes John’s heart skip a beat and
not out of fear. The kid looks furious, bringing back to John’s mind the image
of a spitting, hissing cat; the bared teeth and sharply tense muscles don’t do
much to change that.
“Take it out on you,” Ben says, a small, cruel smile crossing his lips. “I
don’t think you could handle that, Winchester.”
“Oh, so now I’m back to Winchester, am I?” John counters, starting to feel
angry himself. “Awfully formal for someone you’ve slept with twice now.”
Ben’s smile only widens, his eyes glittering. “And you asked me permission
neither of those times.” His words are whip-crack sharp, and John freezes. He
never thought of that, not after Ben’s question the night before, that too-calm
inquiry into why John hasn’t acted on his desires. Even after the first night,
Ben had jumped to the assumption that John was possessed and hadn’t said
anything about his own feelings. Ben had never said he wanted John, never said
it was all right for John to pursue him.
As if Ben’s following the track of John’s thoughts, he snorts, looks away,
almost disgusted, the cruel playfulness of his expression gone in a matter of
seconds. John frowns, confused at more than just the switch; he’s half-thinking
now that maybe it’s a very good thing Dean’s not nearly so advanced in
controlling his body language.
“You’re far too moral for a hunter,” Ben says, looking back at John. “After
all, you never know whether you’ll survive the day or not. Wouldn’t it be
better to take what you want instead of pining for it?”
John glares, folds his arms across his chest. “That’s not how I live,” he says.
“That’s not who I am.”
“Saving the world, one hooker at a time,” Ben says, voice a maelstrom of
mockery. He sighs, though, and rolls his eyes. “John. If you’re serious about
the things you want, sometimes you have to realise that they come used. If you
can’t take the time to figure out the quirks, you might be better trading in
for a different model.”
“Car analogies,” John says, trying to keep a straight face. He can’t, though,
and Ben must see something, a tell-tale quirk of a lip or some crinkling around
John’s eyes, because Ben cracks a grin as well. “You’re comparing yourself to a
car?”
Ben steps closer, tilts his head and purrs, “If that car you’ve been chasing me
around town in is any indication, you have exceptional taste.” He reaches out
with one hand, places one fingertip in the hollow of John’s neck and trails
downwards, resting lightly on John’s belt. “The analogy holds, at any rate,” he
adds, grinning again and stepping back.
John takes a minute to find his breath and get his heart started. “You don’t
like Aurelie, fine,” he finally says. “This friend’s a hunter. A good one.”
There’s a knock on the door; Ben turns, glancing at it over his shoulder,
before looking back at John. “Trust me,” John asks.
Ben nods, but warns John, “You only get one chance, Winchester.” At John’s
look, Ben exhales, looks momentarily at the ceiling. “John.”
“Thank you,” John replies, quietly, sure he knows how much of a sacrifice Ben’s
making, how much of a risk he’s taking. Instead of making a big deal out of it,
John goes to the door, opens it and then steps back so that he can see both the
people walking in and how Ben reacts to them.
Bobby steps in first, eyes quickly scanning the room before landing on John and
nodding at him. “John,” he murmurs, then, without waiting for a response, looks
at Ben.
“Bobby Singer,” Ben says, not even needing an introduction. Bobby’s eyes flick
to John, and John shakes his head minutely; he never said anything to Ben about
who his friend was. Before anyone can ask just how Ben knows about Bobby enough
to recognise him on sight, Ben turned to John and asks, full of disbelief, “How
can you consider him your friend if you call Aurelie Bontecue a friend as
well?”
“You don’t know how many times I’ve asked him that myself,” Bobby mutters, but
it’s loud enough for Ben to hear.
The kid snorts, turns back to Bobby, standing just inside of the door, and
studies him. “Ben Ahrenson,” he says, nodding once at the older man. “Never
thought I’d get to meet you in person.”
Bobby grins, though his eyes are shadowed. “Alive, you mean. If what Dean’s
been saying, you might’ve been full well expecting to see my corpse someday.”
John holds his breath as he watches Ben, but he’s surprised by the kid’s
reaction more than anything else. Ben’s expression evens out and he finally
smiles, a small, subtle smile, but a smile nonetheless. “Can’t blame me,” Ben
says with a shrug. “Never thought I’d be alone with him long enough to put the
moves on me.”
He’s nodding at John, speaking so dismissively that John doesn’t catch it at
first. Dean looks scandalised, and when John sees Ben’s jaw clench, as if he’s
trying not to laugh, John sighs, reaches over and smacks Ben lightly on the
back of his head. “Enough, Ben.”
Miracle of miracles, Ben actually listens.
--
Three hours later, after some tense discussion and drawn-out eating of the mass
of Chinese take-out that Bobby and Dean brought with them, John’s sitting on
his bed, covers pulled up and smoothed out, with his son. Dean’s been telling
him about the things he and Bobby have been doing, and it’s interesting,
really, but John’s attention is focused on Ben.
The kid’s sitting on the floor across the room, books around him and Bobby next
to him, the two of them talking softly about certain sections in each of the
books. They’d started out treating each other with a tense yet respectful
wariness but the lure of demonic hierarchies is evidently enough to overcome
even the chasm between hunters and the demon-tainted. John’s half-tempted to
throw out a Christo; the urge to do so only increases with every peaceful
minute.
“How long d’you think they can keep going like that?” Dean asks, quietly, as if
he, too, is unwilling to disturb them.
“Ben had a good night’s sleep and he’s been in fine form today,” John replies,
almost grumpy. “And you know Bobby doesn’t ever get the chance to talk about
this stuff with people who know it as well as he does. Days, probably.”
Dean looks at his father, then asks, “And you? How long can you keep going like
this?”
John returns his son’s look, finally says, “Like what, Dean.”
It takes a handful of moments for Dean to answer, time enough for Bobby to pick
up a different book, set it on Ben’s lap, point to something with a furrow in
his brow. Ben shakes his head, answers too quietly for John to hear, but he’s
drawn away before he can try and read Ben’s lips. “He’s not one of us, Dad,”
Dean says. “He’s younger than me and he’s been raised by demons. Fuck’s sake, I
never even knew you fucked other men. What the hell are you thinking?”
“Maybe I’m not,” John says. It’s more of an answer than he’d been prepared to
give his son, but Dean’s all the blood he’s got left; if this works out the way
John wants it to, Dean’s going to have to get used to someone else being around
all the time, and better he start now rather than after they neutralise the
cherub. “Dean, he’s not.”
John’s cell phone rings, cutting him off. He looks at it, sitting innocently on
the nightstand between the two beds, then looks up at Dean, then Bobby, before
his eyes settle on Ben. While his son and his friend appear merely curious,
Ben’s stiffened, tense, keeping his eyes firmly focused on the book in front of
him.
Making a mental note to ask Ben about that later, John reaches for the phone,
brings it to his ear and clicks to answer. “Hello?”
Nothing but breathing for a second, until a voice, soft and willowy, asks, “Can
I speak to Ben, please?”
John takes the phone away from his ear, stares at it, then holds it out to Ben,
saying, “It’s for you.” John’s gratified to see that Dean’s eyes are wide,
glancing back and forth between John and Ben, hasn’t said anything, and that
Bobby appears thoughtful more than anything.
Ben, though, moves the book with precise care and stands up rigidly, face
drained of colour and teeth clenched together. He crosses the room in five
quick strides, takes the phone from John’s hand, and says, “Yes?”
No one says anything, the room flung into stillness, watching Ben close his
eyes and swallow.
“I am,” Ben says, then, “Not entirely.” He pauses, then flushes with colour,
says, “Because it was Gressil with Markos and you know how he gets.” John
glances at Bobby, sees the other man’s lips part in what looks like
astonishment. “Lauviah, here. Yes, I understand.” Ben’s fingers, gripping the
phone, are white; John thinks he sees the kid’s pulse point fluttering far too
fast to be healthy, especially after the fever Ben’s getting over.
He makes a move for the phone, but Ben steps backwards, hisses, “I don’t see
what Marchosias could possibly mean by implying that, Kasdaye, and you best not
forget what happened to your sister. Tell father I’ll be there when I’m
required, and then let Ari know he can pick me up from Eisheth’s. You can rot
in hell for all I care.”
Ben hangs up and John can see him attempt to gather himself though he fails
miserably. When he opens his eyes, Ben looks right at John and John has to stop
himself from flinching -- Ben looks like a demon’s servant, from the look in
his too-old eyes to the way he hunches in on himself at the same time his
presence is filling the room.
“I have to go,” Ben says, and though both Bobby and Dean protest, John knows
that Ben’s directing his words to John and John alone. “I don’t know how long
this will take or when I’ll be able to leave the grounds.” He flashes a devil-
may-care smile and adds, teasing, “You’ll just have to find a way to live
without me until then.”
John’s speechless, but Bobby’s not, standing up in the midst of that pile of
books. “There’s a cherub coming here. Lauviah, coming here. Is it a meeting of
some kind? Could we come up with a plan to take out a whole group of them at
once?”
Ben snorts, doesn’t even look at Bobby as he says to John, “If it’s urgent, you
know where Eisheth lives, not to mention you have those damned compasses. But
whatever you do, do not come to the house.”
“Why,” and this time it’s Dean asking, voice as strangled as John’s throat
feels. “Why the hell not? They gonna be taking stripes out of you again?”
This time, Ben’s eyes do flicker, and he looks at Dean enough to give an answer
that Dean obviously doesn’t like, judging by Dean’s growl and the way Dean
clenches his fists.
“Promise me, John,” Ben says, and John can only shake his head. There’s no way
he’ll make a promise like that. His word is his bond and he won’t say something
now, knowing he’ll break it in a heartbeat if it comes down to it. “John,” Ben
says again, and this time he’s practically pleading.
John finally stands up, moves in front of Ben, and puts one hand on the kid’s
cheek, tilts Ben’s head up. “You’re asking me to let you go back there,” he
says, voice rough. “You want me to let you give yourself to them. I can’t. Ben,
I can’t.”
Ben’s eyes harden, and he holds John’s eyes, searching them, until he finally
nods and moves away. “I’ll warn them you might be coming, then. I’ll tell them
you might try something stupid.” He’s not looking at John, intent on finding
his shoes, his coat. “If you want to keep your son safe, then don’t come.” Ben
pauses at the door, looks back, runs his glance over all three of them.
It’s a choice John shouldn’t have to make: protect the person he’s become
utterly consumed with or his son, the only link left to Mary. He’s frozen in
place, lips parted, and can only watch as Ben gives them all a mocking salute
and lets the door quietly click closed behind him.
“Well, shit.”
John sits on the edge of the bed, thinks that Bobby always did have a way with
words.
--
Afternoon turns to evening, the light fades into darkness, and there’s no light
outside, no warmth. Clouds cover the sky and block out the moon and stars, the
night made darker by the feeling of the wind, howling through the trees and
parking lot, banging up against the motel and creeping in through every crack
around the door and windows.
“Do you think it’s natural or an atmospheric by-product?” Bobby asks, coming to
stand next to John, look out the window as well. John’s been standing at the
window for hours; he has no idea what Bobby’s talking about. “The weather,”
Bobby expands with a huff, evidently interpreting John’s silence. “Do you think
it’s because of the demons? It’s not usually this cold here this time of year.”
“I don’t know,” John says. His arms are crossed against his chest and he digs
his fingernails into the nearest skin he can find. “It might be the presence of
the cherub,” he finally offers half-heartedly.
Dean moves behind them, says, “Two.” John can see Bobby turn, look at his son,
and Dean says, “Y’know, the one that’s possessing Ben’s father as well as the
one visiting. Lau-something, wasn’t it?”
Bobby blinks, admits, “I’d forgotten about that. I was just thinking of
Lauviah.”
“What’s the deal with him?” Dean asks. “Lauviah, I mean. What’s his sin?”
“Actually, it’s more of a divine darkness,” Bobby says, turning his body so
that one side can slump against the window. At Dean’s puzzled look, the
reflection of which John can see in the glass, Bobby sighs, mutters something
about Ben and how much he knew. “The three classifications in the top tier,
seraphim, cherubim, and the thrones, they aren’t embodiments or enticements of
specific sins, so much as overseers of a particular kind of temptation. How
much do you know about angels?”
The apparent non sequitur seems to faze Dean, who says, haltingly, “Angels? You
mean, they’re real?”
“Have to be angels to be fallen angels,” Bobby says. “Otherwise, where would
they fall from and why’d they be called angels?” Without waiting for an answer
or an argument, Bobby goes on. “The cherubs, before they fell, were the
guardians of light and the protectors of heaven. One of ‘em stationed at the
entrance to the Garden of Eden, keeping Genesis in mind, a few at the east
entrance to the temple in Ezekiel’s vision, mentions of others scattered about
the place.”
“I didn’t know you were religious, Bobby,” Dean says, interrupting. John can
hear shades of disappointment in his son’s tone, that and a hardening to the
words, as if Dean doesn’t have to listen to any of this now that he guesses
Bobby might believe in it, might believe in something higher.
John’s detached, too worried about Ben to be anything but, though he smiles
when Bobby strides across the room and smacks Dean in the head. “You’re an
idiot, sometimes, Dean,” Bobby says, no frills. “Everything we fight these
demons with, you think someone just sat down and made it up one day off the top
of their heads? You think it doesn’t matter that we don’t believe the words of
the exorcism so long as they do? Now, I might not go to church, and I might
think God’s done a real bang-up job down here, but you don’t live to be as old
as I am, seeing what I’ve seen, without realising that there’s something else
going on around here. I can’t say I believe in some all-knowing creator, not
when -- if there is one -- it left us alone to fend for ourselves against
hellspawn, but every text we use, across every mythology, across every
religious background, across every system of folklore, has power, real power. I
might believe and I might not, that’s up to me, but I ain’t gonna speak out
against words or relics or symbols that’ve saved my life more than once,
whether it comes from Abraham’s line or Krishna’s or Odin’s. And I ain’t gonna
stand for listening to you do that either, you understand?”
Dean’s eyes are wide, watching Bobby with no small amount of fear. “Understood,
yes, sir.”
“Good,” Bobby says, punctuating the word with a firm head-nod. He eyes Dean,
looks back at John, as if to see if John has anything to say, but the eldest
Winchester doesn’t move, content to watch them both in the glass’ reflection,
keeping an eye out for Ben.
John thinks he shouldn’t have let Ben go, but, at the same time, he can’t deny
that Ben’s tough enough to survive, knows enough to know when to protest and
when to fold -- the fact that he did so, and so quickly, means that whatever’s
going on is serious. The price of arguing might have been too much and John
thinks that it was. The cost of submitting might be too much as well.
“Anyway,” Bobby says, “like I was saying, the cherubs were the guardians of
light and the protectors of heaven, said to reflect the glory of God and
protect Him and His home. When the cherubs fell, they reversed, blessing to
curse, virtue to vice.”
“So instead of light,” Dean says, “darkness. And instead of protecting heaven,
they protect hell?”
Bobby nods; the reflection in the window highlights a tree branch cracking
across the street, tumbling to the ground. John’s mouth is dry, wondering what
Ben’s undergoing.
“But what about this embodiment you mentioned?” Dean asks. “And if they protect
hell, why are there two of them not ten miles away from us?”
That question makes Bobby frown, sit down on the edge of Dean’s bed, look down
at his hands. “Each fallen cherub has certain responsibilities, overseeing
lesser demons and bringing their concerns to the feet of Lucifer. In heaven,
before he fell, Lauviah was the angel of spirituality, bringing awareness of
the divine to humanity, everything from full-on visitations with God to the
small, minute experiences of finding something pure and perfect in every-day
life. Now, he’s the reverse, the demon of a more hellish spirituality.
Everything related to psychic gifts is under his oversight, sorcery,
summonings, witchcraft.”
John can see Dean pale, even in the reflection. “And Ben’s a name-giver, one of
the more rare psychic gifts. And he can exorcise demons and kill them, seems to
me he might be able to summon them then, as well. Fuck.”
“As for the second,” Bobby says, trailing off, clearing his throat. “The reason
they’re here is because.” He stops again, shakes his head, and says, “John,” as
if he himself can’t answer that question.
John finally tears his eyes away from the window and turns, looks at his
friend, then his son. “Is because there’s something more important here.
Something that they deem more important than protecting Lucifer himself.
Something Lucifer wants them to do, or see, or protect.”
“Ben,” Dean half-states, half-asks. “But, Dad. Why?”
Bobby looks like he’d like an answer to that question as well, so John rubs his
hands over his face, tries to pull his mind away from Ben, away from that
closed-off, emotionless numbness he descends to in order to protect himself. He
manages it for a minute, until he starts to talk again. “Last night, Ben told
me something. He was upset about it.”
John stops, and stares into the space between Dean and Bobby, looking at his
own bed, remembering the feel of Ben in his arms, pressed up against the length
of his body.
“Dad,” Dean says, far more softly than John ever would have given his son
credit for. “Dad, what was it?”
“There’s a section in The Book of Watchers I asked him to translate,” John
says. Bobby’s eyes widen, and John nods before telling Dean, “It’s a section no
one’s been able to make sense of. It’s Kabbalistic, we all thought, something
about the reversed Sephiroth, or maybe even the creation of heaven and hell
pre-Genesis. Section eighteen of the first chapter, there are scholars who have
done nothing their entire lives but research that chapter and what it might
mean for us hunters.”
Bobby coughs, says, “And Ben knew what it meant?” like he almost can’t believe
it, the answer to a question he never thought he’d see resolved. “Just like
that?”
“He said that the place it references, horrible and chaotic, will be earth once
the seven bound princes are brought to the surface and released.” The blood
drains from Bobby’s face. “It gives demons hope that they’ll win, even if it’s
only for a time before they’re forced back into hell.” John drops his eyes,
takes a deep breath, and adds, “He said that his father told him that Ben’s the
key.” Bobby’s silent and Dean looks horrified. “Ben’s meant to unlock hell on
earth. How that happens, I don’t know, but he’s been making plans with the
hunters, the people here, to kill him if it ever gets to the point where he
gives in.”
Dean stands up, muttering curses under his breath, pacing the room like a caged
wolf, prowling from corner to corner, stepping over the books on the floor as
if they’re beneath his notice. John watches for half a minute, then looks at
Bobby, his oldest friend, the one person he’s known longer than Mary that
hasn’t died or given up on him.
“He’s the key,” Bobby says, as if he’s seeking confirmation. At John’s nod,
Bobby says, “Shit, John. I know you like the kid, hell, I like the kid and he
still rubs me the wrong way. But if he’s right, if he’s telling the truth, we
can’t take the chance.”
Dean stops, stares at Bobby; John can’t even meet his friend’s eyes. To some
extent, he understands where Bobby’s coming from: if the key to stopping hell
from taking over is the life of a seventeen-year-old, one death weighed against
millions, it only makes logical sense. Besides the demons, besides John, no one
would miss the kid; oh, the people in the town might, but if Ben wasn’t here,
the demons wouldn’t have a reason to stay and the city might have a chance of
going back to normal.
On the other hand, if there’s no reason for the demons to congregate here,
they’ll spread all over the world, and what chance do hunters have against
cherubs and thrones and dominions? From what John’s seen, they’ll have a damn
hard time when half of those demons don’t respond to Holy Water, exorcisms,
crucifixes.
“We don’t kill humans,” Dean says, coming to Ben’s defence. John hadn’t
expected that, not this quick, not this vocally, not with the panic in Dean’s
eyes. “And for all that he’s tainted, we can’t kill him.”
“He’s a name-giver,” Bobby argues. “He’s a name-giver and demon-touched.
Lauviah itself came here, probably for him. He’s not human, not entirely, he
can’t be, especially not if he can survive something Gressil threw at him with
nothing more than a fever.”
John starts at that, frowns. “A fever, hallucinations, panic attack. He almost
died, Bobby. He could’ve died. To be honest, I’m surprised to see him up and.”
John stops, seeing Bobby’s point. If the fever was that dangerously high -- and
it was -- there’s no way Ben should be moving, much less holding his own
against three hunters and running out of a motel room to go back to an abusive,
possessed father. “You think he’s part-demon, then,” John guesses.
Bobby shrugs, reaches up and scratches the back of his neck. “You can’t con a
con-man, John,” he says. “Something about that boy ain’t right and I know you
can feel it, too.”
“Part-demon, though?” Dean asks, pulling out the chair and sitting down on it
with nary a glance towards the stains. He reaches for the bourbon, stops and
draws back his hand with a frown. “The kid’s just a handful, Bobby, and he’s
been living with demons since he was born. Maybe he’s bound, tainted too far to
cleanse, but I hardly think that means he’s actually one of them, even halfway.
Nothing about this hunt is right; it’s not just limited to Ben.”
“Maybe,” Bobby says, though he doesn’t sound at all convinced.
A crash of lightning outside, and John’s up and at the window again, staring
fixedly at a point across the street.
“What is it?” Dean asks. John moves slowly, leans down and picks his gun up off
of the floor without taking his eyes off of whatever’s outside. “Dad?”
“People across the street,” John says. Dean and Bobby both move at that, both
reach for guns, both come to the window, one standing on each side of John. A
second strike of lightning hits, illuminates the environment outside enough to
show three people on the other side of the street, standing stock-still in
knee-high grass, looking completely unaffected by the raging thunderstorm.
The lights inside crackle then spark out into darkness; Bobby’s rustling for
something and pulls out a flashlight, turns it on before even a minute’s
passed. He points the flashlight down at the floor, lets that light up the
room, light up the window enough to see outside.
“Five,” Dean whispers, though no one else is in the room and the people outside
wouldn’t be able to hear him at all. John thinks, on reflection, that they
might be able to lip-read, though the wards should keep out any empathic
discoveries. “There were three before, right? I didn’t just miss any?”
As eerily fast as the extra two appeared, another two come up and take book-
ending positions, one at each side of the line. There are seven now, and John’s
watching them with the same intensity that they seem to be watching him. He’s
not sure why they’re here, not when Ben’s not, not when Ben’s at the house
north of town with two fallen cherubs and who knows what else; he’s no threat,
not when they have Ben.
“Little bastard told them,” Dean breathes. Bobby asks what Dean means, sounding
a little put-out that Dean’s come to some sort of conclusion before the older,
more experienced hunters. “What he said to Dad, before he left, that he’d tell
them we’d come, that we’d try something. He must’ve sent them to make sure we
couldn’t.”
“Him or his father,” Bobby mutters.
Now that he’s held here, trapped by the demons outside, has something external
keeping him from going to Ben, John almost feels better about not doing
anything.
Almost.
--
The three men get some sleep, John and Dean sharing a bed that’s too small
while letting Bobby claim the other. John doesn’t sleep well, keeps having
dreams that wake him and leave him swimming in an ocean of dark despair until
he remembers that he’s safe, that Dean’s safe, reminds himself that Ben will be
coming back to him.
When it finally turns to dawn, the sky a sickly green colour that’s probably
leftover from the unnatural thunderstorm, John gets out of bed and goes over to
the window. The seven demons that had stayed out all night are gone; either
they exchanged hosts or there are seven new demons standing guard. John’s never
been good dealing with lockdown. He hates it even more, now.
He takes a shower, puts on some fresh clothes, and sees that Bobby’s awake,
gives his friend a nod.
“Your instincts are good, John,” Bobby says, softly. “But they get skewed when
it comes to your family. Are you running on instincts here or not? Dean’s said
you wanna fuck the kid. Is that it, or is there more?”
John sighs, scratches his chin and realises he hasn’t shaved since he and Dean
pulled into this city. If it had been anyone other than Bobby asking, John
would’ve broken their nose, cheekbone -- he might be getting up there but Dean
inherited his vicious right hook from someone. It’s Bobby, though, and they’ve
gone through hell together, not literally but damned near close to it. If
there’s one person in the world John trusts beyond all questions, it’s the man
asking him whether Ben’s a fling or something more serious.
“More,” he confesses. Dean stirs; John looks over and sees that his son’s still
asleep, merely adjusting to the extra space on the mattress. “Bobby, I. This
kid, he reminds me of Mary, sometimes. But he’s young and he’s hard as nails,
scrappy and looking for a fight most of the time. At first, I thought Dean and
I could extract him, set him up at the Roadhouse or with good people somewhere,
have him freelance for hunters. With the knowledge he has, damn.”
Bobby nods; he, probably more than John, has an idea of what Ben’s knowledge
might entail after their whispered conversation through the texts last night.
“But now you can’t,” Bobby says, more encouragement for John to keep going than
an actual statement of fact.
“I wouldn’t be able to leave him somewhere and not know if he was all right,”
John says. It’s the plainest truth he’s able to speak, everything else roiling
around in his chest like it wants to claw its way out, explode through his skin
and kill him with the force of it. He fell in love with Mary quietly, but
quickly as well, the way her hand in his hair could make the nightmares go
away, the way she smiled and laughed and teased but knew when to sit still and
let John have his memories.
Ben, Ben’s different, quicker, more violent, prone to cutting words and even
harsher insinuations, but the hunt’s numbed John to some things, to the way it
feels to sleep with something instead of just next to them, the way it feels to
have to watch someone else, drink down the sight of them like it’ll never be
enough. Ben makes him feel again, not that that’s a good basis for a
relationship, but Ben understands, understands the hunt and the necessities,
the demons and the Latin, the lifestyle and the desperation.
Mary was his opposite in almost every way; Ben’s not, though he’s not like a
twin, either, more of a complement. Mary was laughter and the smell of cookies,
children and sex during hot, lazy Midwest afternoons, air conditioner broken
and humidity making them stick together with sweat before they could even kiss.
Ben’s a flash in the darkness, giving off his own siren-song, tender and
innocent in his sleep, emotions buried deep when he’s awake. Mary gave herself
freely but Ben’s going to be a challenge, and John doesn’t know what it says
about him, how much he’s changed since he lost his wife and youngest son, that
he looks on that challenge with eagerness.
“He’s just a kid, Bobby,” John finally says. “I shouldn’t even think of it,
but.”
Bobby hums, waits a couple extra beats, until John’s looking at him, and says,
“So we’ll get him out of this. But if he turns out to be one of them, if it
ever looks like he’ll do what they say he will, I’ll knock you out and take
care of him myself.”
John can’t even bring himself to agree but he nods his acceptance.
--
By the time evening rolls around that night, John’s going stir-crazy. He’s been
caught in this room for days now and, while the time with Ben passed too
quickly for his taste, the past twenty-four hours have crawled by, slow as a
slug. Bobby’s been going through the books, especially The Book of Enoch,
trying to figure out if any of the hunters’ interpretations should change based
on what Ben explained to John, and Dean’s been cleaning guns and channel-
surfing.
The wind outside’s come back, howling up miniature dust tornadoes in the gravel
parking lot, and seven demons are still there, though the bodies they’re
wearing changed at noon when no one was looking. John wishes he knew which
demons they were or even if they’ve been the same ones this entire time but
there’s no way to tell from this far away.
At the strike of midnight, a large crash of lightning strikes out north of
town. Once it’s dissipated, John blinking afterimages from his vision, the wind
dies down and settles. It seems like everything outside’s gone back to normal
but Dean’s in the shower and Bobby’s engrossed in the books, so no one else
seems to notice.
The demon in the middle of that line of seven steps forward and the others
don’t move; the demon lifts one hand and beckons John to come out, then holds
its arms out to its sides, not in challenge but more proof of innocence or
harmlessness. John doesn’t believe it, not at all, but he moves and is outside,
crossing the parking lot, before Bobby can put the book down and stop him.
John stays on his side of the street and the demon on its, but the demon calls
out, “The cherub Lauviah has returned to our home. The young master will be
released in the morning. Our vigil is over, so long as you swear to wait here
and let him rest before returning. I have to admit, we’re almost disappointed
you didn’t try something. The great John Winchester,” the demon mocks, “and he
doesn’t even mount a rescue operation to save a child. Tsk, tsk.”
“He will be coming back?” John asks, ignoring the insults, aware of Bobby
moving up behind him, holding a gun.
The demon smiles and John shudders, because no seven-year-old girl should wear
an expression like that on her face. “If that is his choice, then yes, John
Winchester. If he does not return, perhaps you should take the hint and leave
town.”
John scowls and the demon laughs, turning away and nodding at the six demons
waiting in the grass. As one, the entire group lifts their heads to the sky and
screams; the demons come swirling out of human mouths and disappear into the
sky; the hosts all collapse to the ground, either unconscious or dead.
“They think he’ll be awake and healthy enough to leave the house in the
morning,” Bobby says, sounding as if he’s thinking about something. “I wonder
what happened in there.”
“He better come here straight away,” John growls before turning away, walking
with angry strides through the parking lot. He doesn’t know where he’s going
but he knows he can’t stay there, not a second longer, not with hot anger
running through his veins and cool rage filling up his mind.
To hear that demon taunt him, to know that every creature from hell thinks he’s
a coward for not going after what he wants so intensely makes his blood boil. A
choice between Ben and Dean, where he knows that the demons won’t hurt one
beyond what he can tolerate and would kill the other in a heartbeat if
torturing him to death slowly wouldn’t be more fun -- what kind of choice is
that?
John looks at the sky, the clouds clearing away to reveal a waning moon, bright
and shining stars, and he wants to rail against the injustice of it all, wants
to kill, wants to hurt.
“He will be all right,” a woman says, and John looks straight at black eyes,
curls his hands into fists to keep from going over to her and breaking her neck
in one crisp sweep of his fingers. “But I still don’t have a nickel.”
That makes him breathe, has him relaxing almost against his will. “Eisheth,” he
says, returning the nod she gives him. “What the hell went on up there?”
The woman takes a deep breath, looks over John’s shoulder and inclines her
head, but doesn’t address the person now standing with one hand on John’s back,
half to comfort John, half to keep him standing still. Eisheth locks eyes with
John and says, “A test, of sorts. The young master has a special place in our
Lord’s plans, and He wished to know if the young master was still on track to
fulfil them.”
“Your Lord,” Bobby says. “Lucifer?”
Eisheth looks up at the sky, crossing herself in a reverse pattern, right
shoulder then left, the centre of her chest then her forehead, murmuring
something too quietly for John to make sense of. “None will speak our Lord’s
name so lightly, but yes,” she eventually says, and John can see the glow of
true faith in her features. It rocks him, this inference out of nowhere, that
demons have their own religion, of sorts, that they believe in something that,
until now, had only existed for John in ancient texts.
“What plans?” Bobby asks. “And what’s the kid’s place in them?”
“That, I don’t know,” Eisheth answers. John has no reason to, but he believes
her. After all, if God exists, He hasn’t shared any of His great plans, either.
“All we know,” she goes on to say, “is that the young master must be tested at
certain times, by certain of the upper hierarchy, in certain ways. I don’t know
what Lauviah’s test was, or how it was performed, but I heard that the young
master passed and survived with few complications.”
John frowns, asks, “You heard? You weren’t there?”
Eisheth’s expression hardens. “I wasn’t allowed at the house. My sisters and I
weren’t allowed to be present because we owe our loyalty to the young master,
not his father.”
“Your sisters,” Bobby says, a measure of wariness colouring his tone, “wouldn’t
happen to be the other three succubae of Samael, would they?”
John watches as Eisheth’s eyes widen and she looks around, as if to see if
someone’s watching. “Please,” she whispers, “do not speak His name.” John’s
confused, knows it’s written all over his face, and, from the way Bobby’s
fingers tighten on his shoulder, he guesses that Bobby’s just as clueless as to
why the demon’s reacting this way.
“Who is Sa,” John asks, cutting himself off as he sees the demon’s face start
to pale at the first syllable of Samael’s name. “Who is He to you?”
“Just as you recognise a trinity, so too do we,” Eisheth says, eyes darting
between John and Bobby. “Our Lord, the Lightbringer, His Son, the Prince and
Desecrator, and Their Hand of Temptation.”
Bobby says, softly, “Lucifer, Samael, and Beezelbub,” watching Eisheth for a
reaction. Though she pales, the demon almost seems to have expected the
interpretation and nods. John can see her hands shaking at her sides. “The
Prince is your husband, but you swear fealty to Ben?” Bobby asks. “Does He as
well?”
“The Prince gave us the freedom to choose,” Eisheth says, the tremors in her
voice belying the nearly complete grip she’s gained on her trembling limbs. “My
sisters and I are loyal to the young master alone. And yes, my sisters are the
three you assumed they would be: Naamah, Agrat Bat Mahlat, and Lilith.”
John doesn’t need to look at Bobby to know that this, what they’ve heard, has
shaken more assumptions than John had ever thought possible. Not only do demons
have their own faith, of sorts, but they have free will, up to a certain point.
It’s far too much to take in, would be on any day but especially tonight, as
full of worry with Ben as John is.
“He’ll come back,” John asks the demon, eyes pinned to hers, searching for any
sign of an answer, any clue as to the truthfulness of her answer. “He’ll come
here, to us.”
“He’ll return,” Eisheth says. “To you, for you. The young master likes you,
Winchester. None of us can figure out why, not to mention how quickly it
happened, but the truth of it is, he adores you.” She quirks a smile, adds,
“We’re all quite jealous, actually, when, at most, he tolerates a handful of us
and actively detests more than a few. Please, for our sake, don’t squander
that.”
John holds her gaze, finally nods, says, “I won’t.”
Eisheth smiles at him, glances up and down the length of Bobby’s body, and
gives John’s friend a lascivious smile. “Winchester’s off-limits, but any of
the four of us could show you a good time, hunter. And as a companion of the
young master, we wouldn’t even hurt you. Unless you wanted us to,” she adds,
leering good-naturedly.
Bobby snorts, says, “Thanks, but I make a point of not fucking with demons,
figuratively and literally.”
“Pity,” Eisheth purrs, before she turns and fades into the darkness. John’s got
an eyebrow raised, watching her leave; that purr, the tone of it in her voice,
reminds him of Ben, and he suddenly realises just where Ben learnt to trick,
learnt to push buttons and drip sensuality from his voice. If there’s one
person who might be a good teacher, it’d be a demon of prostitution, much less
four of them.
“We should go back inside,” Bobby says, stepping back from John, looking
around.
John follows his gaze, sees Dean standing in the doorway to the motel room,
watching them. “Yeah,” he says. “Ben’ll come back. We should sleep, first.”
***** Chapter 5 *****
They end up getting another room, right next to the one John paid for days ago.
He lets Dean and Bobby share the original, even though Bobby thinks the family
should stick together, and even though Dean doesn’t want to let John out of his
sight, convinced that something’s put some sort of spell on John for him to be
acting this way. John argues with them, finally just leaves and goes next door,
duffel and gun in hand.
The room’s not much better than the original though the chair in this one’s not
as badly stained and doesn’t have any suspicious holes in the upholstering.
More importantly, it gives John room to breathe, to think, and there’s only one
bed, a large queen-size, that John wants to see Ben in, curled up under the
covers and within the relative safety of John’s arms.
He doesn’t get much rest, too keyed up, too worried, despite the reassurances
of both that smirking demon and Eisheth. In the end, he falls asleep on the
chair, pulled up to the window, somewhere between dawn and a vigil he’s still
keeping.
He wakes with a start, almost falls sideways until he catches himself, rubs
sleep out of his eyes, and sees a black car in the parking lot, that new hybrid
he remembers Arioch driving. The car’s just sitting there, idling, and no one’s
moving; John listens but can’t hear any noise in the next room. He sits up,
stands, and goes to the door, unlocking it and opening it, intent on
confronting whoever might be behind the steering wheel. Instead, John stops,
freezes, when the back door opens and Ben steps out.
Ben closes the door but the car doesn’t move. From where John’s at, it’s easy
to see that Ben’s wary of coming any closer until he knows what kind of
reaction he’s going to receive.
“Ben,” John breathes, then forces his feet to start moving. He moves slowly,
walks closer, and is gratified to see that Ben’s walking as well, matching
John’s pace. “Ben, you’re.” He gets close enough, then reaches forward, pulls
Ben to him, and wraps Ben in his arms, hugs him tight and close. John leans,
presses a kiss to the top of Ben’s head, lips catching on that shaggy hair, and
feels the body in his embrace stiffen.
“Young master,” someone says, a car window rolled down.
Ben pulls back enough from John to glare at whoever spoke and spit out, “I’ll
be fine, Eligos. Leave me alone.”
John’s half-surprised, though he shouldn’t be, not anymore, to see the demon
look ashamed of his question, nod and roll the window up. The car moves away,
and Ben wriggles out of John’s hold, stands there staring at him. John takes
the opportunity to study Ben, take in the hollow circles under Ben’s eyes, the
healing scratch down one side of his face, the way Ben’s shoulders are tense
and his skin’s pale. He seems to be holding himself carefully even through the
tension, and John asks, “Ribs?”
Ben looks at him but John doesn’t say anything else, so eventually the kid
sighs and says, “They’re fine. Healed, even. It’s everything else that aches.
Look, do we have to talk about it?”
“Yes,” John replies instantly, close to cutting Ben off. “Yes, we do. I want to
know what they did to you and how long it’ll take before you’re healthy again.
“Why, so you know how long it’ll be before you can fuck me, is that it?” Ben’s
eyes are sharp, hard and glittering. John snorts, as if that’s a stupid
question, and turns to lead Ben back to the second room. “Winchester, don’t you
fucking walk away from me,” Ben calls out. John doesn’t stop, goes into his
room, and holds back a smile as he hears Ben curse and stomp after him,
slamming the door when they’re both inside. “The fuck’s wrong with you?”
John sits on the edge of the bed, kicks off his shoes, and says, mildly, “Not
everything in this world revolves around me having sex with you, Ben. Ever
think that I want to know when you’ll be one hundred percent again because I’m
worried about you, nothing more than that?”
Ben looks taken-aback and some other wall in John’s heart melts a little at the
look, at the fact that a seventeen-year-old can look baffled when someone says
they want him whole and healed. “But there’s one bed in this room,” Ben says,
almost haltingly, like he can’t reconcile what John’s saying with the actual,
concrete facts.
“Because I want to sleep with you tonight,” John says. When Ben’s eyes narrow,
John says, “Sleep, not fuck. Is that such a hard concept to understand?”
“If I say yes, you gonna make a big deal out of it?” Ben asks in return, eyes
still narrowed.
John shakes his head, but, inside, he’s furious at the thought that this kid
has likely had no positive physical contact in his life. No one to hug him or
hold him or want him for more than a demon’s plans or a human’s lust -- it
sickens John, horrifies him, but, most of all, it makes him want to kill Ben’s
father, both the human and the demon.
“Anyway, it doesn’t matter,” Ben says, glibly shrugging off something that has
John ready to commit murder. “I’m fine, what’d you say, one hundred percent.”
“Prove it,” John says. “Take off your shirt and turn around so I can see that
they haven’t been carving chunks out of you the past day.” He doesn’t even
wonder if that’s possible anymore, and he’s glad he wasn’t counting on Ben
reacting horribly, because the kid just sighs and rolls his eyes.
As Ben’s taking off his coat, the long-sleeved shirt under it, he’s muttering,
stuff about how John must’ve been a woman in another life, about how John’s
worse than Eisheth and her sisters. Still, he’s listening to John, doing what
John wants, and when Ben turns around, arms spread out wide to his sides, he
sees that Ben’s skin is untouched.
“Happy now?” Ben asks, addressing John over his shoulder. “No marks, see?”
John stands, walks around Ben, taking in every inch of the kid’s skin with as
much objectivity as he can. It isn’t much, not when he wants to touch, to lick,
to spread himself over Ben and feel Ben tight around him, gasping underneath
him. He’s just about to step back, tell Ben to put his shirt back on and try to
will some sense into his own mind, when John sees the faint edges of black
markings creeping out from under the kid’s jeans.
He reaches out, puts his fingers on Ben’s back and trails them down, gratified
to see shivers chase each other up and down Ben’s spine. John’s fingers pull
Ben’s jeans down just enough to see angelic script twine and curl into Enochian
script on the curve of Ben’s ass, a tattoo that he never noticed before.
“Is this new?” John asks, one fingernail tracing the swirls of black ink. “It
can’t be, can it? Looks healed.”
“Had it since I was a kid,” Ben mutters back, voice tight. “Grew up with it.”
John frowns, tries to study it, see if anything about the tattoo looks
familiar, but the letters don’t make sense, flowing in and out of one another
like waves, the two languages melding together and forming something new.
Ben finally jerks away, and John looks up, sees the kid looking back at him,
cheeks flushed; it’s not until he raises an eyebrow and scans Ben’s body that
he sees the reason. John can’t help the proprietary thrill that courses down
his body at seeing the kid hard in his jeans and he’s almost ready to throw the
slow-and-easy plan to hell, because damn, he wants.
John stands up, stretches out to his full height, and just stands there,
watching Ben watch him. He doesn’t think, despite the kid’s insight, that Ben
actually knows just how much of a hold he already has on such a seasoned
hunter, that for all of Ben’s maturity and experience, he has absolutely no
idea how to deal with someone who wants him, not for what he represents or
could eventually be, but for what and who he is, now, already.
“I’m whole,” Ben says, and though his voice is steady, John’s positive that the
kid has to be nervous, somewhere deep down. “You really want me to get dressed
again?”
For all that it’s meant to be a lure, an invitation, John just smiles, reaches
up and cups Ben’s cheek in his hand again, like he had before Ben left. “You’re
beautiful,” he says, plain as day and simple as the same.
Ben flinches, steps back, eyes darkening as if he’s won or been let down,
John’s not sure. Ben fumbles in the back pocket of his jeans, pulls out a wad
of cash, and holds it up in the space between them. “I’m not a charity case,”
he says, face blank again. “And I don’t like to owe people. This is for taking
care of me.”
John can’t hide the edge of repulsion he gets, looking at that money. He
wonders where it came from, whether Ben stole it or earned it and, if the
latter, whether it was through honest work or letting other people do what they
wanted to his body, push him to his knees or up against the support of a
bridge. John’s stomach turns, and he bats the money away, restrained anger in
the movements. “I didn’t do it out of charity or out of expectation for
payment,” he growls. “And you better get it through your thick skull now, Ben:
when we fuck, I ain’t gonna pay you for the privilege.”
Ben scowls, bares his teeth. “You couldn’t afford me, Winchester,” he hisses,
letting the money fall onto the floor.
“I’m not a fucking trick,” John replies, much the same tone. “I’m not a client
and I’m not a demon. We have sex, I don’t want anything you won’t give to me
freely.” He sees Ben falter at that, and tries to calm himself down. “I’m not
going to pay you, Ben. I’ll take what you want to give, but I’m not asking for
anything more than that.”
John leans forward, down, intent on kissing the kid, seeing if his mouth’s as
troublesome against his as it seems to be by itself, but Ben turns to one side,
lets John’s lips glance across his cheek. John straightens up, suddenly
terrified that he’s read this the wrong way, but Ben looks at him, wary, and
says, “No kissing. I don’t kiss.”
He gets that it’s the first line Ben’s laying down, and how he reacts to this
one will determine whether he’s got Ben in his bed by the end of the day or if
the kid goes away and never comes back. “Nothing that you won’t freely give,”
John says, promises.
Ben relaxes, gives John a cocky little grin, and asks, “That mean you want to
inspect the rest of me for injuries?” in a tone that wouldn’t melt butter.
John can’t do anything but laugh.
--
In the end, and with disappointment on both sides, John thinks, Ben gets
dressed and they go next door, waking up Dean and Bobby. Dean’s clutching a
pillow in one hand and a gun in the other, Bobby’s sleeping with a knife close
by, and both wake up quick and dangerous, weapons pointed right at John and
Ben. They simply stand there, John with an amused look on his face, Ben with
disappointment on his.
“What?” Dean asks, relaxing when he just sees his father and puts the gun down,
runs his hands through his hair and rubs crust out of his eyes.
“You didn’t wake up when we came in,” Ben says, almost gleefully, as if he
already loves pointing out Dean’s mistakes. “And we could be possessed, y’know.
You didn’t even check.”
Bobby tilts his head, looks between the two of them, and ignores John in favour
of telling Ben, “There’s wards on the room, and salt under the doors, not to
mention.” Bobby stops himself, though, and says, “Enochian and Goetic demons.
Right. Any way to keep them out?” as if it’s common knowledge that some demons
are a little trickier to protect against.
Ben looks up at John, who returns the look placidly, letting Ben know that
whatever he wants to say, however far he wants to answer, John’ll back him up.
John can see a smile hinted at on the corners of Ben’s lips, and he knows his
own eyes are shining.
“Some of the demons only respond to prayers,” Ben finally says, looking back at
Bobby. “The prayer against lust for some, the prayer of confession for others.
Some react to Holy Water and the rite, but none of the demons in the first and
second hierarchies do, and very few who were named in The Book of Enoch.
There’s nothing fool-proof, but there are some runes I can show you that’ll go
a long way to helping.”
“Runes?” Bobby asks, and John thinks of Eisheth’s apartment, of the tattoo
claiming space on Ben’s skin. Some of the runes looked similar, as if the same
creator might have come up with them, and just as Ben’s answering, it clicks.
“Demonic script,” Ben says. At Bobby’s look, Ben laughs, says, “What, you think
angels could come up with something and not have the demons retaliate with
their own?” Bobby’s wearing an abashed expression now, and he glances at John,
probably remembering their conversation with Eisheth a few hours ago. “It’s a
combination of angelic script and Enochian script, something new, though, so
knowing those doesn’t automatically give you the knowledge to understand
theirs. I can’t teach it to you, it would take too long and most likely it
wouldn’t make sense, but I can show you how to write the runes that will help.”
Bobby’s eyes narrow, and John can see his friend thinking, has what most likely
are some of the same questions running through his own head. Why wouldn’t Ben
be able to teach them? What does it require to understand demonic script? And
why the hell is Ben offering? Still, the fact that he is, that’s he not so far
gone, that he’ll help hunters, must have Bobby convinced that the kid survived
whatever happened at the house without too much issue.
“That’d be good, kid,” Bobby says, and though Ben’s bristling at the address,
John can see it for what it truly is: a peace offering. John won’t deny,
though, that underneath relief at the truce, he’s more interested in finding
out what the tattoo means.
--
Ben spends the rest of the day teaching Bobby the basics of demonic script, not
so much the letters as the history, the way to write them, the preparations
needed so that humans won’t die tracing out letters and so that whatever the
letters are being written on doesn’t burst into flames.
Dean had scoffed at the beginning, but Ben had merely smirked and traced out
what he called the equivalent of the Hebrew ‘aleph;’ watching his son’s face as
the desk caught on fire nearly had John in tears he was laughing so hard. Dean
had been banished from the lesson after that, and John had passed on learning,
so the two Winchesters leave the bookworms in the motel room and go out for a
drive, do some recon around town.
The Impala cranks on with a rumble of disapproval, John guesses, at being left
untouched for over a day; he pets the steering wheel and promises she’ll get
more use. He drives around the town, checking out the few demons on the street,
all standing at corners, looking for all the world like common street-walkers,
waiting for a client. John also stops by the diner, picks up lunch to go in
Styrofoam boxes, eats his burger with one hand while he drives with the other,
Dean going at his with two hands and dripping tomatoes onto his lap.
He parks in front of the Army/Navy store, nods at Dean, and the two walk in
carefully, John first, Dean covering their six. Like last time, Dan’s up behind
the counter and the store’s humming with wards. This time, as John looks
around, he can pick out the demonic runes scattered among the more prosaic
symbols of safety hung on the walls; John wonders just how many people have
those and how long it took Ben to make them all.
“John Winchester, right?” Dan calls out, leaning his elbows on the glass
counter.
Dean stiffens, but John smiles back, says, “You got it, Dan. This is m’son,
Dean. It’s a family business, what we do.”
Dan nods but doesn’t smile, and John frowns. “Oh, just wondering what it would
take to have a man bring his son into this kind of life,” Dan explains. “Don’t
mind me. I’m curious but I ain’t nosy; you’ll tell me what you want to and not
an iota more, and I respect that.”
That goes a long way towards relaxing John, though he remembers the hushed,
broken-off conversation Ben and Dan had been having the last time he was in
here, remembers the brush-off Dan had given him when he went to the front to
pay, and feels his wariness settle into something like hard caution, an
impression that further solidifies when Dan asks, “You seen the kid lately? He
hasn’t been in here for a few days, usually checks in by now.”
“He’s fine,” Dean says, to John’s surprise. On reflection, though, John
shouldn’t be: John’s staked a claim on Ben and Dean’ll back that up to
outsiders whether he likes it or not. John raised Dean to think of a family as
a unit and their unit never shows division or weakness outside in public view,
never. Bobby’s just close enough to being family that he doesn’t count so much
as he’s earned himself a place in their small group. John wants Ben, so no
matter what Dean thinks, Dean’ll defend that. “Teaching someone about those
fancy runes you got up all over the place.”
Dan raises an eyebrow and John can see that the man’s obviously taken aback at
the statement. Dan glances at John, who nods, then back at Dean, says, “Is that
so. Well, all right, then. What can I help you fellows with?”
“Just wanted to let you know he’s with us,” John says, pleasant as can be,
though he knows his eyes are hard, firm. “And that he’s all right. Wondered if
you might be able to spread the word for us, else we were planning on stopping
by Pastor Visser’s on our way out.”
“I’ll be happy to let the others know he’s good,” Dan says, and then he grins,
adds, “I got some stuff you might wanna take a look at, though, so don’t be in
a hurry. I’ll be right back.”
He slips out into a back room before John can argue, so John says, “Sure,” and
hears Dean laugh.
When Dan comes back out carrying a tray, though, the laughter stops. Both
Winchesters head up to the counter, look over the guns Dan’s proudly
displaying, and John can’t reprimand Dean for his response when he’s feeling
pretty much the same way.
“Fuck. Me.”
They’re some pretty impressive guns, even to a former Marine, even to a hunter.
--
Bobby and Ben are still hunched over the desk when John and Dean get back to
the room; both of them look up when the door opens. Bobby narrows his eyes but
stands down at some unseen signal, but Ben does nothing more than glance at
each of them before looking back at whatever they’re working on.
Dean starts to parrot Ben’s question, but Ben cuts him off, says without
looking, “Name-giver, remember? He’s still John, and you’re still a jerk.”
“Well, you’re still a bitch,” Dean retorts, but the word lacks bite so John
lets it go. They both drop their shoes at the door along with their weapons,
then walk over to the desk and look over shoulders to see what it is that Bobby
and Ben are working on. Dean sees the Latin scrawled over several different
sheets of paper, curling segments of angelic script at the edges, and veers off
quickly, though John takes the time to read through what’s been written down.
“… absque omni læsione cujuscunque creaturæ vel rei; et ad locum a justissimo
Deo tibi deputatum in momento et ictu oculi abeas; et hinc proripias. Hoc
tibi,” John stops, says, “Why are you two discussing the Verus Jesuitarum
Libellus?”
Ben looks up over his shoulder, meets John’s eyes through the haze of his
eyelashes. “Why not?”
Bobby snorts at that, says, “Your boy here has an almost photographic memory,
John. Kid remembers almost everything he’s ever read. ‘Sides, we’re not doing
any of the actual conjuration, just talking about how the angelic script
interacts with some of the old rituals and what the differences are with this
demonic script. Some of these reversals are pretty interesting, all told.”
John looks between the two, finally says, “Sounds good,” knowing that they’re
way over his head with all of this, and not minding at all. Better this way,
that Bobby gets to know Ben on his own, without John’s influence, to see that
the kid’s decent, worth their time and energy to save. “How much longer you two
think you’ll be working?”
Ben looks at Bobby, raising one eyebrow as if to ask how much of this Bobby
wants to deal with. Bobby returns the glance, and John’s curious to see that
the two of them must’ve reached some sort of silent communication, can’t help
but be jealous as well.
“Dan hooked us up with some guns,” Dean pipes in, and at Bobby’s look, expands.
“Guy that runs the Army/Navy store here in town. We were thinking of maybe
going out, finding a place to see how well they shoot.”
“There’s a range on the west side of town, near the church,” Ben says. He’s not
looking at any of them, rather, he’s idly tracing over something on the paper
with an uncapped pen. The paper starts smoking, and Ben blows at it, puts it
out. “Alan runs it. He’ll be happy to open the building for you.”
John watches as Dean and Bobby exchange silent glances, then sighs as both of
them look at him. “Can you give him a call to make sure?” John asks Ben. “We
wouldn’t want to make trouble.”
Ben finally looks up, looks at John again, searching for something. What he
finds, John isn’t sure, but Ben’s shoulders drop as he says, “Yeah. I’ll call
now.” John’s confused by the dispassion, but doesn’t say anything as Ben heads
for the motel telephone, picks it up and dials a number from memory.
“Alan, it’s Ben,” the kid says, three sets of eyes on his back as he stands
facing the wall, hiding his face from all of them. “Listen, Winchester and his
son and their friend got some new stuff from Dan and were wondering. Yeah. No,
just the three of ‘em. Okay. No, I’ll stop by sometime in the next few days.”
Ben pauses again, and this time, when he speaks, his voice sounds strangely
tight, bringing to John’s mind that confrontation under the bridge, when Dean
was taken. “Really? I hadn’t heard anything about that. Yeah, no, I’ll keep it
mind. Thanks.”
“You’re not coming with us?” Dean asks, the second Ben hangs up and turns back
to face them.
Ben gives Dean a blank look and replies, simply, “I don’t do guns.” He takes a
deep breath, seems to exhale whatever that’s supposed to mean, and then turns
his attention to the older two hunters. “Alan’ll open the building for you once
you get there, just drive to the church and knock on the door, he’ll be
waiting.”
Bobby looks at John, and John asks Ben, “What hadn’t you heard about?”
“It’s not important,” Ben says, that curious blankness hovering at the corners
of his eyes.
“Son,” Bobby starts to say, but Ben turns a glare on the older hunter that has
him shutting up, not cowed but seeming to understand that Ben’s not going to
elaborate and he’s wasting breath trying to push the issue.
Ben holds the glare, but soon looks back at John, says, “If you take the main
road through the city, then hang a left at the last street in town, the
church’ll be on the right. You might wanna stock up on Holy Water while you’re
there or have Alan bless the weapons, that way you won’t have to worry about it
later.”
John nods, stands there for a second, before crossing the room and running his
thumb over Ben’s lower lip. Ben’s eyes narrow, but he accepts the touch and
accepts the kiss John lays on his forehead without saying anything. Dean and
Bobby don’t say anything as they move to the door, leaving everything else as
it is, and they disappear outside while John’s still standing there, feeling
heat radiate off of Ben’s body.
“You’ll be here when we get back?” John asks, hesitant to leave Ben alone.
“You’ll be all right?”
“I’ll be here to sleep,” Ben replies, not really an answer. “Go on, go and try
out your new toys.”
John pauses but leaves, turns at the door to give Ben one last look, torn
between his desire to test the range of new weapons and his urge to stay, to
take Ben next door and show him everything Ben’s been missing in his life, but,
in the end, John leaves, climbs into the Impala and says, “Not a word, Dean,”
before Dean can open his mouth.
Dean settles for snickering, Bobby for half-heartedly sighing.
--
Pastor Visser unlocks the range and gets them all set-up before going to an
office near the front of the building. John tries out some of the guns, gets a
feel for their weight and recoil, then leaves Bobby and Dean to it, tracking
down the pastor. He finds Alan going through bills, though when Alan looks up
and sees John hovering in the doorway, there’s no surprise on his face, as if
he assumed John would search him out at some point.
John closes the door as he enters at Alan’s wave of invitation, though the echo
of gunshots can’t be kept out; the chair John sits on seems to shake with every
noise from the main range.
“Dan called up, said you and your son have lain claim to Ben,” Alan says,
leaning his chair back on two legs, putting his feet up on the desk. “That’s
good to know,” he goes on. “We were getting a little worried. No one had heard
from him in a few days.”
“He got sick,” John says, blunt and to the point. “I took care of him until he
was up on his feet, then he went back to his father’s house for a day. He’s
fine, though, I made sure.”
Alan gets a little smile on his face that John’s immediately wary of. “You made
sure, huh?” The pastor laughs and John’s about ready to defend himself,
explain, when Alan holds up a hand and says, “Homosexuality might be condemned
in the Old Testament, but Christ said, ‘Et si quis audierit verba mea et non
custodierit ego non iudico eum non enim veni ut iudicem mundum sed ut
salvificem mundum.’ I figure we were all given a little lee-way with that one.”
John flushes but doesn’t dispute anything Alan’s said; he’s going to have to
get used to it, though most people, he’s guessing, will either think Ben’s his
son or that Dean and Ben are together.
“He likes you, John,” Alan says, must be taking pity on John. “He’s spent more
time with you, voluntarily, in one week than he has with any of us in months,
and rumour has it he not only bargained for your son but let you into his home.
He won’t do that for any of us, no matter how many get taken or how many times
we’ve asked.” Alan sighs, says, “God knows he needs someone to teach him about
the better things in life. You seem to have been chosen for the job.” Alan
stops, then asks, tentatively, “Do you resent that?”
“It’s confusing,” John admits, leaning back in his chair. “But I think it’ll be
good. It’ll work out in the end.”
Alan smiles again, asks, “You have faith?” as if he can’t help pushing. In
that, Alan reminds John of most of the other priests and pastors he’s come
across in his hunts; hunters they might all be, but they’re men of God first
and foremost.
“In that, yes,” John says firmly. “In everything else, I’m not sure. This
hunt’s done more to challenge my beliefs on just about everything than anything
else in the past seventeen years, but I’ll work through it.”
“Would you like to talk about it?” Alan offers. “I’m not Catholic, but my
discretion’s good without the excuse of the Seal, and anything said between us
won’t get spread around.”
John thinks about that, shakes his head and says, “Thanks, but no. I did want
to ask, though, and it’s a little related: Ben said you taught him some things,
Latin and some of the rites his father couldn’t, I assume because he’s a
demon.”
There’s not really a question in that, though Alan seems to take it as one,
because he replies, “I taught him for about three years, off and on. He’s like
a sponge. Ben soaked up the Latin and Greek like no one I’ve ever seen before,
did much the same with the French my wife taught him. His understanding of the
rites, too, is highly intuitive. Ben ended up teaching me some things about the
older rites, and I thought I’d seen it all.” At John’s look, Alan says, “I was
a missionary, over in Ethiopia, for a time. It was intense, to say the least.”
“What doesn’t he know?” John asks, mentally filing away what Alan’s telling
him. Ben had said he only knew some Greek, never mentioned the French, but,
then again, John should’ve guessed with the knowledge Ben has of grimoires -
- half of them were written in Middle Ages French and translated to English a
couple centuries later.
“Anything related to demons or angels, he’s got most of the knowledge down,
probably more than anyone who hasn’t been raised by a demon,” Alan finally says
after some thought. “If other supernatural creatures relate somehow to the
celestials, he’ll know it, but nothing outside beyond the most extreme basics.
His is a pretty narrow specialisation, but I’d say, within that, he’s as much
as an expert one can be without being possessed by a top-tier angel or demon. I
wouldn’t be surprised if he knows more than some of the lower level creatures.”
John nods, thinking that over, reconciling that with what he’s seen of Ben so
far, the lessons with Bobby, the bargaining before that, the exorcism in the
diner and the papers in his father’s home office. He opens his mouth to ask a
question, then rethinks the action, then finally decides to throw caution to
the wind, and asks, “Is there anything I should know about him that he won’t
tell me?”
Alan steeples his fingers together, looks at John and studies him. John doesn’t
move, stays perfectly still, waiting to see what, if anything, Alan says. “I’m
sure he’ll open up to you more in the future,” Alan eventually replies. John’s
just about ready to accept that as a negative answer to his question, but Alan
says, “Ben has several coping mechanisms when it comes to dealing with his
father. He runs the gamut, playing the dutiful son and future possessee when he
needs to, being defiant when he can. I’ve never actually seen him and his
father in the same room, but I’ve heard Ben talk to him on the phone. The
changes can be,” he pauses, searches for a word, decides on, “unsettling. If it
ever came down to a confrontation between you and Ahrenson, and Ben’s forced to
choose, I honestly don’t know who he’d pick. Adoration is one thing, survival
is something entirely different, and there’s nothing Ben understands better
than how to survive any situation he’s thrown in. I’m positive that’s the only
reason he’s still alive.”
John doesn’t say anything about the apparent prophecy in The Book of Watchers,
doesn’t mention Ben’s tattoo or Marchosias’ proprietary attitude towards Ben,
just says, “Thanks.” It’s an insight John’s scratched the surface of, but he
hadn’t realised it ran so deep. He could kick himself; he should’ve known.
“You’re welcome,” Alan says, dipping his head slightly. “If you think of
anything else, just give me a call.”
John’s just on his way out when he stops, turns and says, “You said something
to Ben on the phone, asking him if he’d heard about something. What was it?”
Alan looks at John, face expressionless, save for a slight sheen of worry in
his eyes. “That, sadly, is not my news to tell. I’m sorry, but you’ll have to
ask Ben.”
--
They stay for a couple more hours, then pick up pizzas on the way back to the
motel. The lights in both rooms are on, but Ben’s nowhere inside and they check
around the motel and in the lobby before coming to the conclusion that he’s
gone off somewhere. John stands outside, chowing down on a piece of pizza,
watching the road in both directions as if he expects Ben to come sauntering
back now that they’ve returned to the motel, like the kid might have radar for
it or something.
The box with the few remaining compasses is sitting innocuously next to the
door; John itches to pick one up and go out in search of Ben but he’s trying to
hold on to the kid’s promise. Ben will be back to sleep, he will, John has to
have faith in that and faith that the demons haven’t done something, aren’t
doing something right now.
A small bang comes from the room behind him, and John peers around the
doorframe, lifts both eyebrows, seeing Bobby standing near the desk, guilty
look on his face.
“Everyone okay?” John asks, taking in Dean’s avid expression, eager, no doubt,
to figure out what caused that and whether it can be easily replicated.
“Fine,” Bobby says, clearing his throat. “Just a little experiment. The kid
wasn’t joking about the demonic script.”
John never heard anyone approach, but someone’s lifting the piece of pizza out
of his hands. John turns, feels his heart skip a beat when he sees Ben standing
there, taking a big bite out of John’s food, waiting until he’s done chewing
and swallowing before he says, “I never joke about things like that.”
Bobby apparently takes the correction in good measure, he merely snorts and
goes about cleaning up ash off of the wall. Dean doesn’t say much, stands up
and goes over to the desk to see if Bobby left any notes lying around, and John
stands there, trying to take in the appearance of Ben, trying to see if
anything looks as if it happened.
“You’re okay,” he says, half-question, just to confirm that what he’s seeing is
true; Ben looks unharmed, all right.
“You worry too much, John,” Ben replies flippantly, though John thinks he sees
that the question, the legitimate worry, has lightened something in the back of
Ben’s eyes. “Listen, it’s been a long day; I’m gonna get to bed. Have to be up
and out early in the morning.”
Dean opens his mouth but shuts it, looks at his father. John doesn’t say
anything, either to Dean or Ben, so Dean huffs, looks at the kid and asks,
“Going home?”
Ben studies Dean, lays eyes on him and doesn’t say anything until Dean’s
shifting, off-balance. John’s gratified to see that he’s not the only one Ben
can throw off like that, though he wonders what it’ll mean in the long run.
“I have lessons in the morning,” Ben says to Dean, before he looks back at
John, pins green eyes on the hunter, and adds, “Ari and Eli will be coming by
to pick me up before sunrise.”
“Arioch and,” Bobby starts to say, before he pauses, asks, “Eli?”
John watches as Ben doesn’t even glance at Bobby, just says, “G’night,” and
disappears next door.
Bobby’s lost in thought but he doesn’t jump when John says, “Eligos. He was one
of the demons who dropped Ben off this morning. What’s his deal?”
“He’s Goetic, I think,” Bobby finally says, after a few minutes of thought.
“Something about war, if I remember right, but other than that. I’ll hit the
books, see what I can come up with. It shouldn’t take too long. You go and make
sure your boy’s all right.”
“My boy,” John mutters, huffing. “Yeah, right.” He doesn’t say much more,
though, just tells Dean to behave, then goes next door, shutting and locking
the door behind him. He doesn’t see Ben but does hear the shower going, so John
turns the heat up and tunes the television to the Weather Channel, pulls down
the blankets and sheets on the bed, kicks off his shoes next to Ben’s and
shrugs off his jacket, leaving it hanging from the back of the chair.
John debates pulling out the chair, sitting in it and waiting for Ben, but he
ends up lounging on the bed, the side closest to the door, dozing as someone
talks about avalanches and hurricanes in the same breath. The water clicks off
with a shudder in the pipes and John doesn’t react, but he does turn and look
when the door to the bathroom opens.
Ben comes out, wearing a low-slung pair of what look like scrubs, the dark blue
pants contrasting with Ben’s pale skin. John doesn’t say anything as Ben
crosses the room, leaving his clothes in a pile by the door, just watches the
kid move. He can’t seem to tear his eyes away from the clear line of Ben’s
hipbones until they’re out of sight, at which point his eyes drift to the
tattoo on Ben’s back, now clearly visible, the beginning of the crease of Ben’s
ass just peeking out from the top of the pants.
“Bit low, aren’t they?” John asks, and if there’s heat in his voice, he doesn’t
care.
Ben laughs, the sound spilling out of his lips, and he bends over in a show of
sensuality, adjusting something on the pile of clothes, straightening up slowly
and running one hand down from his side, over his hip, to rest high on his leg.
He turns, raises an eyebrow at John, and asks in reply, “You think?”
John can’t take it, not the studied pose nor the inane answer to his question,
and he’s out of bed, over by Ben even before he tells his feet to move. “Play
with fire, you might get burnt,” John warns, voice low, and he wraps his hands
around Ben’s wrists, feeling the flutter of Ben’s pulse under his thumbs, the
thin, almost bird-like fragility of his bones.
Ben smiles, a slow, lazy change of expression, and practically purrs, “I could
say the same to you, hunter.”
John can’t take it -- he pushes Ben up against the wall, feels rather than hear
the kid laughing as Ben tilts his head and lets John sniff at the juncture of
neck and shoulder, bite down hard and deep, take the tender flesh into his
mouth and suck. Ben arches, moves in a way that John never would have thought
was humanly possible, and rubs his bare chest against John’s shirt, brings up
one foot and wraps it around the back of one of John’s knees. John lifts Ben’s
hands, raises them above the kid’s head, and growls, “Keep them there.”
“You sure you wouldn’t rather do this on the bed?” Ben asks mildly, but each
word spirals into John’s ears and filters through his blood, bringing to mind
everything he wants to do to Ben, everything he wants to hear, to smell, to
see. “You could spread me out, then,” Ben goes on, this time something deeper
in his voice, something more that John’s too far gone to put a name to.
He half-wonders if there’s some sort of spell on him, that has him acting like
a sixteen-year-old, punch-drunk and desperate to fuck, but when Ben leans
forward, digs sharp little teeth through his t-shirt and into his collarbone,
John doesn’t care, can’t bring himself to stop and ask.
“You could tie me to the headboard,” Ben breathes, words wet and moist next to
John’s ear, and Ben bites John’s earlobe a second before adding, “spread your
hand on my back and bite your way across my skin, pull me up and let me ride
your dick, pound into me on all fours.”
“Shut up,” John whispers fiercely. “Shut up. We’ll do it all, God, fuck, we’ll
get there. But right now, I want you naked and I want you to turn around, put
your hands on the wall and keep them there. I’m going to fuck you and I’m not
going to be gentle about it, so if you have a problem with this, if you don’t
want that too, then tell me now or shut the hell up.”
Ben laughs, fights the hold John has on his wrists, and when John doesn’t let
go, says, “I can’t do any of that if you won’t let go.” John’s hesitant,
doesn’t want to give up the hold he has, but does so reluctantly, eyes drinking
in the sight of Ben shucking off the last piece of clothing on his body. “Want
me to get you ready?” Ben offers, gleam in his eyes.
John swallows, sees it all too clearly in his mind: Ben’s nimble fingers
pulling off John’s shirt, running up and down John’s chest; Ben undoing John’s
jeans with his teeth; Ben on his knees, John’s cock halfway down Ben’s throat
as he sucks and gets him wet enough to.
“No,” John says, hoarse. “No. Not this time. Just. Turn around and put your
hands on the wall.”
Ben grins, tilts his head and runs one hand through his hair, mussing it up,
sending curls flying every which way, before he turns, achingly slowly, and
puts his hands up on the wall, nails digging into the paint already peeling.
John strips quickly, efficiently, and moves to his duffel, rifles through it
quickly in search of condom and lube. He keeps his eyes on Ben, on the curve of
Ben’s ass, the way Ben’s arching backwards, legs spread, can’t tear his
attention away. It doesn’t take much, seeing Ben, to have John hard and ready;
he feels like a teenager himself though his hands are steady thanks to years of
experience when he rolls the condom on.
Ben must not be expecting any lube, because he almost jumps when he hears John
snick the tube open, squeeze some on his fingers, gives in to a full-body
shiver when John spreads him and the cold gel touches his hole. “Fuck,” Ben
whispers.
“We’ll get there,” John says, laughing before he latches his teeth onto the
nape of Ben’s neck, trying to distract him from the uncomfortable sensation
lower down.
It must work, because Ben drops his head down, baring his neck, and murmurs
something that sounds like, “Oh, Christ,” muscle loosening around John’s
finger.
John takes the opportunity to slide another finger in, feeling resistance but
not as much as he’d expected. It hits him, as things have started doing every
so often in regards to Ben, that the kid’s been, for all intents and purposes,
on the streets since he was nine; how long he’s been turning tricks, how long
he’s been playing the whore for demons, John doesn’t know and doesn’t want to
guess at.
“Something wrong?” Ben asks, voice ragged.
“No,” John says, but he’s skipped a beat and his voice is off, he can tell and,
judging by the way Ben’s leaning his head against the wall, so can Ben.
Ben clenches every muscle in his body, and John can feel his fingers clamped
tight, almost painfully so. “I might’ve whored for them, but it taught me some
tricks, too,” Ben says, and the words aren’t light but the tone is. “If you
wanna see any of ‘em, then you’ll get your fingers out of my ass and stick your
dick in. Got it?”
“I’m sorry,” John murmurs, resting his forehead on Ben’s head, the other hand
tightening on Ben’s hip.
“Only apologise if you’re gonna stop,” Ben growls. “Otherwise shut up and
fucking fuck me already.”
He curves his back, lifts his hands from the wall, and John digs his fingers
into Ben’s hip, scissors open Ben’s hole, and says, “Thought I told you to keep
your hands on the goddamn wall.”
Ben lets out a laughing purr, makes a show of placing his hands even higher on
the wall, stretching out his torso, the muscles in his arms on display, and
John slides a third finger inside of Ben, grins as the laugh turns to a groan.
“’M not like the others,” John murmurs close to Ben’s ear, before leaning and
dragging his teeth down the side of Ben’s neck. “’M not gonna be gentle, but I
don’t want you hurt, either.”
“So noble,” Ben says, the last syllable drawn out and mixed in with a jagged
breath as John takes his fingers out and slowly fills Ben with his cock. He
pushes in slowly, waits for Ben to relax around him, doesn’t force his way in,
and when he’s skin-to-skin with Ben, he stands there for a second, breathing in
through his nose and out through his mouth, feeling the way Ben’s heart beats,
bodies pressed up tight against each other.
“Good?” John asks, the hand with lubed-up fingers reaching around to Ben’s
dick, jerking slowly twice, making sure there’s physical proof Ben’s still into
this, still more than willing. It’s not enough though, and neither is the sigh
Ben gives him, so John says, “You have to tell me, Ben. Nothing you won’t give
freely, remember?”
Ben snorts, tenses his muscles again, and when John’s caught his breath and
isn’t seeing stars at the edges of his vision, says, “If you don’t fuck me
right now, I’ll kill you.” John chuckles, then pulls almost all of the way out
before thrusting back in, hard, forceful. Ben claws at the walls, makes a sound
somewhere between a groan and a bitten-off curse, and orders, “Again.”
--
The sex is rough, bordering on violent, loud, nothing held back, and they both
come quickly. John almost feels embarrassed at how fast, but can’t hold on to
the feeling when Ben’s fingers skitter across John’s cock and take the condom
off, tie it up. Ben runs a hand down John’s chest and says, “’S good, yeah?”
without looking at John’s face. Ben’s halfway across the room, dropping the
used condom in the garbage can, before John can force his body to wake up.
“Ben,” he says, and waits until the kid’s looking at him. “Ben, did you.”
He doesn’t know how to finish the question, but Ben must be able to tell what
it is, either by the tone or the look on John’s face, because Ben rolls his
eyes and says, “I’m gonna clean myself up, then I’m getting in to bed because,
unlike some hunters I know, I have things to do and places to be in the
morning. Now, I’m only going to say this once, but I don’t like getting into a
cold bed, so you better get your ass between those sheets and warm it up for
me, understood?”
Ben doesn’t wait for an answer, just goes into the bathroom and pushes the door
halfway closed. John stands there, debating whether or not he should follow
Ben, push the issue, and he thinks that Ben expects to him, seeing the open
door, not closed, definitely not locked. That settles some anxious part of his
stomach, and John decides to get into the bed.
He’s half-asleep, listening to the sounds of the water turning on and off in
the sink, then brushing as Ben cleans his teeth, and the toilet flushing rouses
John out of his daze. He opens his eyes in time to see Ben watching him from
the doorway of the bathroom and he’s not awake enough to try and decipher what
the expression on Ben’s face means.
“Coming?” John asks.
“Think we already did,” Ben answers, but John doesn’t react, not when Ben’s
walking towards him, lifting up the blankets on the far side of the bed and
slipping under the sheets, curling into John like he has a million times
before, feet pressed to the warm expanse of John’s shins.
John shivers, says, “Your feet are like ice.”
Ben laughs, one of the most honest laughs John’s heard from him yet, and
replies, “Get used to it,” before yawning and closing his eyes, face buried in
the curve of John’s neck.
John throws one arm around Ben, pulls him closer, and lets himself sleep.
--
The room’s still dark when John wakes up, gun in his hand. He’s not sure what
woke him up, not until he sees movement against the light trickling in from the
bathroom window; he has the gun cocked and aimed a second later.
“Twitchy hunter, aren’t you,” Ben murmurs. “Close your eyes, gonna turn on the
bathroom light if you’re awake.”
John shields his eyes, still hisses when he opens them to the light. Ben’s
dressed, the ends of his hair damp from where he must’ve gotten carried away
washing his face, and he looks wide awake. It’s not until John blinks once,
twice, that he realises Ben’s clothes aren’t the ones he took off last night,
that and the scrubs he was wearing are folded up, resting on the desk.
“Where’d they come from?” John asks, words interrupted by a yawn. “Didn’t see a
bag last night?” He would’ve noticed that, can’t help but think he would’ve
noticed the extra pair of jeans, the thick cable-knit turtleneck in a green
dark enough to bring out the colour of Ben’s eyes and the glitter in their
depths.
“Ari dropped them off while we were sleeping,” Ben says.
Ben carries on as if that’s a normal occurrence, but John’s gone cold at the
thought that a demon waltzed into his motel room and he never woke up, never
even knew. He looks, realises that there aren’t any of the demonic warding
runes up, and can’t help the rush of anger that fills him. “You just let a
demon walk into my room, while I was sleeping?” he asks, incredulous, furious.
“That creature could’ve done anything to us and I never would’ve known.”
“That creature,” Ben says, quiet and careful, “is one of the few I can trust to
never hurt me or anyone I care about. Think about what you’re saying, John.”
John inhales, the air hissing its way between his teeth. “You let a demon come
into my room. You knew it was going to be here and you never even told me.”
Ben looks at John, a hard, angry look of his own, then runs a hand through his
hair and says, “You know what? You’re right. I let a demon get into your room
while you were sleeping, even though you don’t trust it. It doesn’t count for
anything that I slept here, too? That you paid for this room so that we could
sleep in the same bed without worrying about falling out? That Ari is a friend?
Fuck you, Winchester.”
John’s ready to argue, already has words on his lips, but then there’s a knock
at the door. Ben scowls at John, crosses the room, throws the door open without
even checking to see who it might be through the peephole. John pulls up the
sheets to his waist, sees a host standing there, an unfamiliar one.
“Are you ready, young master?” the host asks, a woman around John’s age, laugh
lines around her eyes.
“I am,” Ben says, almost ceremoniously, no trace of the anger from before. “And
thank you for the clothes, Ari. They’re lovely.”
The woman looks Ben over, eyes tracing from the edges of his curls to the tip
of boots that John notices peeking out from under the jeans. He wants to growl,
wants to rip the clothes off of Ben and lay claim to the kid here and now, in
front of this demon that Ben defended so intently, but the demon isn’t looking
at Ben with anything that might indicate it ever used Ben.
“They’ll do, I suppose,” she says grudgingly. “I had wanted to find a black
one, but the store was out and the green works well enough. Hopefully your
teacher agrees.”
Ben sighs and nods, and starts to walk out of the door once Arioch moves out of
the way. John straightens up, calls out, “Ben,” and the kid pauses but doesn’t
turn around. “Ben. When will I. Will you be back tonight?”
Arioch’s watching them, black-flooded eyes looking between John and Ben, and
John wishes he knew what the demon’s seeing written on Ben’s face, if there’s
even any expression there.
“I don’t know,” Ben finally says, walking away. Arioch closes the door and
doesn’t even look pleased to see John brushed off. Instead, there’s a curious
sense of sadness in her eyes that John can’t decipher.
--
He falls back asleep, almost despite himself; he’d thought he was too upset,
angry and worked up, but he’s not as young as he once was and the sex combined
with a few bad nights of sleep knock him out again. This time, he knows what
wakes him up; the banging on the door and the obnoxiously sung, off-key Alice
Cooper means Dean’s out there and in fine form already.
John reaches for his jeans, puts them on and buttons up, not bothering with
underwear. The air in the room’s warm on his chest as he opens the door, and
Dean barges in without saying thanks.
“Loud enough to wake the dead last night, Dad,” Dean says, giving his father a
bright grin and bed a wide berth. “Bobby and I were taking bets on whether you
two were killing each other or having the fuck of your lives.” He pauses, looks
around, asks, “Where is the kid, anyway? Thought he said he had lessons. Or was
that just a euphemism?”
Dean eyes the bathroom, the light that Ben had left on before he left, and John
breathes out, says, “He left already. Way before sunrise, actually; Arioch came
to pick him up.”
“Any idea what these lessons are the boy was talking about?” Bobby asks, and
John turns, sees his friend standing in the doorway, eyes pinned on John. “Or
who might be leading them?”
John thinks, finally has to say, “No. He didn’t say.”
Bobby nods, but John can tell his friend’s got something grinding away in the
back of his mind, some idea or theory that he’s collecting evidence for or
against. Where this fits in, John doesn’t know.
“What’s on the plan for today, then?” Dean asks. John sees his son sitting on
the chair, evidently having decided that was a safe enough place to settle in
at. “’Cause I have to admit, I’m getting a little stir-crazy here and Bobby’s
had a few calls, some hunts close enough or easy enough that we could take care
of them and be back inside of three days.”
John doesn’t want to leave -- even if he’s not awake enough to try and begin
figuring out what that fight this morning was all about, there’s no way he’s
leaving here, leaving Ben. He and the kid fight like cats and dogs, are
obviously far too good at poking each other’s buttons and then not stopping,
but that doesn’t mean John’s done with the whole thing. It’s exactly the
opposite, really: though he could deal with less of the hurtfulness and
hatefulness between them, it’s clearing the air and laying some boundaries.
“You two go ahead,” John finally says. “I’ll stay here, see if I can’t get some
research done while I’m waiting for Ben to get back.”
“He showing up today?” Bobby asks, and the look in Bobby’s eyes, John’s not
sure what it means.
John narrows his own eyes, but the effect is spoiled when he yawns a moment
later. “Not sure,” he says, once he’s done. “Didn’t say how long he’d be, but I
don’t think it’ll be past tomorrow. You two go, just let me know where and
what, and give me a call when you’re on your way back.”
Dean stands up, just barely restraining himself from bouncing on the balls of
his feet. Obviously John’s son is ready to go, and John spares a moment’s
regret for having kept Dean here so long -- his son isn’t one to stick around.
This’ll be good, get him out and keep him busy, give him and Bobby a chance to
talk.
“Dude, awesome,” Dean says, and he’s out the door a second later, probably
going to throw a few things in his duffel and wait by Bobby’s car.
“If you need us, call,” Bobby says, after the door to the other room’s slammed
against the lock, bounced back and hit the wall. “We’ll get here as fast as we
can.”
John nods, says, “Thanks. I’ll let you know what happens.”
Bobby stands there a moment longer, then says, “Good,” before he turns and
leaves John alone, closing the door as he goes.
John leans back, stares up at the ceiling, and listens to the sounds filtering
through the wall, before their door closes and Bobby’s car starts up, drives
away. He has no idea where Ben is, who he’s with, or when he’ll be back, and no
idea of what he’s going to do while he waits. John closes his eyes, tries to
think, but ends up falling back asleep, arm over his eyes.
***** Chapter 6 *****
John putters around town, decides to do some maintenance on the Impala and
drives by the nearest auto parts store before going back to the motel, picking
up a few cartons of Chinese on the way. He sits and eats in front of the
television, watching some of the newest crime-drama sitcoms to hit the
airwaves, and by the time he finally rouses himself out of the daze they put
him in, it’s too dark outside to work.
He huffs, stands up and goes to wash his hands; once that’s done, he figures he
needs something to keep him occupied or he’ll sit here and lose brain cells.
John looks thoughtfully at the clock, even more thoughtfully at the television,
then grabs his coat and keys.
--
Pastor Visser’s church is on the other side of town, but John still makes it to
the evening service with two minutes to spare. He slides in to the back pew,
glances through the order of service and the bulletin, and shrugs off his
jacket, putting it onto the pew next to him. Someone sits down and John looks
up to apologise; he stops mid-breath when he sees amused black eyes looking
back at him.
“Relax,” the old man says, leaning back into the pew, letting out a relieved
sigh as his bones crack and pop. “It’s just me. Granted, I haven’t been in a
man for a few hosts, so this feels a little strange, not to mention that he’s a
little older than the hosts I usually go for.”
The man trails off as the acolytes come out of the vestry to light the candles
and John doesn’t put the clues together until halfway through the confession of
sins. John leans over as Alan’s speaking the absolution, and asks, “Eisheth?”
“I have the feeling I’m being too obvious,” the man whispers back, though he
blinks and John can read amusement in rheumy blue eyes. “But yes. Now, pray and
seek what you came here to find. I’ll make sure no one else bothers you.”
John’s not Lutheran but he’s been in enough churches to feel comfortable with
what’s happening at any given time; the only thing that surprises him in the
service leading up to the Sacrament of Holy Communion is the prayer that Alan
recites after the Creed.
“We call on You, O Lord, during these troubled days, and ask You to give us an
increase of faith and hope, that, in the end, we might come to our everlasting
inheritance in You; through Jesus Christ, our Lord. Amen.” It’s a traditional
prayer, yes, but one used in times of adversity, in times of war. There’s
nothing to suggest that anyone else knows why Alan might be using that, but
John looks up and sees the man looking back at him. John smiles, inclines his
head, and Alan returns the nod, somehow somber and grave in his vestments.
John goes up for Communion, stepping over Eisheth as the people in their pew
get called forward, and he pauses, raises an eyebrow at the demon.
“I might not react to Holy Water or the Name, but that doesn’t mean I’m about
to ingest the Eucharist,” Eisheth murmurs, rolling his eyes as if John should
have known that already.
Alan’s waiting at the bottom of the aisle, near the altar, holding the wafer in
one hand. John follows a couple other people, ends up in the middle of the
group of eight, and bows in sync with the other seven before dropping to his
knees in front of the altar. He accepts the Host, murmurs the appropriate words
in the appropriate places, and drinks deeply of the wine when one of the
laypeople holds the cup up to his mouth.
John doesn’t believe, not the way that Bobby does or the way that any of the
pastors and priests he’s come into contact with do, but the wine washes down
his throat and John can feel it clean something deep inside of him, the way
that renewing his baptism does, as if hunting demons, being near them, is
enough to taint him. He stands on steady feet, bows again, and returns to his
seat, a new resolve firming itself in the back of his mind.
Eisheth scoots away when John sits down, as if she can feel the difference,
even outside of John and trapped in a different body.
--
“I can’t say I was expecting to see you tonight,” Alan says, once the service
is done, most of the congregation has gone home, and John’s on the step,
shaking the pastor’s hand. “Ben likes to come to the early services when he
can, or he goes to Mass when he doesn’t have much time.” Alan pauses, just long
enough for John to guess at what the man’s going to say.
“He has lessons,” John explains. He’s not expecting much, maybe some chiding,
maybe something about taking care of Ben, which is why Alan’s reaction, the way
the man turns pale, tightens one hand around the cross hanging from his neck,
clutches the railing, has him frowning, off-balance. “What is it?”
Alan doesn’t say anything, not until he sees the old man come out of the
church, stand at John’s elbow. “Which one are you?” Alan asks, voice shaking.
“It’s Eisheth,” John says, glancing at the demon, seeing the old man’s face
echo the look on Alan’s. “What is it? What aren’t you two telling me?”
The pastor looks up to the sky, as if seeking answers or some form of
assistance; when he looks back at John, his eyes look old, deep, and his
shoulders burdened down. “Ben’s lessons are with a demon, one of the few who
the others fear, all of them without fail, save the seraphs,” Alan finally
says. “They aren’t.”
He stops, and Eisheth finishes the sentence with, “Pleasant. They aren’t
pleasant.”
John looks between the two, finally asks, hesitating just a little, “What’s
that supposed to mean? They’re lessons with a demon, of course they won’t be
pleasant.”
Eisheth sighs, says, “I’ll explain, Pastor. You have other things to take care
of.”
Alan nods, leaves John with a murmured apology, and looks beat down, worn, as
he goes back into the church. The door booms shut behind him, and John can hear
the lock being turned, keeping him and Eisheth out.
“What’s going on?” John asks, turning to the demon, impatient for an answer
now. He wants to know what has them so worried, what might explain the look in
Arioch’s eyes this morning, what exactly is sending chills of fear down his
back. “Eisheth, you better tell me or swear to God I’ll.”
Eisheth cuts him off, a raised hand and a quiet, “Not here,” eyes flicking
around. John follows the demon’s gaze, sees a couple across the street turn and
watch them, eyes glinting black for a split-second between blinks.
“Then where?” John asks, now almost desperate for an answer.
“Somewhere safe,” Eisheth replies. “Do you remember how to get to my
apartment?” At John’s nod, she says, “Meet me there in an hour.”
The old man sits down on a bench, leans back, then looks up at the sky and
opens his mouth. Eisheth, cloud of black smoke, rushes out from between false
teeth and disappears into the sky. The man coughs, sighs, and says to himself,
“I slept through church again, dagnabbit.”
John doesn’t have the heart to tell him otherwise.
--
He’s at Eisheth’s apartment an hour later and knocks on the door. The woman
that answers it is bone-shatteringly beautiful, with high, defined cheekbones
and a patrician profile, full lips and perfect skin; she smiles when she sees
him but very clearly doesn’t recognise him.
“I’m looking for Eisheth,” John says, gruff, because the woman’s giving him
some sort of look that he equates with hungry piranhas. He hears another
woman’s voice in the apartment, can’t see her yet, but she’s telling the woman
at the door to let John in. He’s not sure it’s safe, exactly, but Eisheth has
answers and told him to be here.
“John,” the other woman says, coming out of the kitchen, sleeves rolled up past
her elbows, a smudge of flour high on one cheekbone. “I’m sorry. This is my
sister, Lilith.”
Lilith looks at John, raises an eyebrow and scans his body. It isn’t a look
that John’s entirely comfortable with. “John Winchester, in the flesh,” she
says, and her voice is sibilant, almost drawing out the ‘s’ sounds into hisses.
He changes his mind -- it’s not piranhas she reminds him of, but snakes.
“He’s not ours to play with, sister,” Eisheth says, chiding.
“Oh, I know,” Lilith snaps. “Excuse me for having a look. I just wondered if I
could figure out what the young master sees in this human.” She throws John a
scathing look, adds, “I have to admit, I’m lost for words.”
Eisheth sighs, says, “Sister,” and doesn’t react when Lilith brushes past her,
though she does flinch when one of the doors down the hallway slams shut,
causing one of the paintings on the wall to fall and clang against an end-
table. “My apologies, John,” the demon says, once she’s taken a deep breath.
“None of us here are exactly easy about the young master being at his lessons.
Lilith always takes it the worst, you see; she needs the young master’s
presence to calm her, otherwise she gets lost in the rage. This is her way of
channelling that into something worthwhile. She’s become very good at vitriolic
worrying.”
John doesn’t know where to start with all that, so he asks, “The rage?”
“We’re soldiers on a battlefield,” Eisheth says, leading John into the kitchen,
nodding at the table. He sits down and she goes back to a bowl on the counter,
digs her hands in and starts kneading, John thinks. Her back’s to him, almost
making a point of it, and though John still feels she should be exorcised like
all the others, he’s beginning to think that she’s not so bad, not really, a
dangerous mental place for a hunter.
“Soldiers,” John echoes. “Soldiers making bread?”
Eisheth shoots him a grin over her shoulder, blows an errant strand of hair out
of face. “Pain au chocolat, actually. Lils loves chocolate. This should help
calm her down.”
John tilts his head, studies the back of the woman cooking, as if he might be
able to see the demon inside so long as he looks hard enough. Eisheth isn’t
like any other demon John’s exorcised; it’s almost hard to believe she’s one of
the four wives of Samael, one of the most experienced prostitutes and demons of
temptation found in any level of hell.
“Where are your other sisters?” John asks, fully aware this isn’t why he came
here but unable to stop himself from wondering, from asking. If the other three
are as confusing as Eisheth, John’s halfway to thinking that maybe all demons
are, despite what he knows in his soul to be true.
Eisheth hums, as if she’s thinking, finally says, “Well, Lils is in the
bedroom, of course. I think Naamah’s somewhere north of here, and Agra’s out in
California, doing something for the master. Or, at least she was the last time
I spoke with her.” Eisheth pounds something, says, “Sorry. Lump of butter.”
John waves his hand, even though Eisheth isn’t paying any attention to him.
“And you’re all sisters,” he says. “You don’t just call one another that out of
convenience?”
“The Creator knew what He was doing when He made us,” Eisheth replies,
tightness in her voice when she speaks of God. “There are different kinds of
love, John, so there needed to be different representations of them. After we
fell, our Lord said that it would make sense for there to be different kinds of
lusts to tempt the humans, to balance the loves.” As if she can see the look on
John’s face, she says, “The four of us each embody a different aspect of lust,
and we mirror the love we once defined: eros love, based on physical
attraction, storge love, which draws on emotional intimacy and companionship,
pragma, the pragmatic, self-serving love, and ludus, love as a game. Four types
of love, so there are four types of lust that exist to twist and deface. That’s
what we were made to do, after all.”
John narrows his eyes but doesn’t argue, instead saying, “Eros is Lilith,
obviously. And from the stories I’ve heard, Naamah would be pragma. You’re
storge?”
Eisheth laughs, moves over to the sink and washes her hands clean of flour. She
moves bread pans around, goes back to the bowl of dough and thumps it out onto
the counter, starts pressing it out with her hands. “Guilty as charged, I’m
afraid. That’s why the young master spends more time with me than he does with
Lils or Agra; I’m something of a friend when the right person’s looking and
he’s strong enough to resist the lure that makes it more, that turns it into
prostitution.”
“He spends more time with Naamah than he does with you?” John asks. He’s
surprised, but even as he speaks, he can’t help but think that it makes sense.
Pragmatic love, the kind that’s self-serving, that knows what it’s getting
into, what it wants and what the cost will be at the end. “Of course he would.”
She hums, says, “The young master is inherently practical.”
John takes that in, thinks about what it might mean for even a demon to say
that, then decides that this conversation, such as it is, has gone on long
enough. “You said you’d tell me about these lessons. Who’s teaching them? What
are they for? Where are they held?”
Eisheth leaves the lump of dough on the counter, covers it with a towel. She
goes over to the cabinet, takes out a bar of chocolate, and sits down at the
table with John. Half of the chocolate gets broken and left in the wrapper, the
other half taken out. She breaks it, offers some to John, who shakes his head.
Mary was the one with the sweet tooth, not him.
“None of us know where they’re held,” she says, nibbling on a piece. John can
smell the bitter chocolate from eight feet away. “Only the young master, his
father, Marchosias, Arioch, and Eligos do, as well as his teacher.”
“Who’s his teacher?” John snaps. “Which demon has the rest of you cowed enough
to let a seventeen-year-old human be treated like this?”
Eisheth’s eyes flood with black; she blinks it back but John can tell he’s
upset her. “Even I don’t know that,” she hisses. “When Lord Belial says to
leave it alone, we damned well leave it alone, John Winchester, or risk more
pain and torment than you humans can even dare to dream of. You think that we
let him go so easily? That we encourage this?”
John leans forward, matching Eisheth’s look, her tone. “What goes on during
these lessons?”
She blinks, smiles at him, her mouth curved even as her blue eyes show worry.
“No one knows,” she replies, licking chocolate off of one finger. “The young
master never speaks of them to us. All we know about them is what he comes back
like.” Eisheth pauses, but at John’s look, must take pity on him. The smile
drops from her face, until her entire expression looks honestly concerned. “He
takes a beating while he’s there, mentally and physically. I’ve never seen the
worst of it, usually Visser takes care of him, along with a few other humans in
their group. I know it’s bloody, and painful, because I can still smell that on
him when he comes to see me. But, what it does to his mind.”
Eisheth stops, shakes her head, and John can see that she’s trying to hold back
tears. Demons can cry -- he never knew. “What does it do?” he asks, as gently
as he can. He’s trying to treat her like he would a victim, like a witness who
holds the key to a story he needs to get to the bottom of; it seems to be
working so far.
“He’s different, when he gets back,” she says, wiping away a stray tear. “Numb,
at first, like nothing can touch him, like he doesn’t care.” More tears follow,
accompanying her words. “He gets hard, as if no one and nothing can touch him.
He hasn’t killed, but the look in his eyes, it’s so old, ancient even past me,
and it’s pure evil. Oh, it’s glorious, that look, but it isn’t him.”
John shivers at her description, trying to imagine Ben with that look on his
face, beaten and bruised, and finds he simply can’t. Everything he knows of Ben
revolts against the idea of the kid looking and acting like that. “But he comes
out of it,” he asks. “He snaps out of it? How long does that take?”
Eisheth looks at him and says, “Longer and longer, each time he has a new
lesson. Like he’s fighting an uphill battle, one he knows he has no chance of
winning.” She takes a deep breath, uses the bottom of her apron to wipe her
face clean. Eisheth reaches out, snaps off a chunk of chocolate and shoves it
all in her mouth. She chews, swallows, licks stray crumbs off of her lips, and
says, “He won’t be the same when he comes back. He never is. And I thank the
Prince every time that I don’t see what Visser and the other humans see.”
“Why?” John asks, watching as she stands, goes to the sink and washes her
hands, scrubbing under her nails with a brush.
It takes long enough for her to answer that John almost thinks she hasn’t heard
him. Eventually, though, she replies, “Because he must be close to dead when
they patch him up. And I think I’d storm my Lord’s fortress myself, alone if
necessary, to protest the young master’s treatment at the hands of one of my
brethren.”
--
Eisheth lets the dough rise for half an hour before spreading it out, cutting
it into pieces, stuffing some with chocolate and others with honeyed raisins.
John watches her cook in silence, remembering the way Mary used to flit around
the kitchen when they first got married, burning the meat, overcooking the
potatoes, trying to do too many things at once, either out of impatience or a
desire to impress her new husband.
He remembers fucking her against the counter, telling her to slow down and take
her time, showing her with his cock what he meant, until she hooked her feet
around his legs and took over, rocking slow and steady until they both came,
sweating and covered in batter, laughing when the smoke alarm started going
off. She’d never burnt anything after that, ended up spending hours in the
kitchen for the sheer pleasure of it, loved to feed John with her fingers.
“You look as if you’re used to doing that,” John says.
“With variations, this is something I’ve been cooking since before Marie
Antoinette decided everyone could eat cake,” Eisheth says, tart and crisp like
the raisins pouring through her fingers. “People have been stuffing bread for
centuries. Someone had to keep the tradition alive, even if I started doing
this with dates and figs instead of raisins and chocolate.”
John drops his face into his hands, can’t believe that humanity has demons to
thank for pain au chocolat. Eisheth crosses the kitchen, drops one hand on
John’s shoulder and squeezes before moving on to reach into the pantry behind
John, pulling out a package of powdered sugar.
“It’s all Lils’ fault, really,” Eisheth says.
It looks, as she’s moving around, as if she might have something more to say,
but the bedroom door slams open and footsteps stomp down the hallway. John
looks up, sees Lilith stand in the entryway, hands on her hips, fury on her
face. He’s never seen anything more beautiful, never, not in this way, as if
she’s been brought to life from his deepest, darkest fantasies, completely
opposite from Mary, closer to Ben but still unreal, supernatural.
“You were not about to blame me for your obsession with cooking, were you,” she
asks, voice low, heated, sending shivers through John’s body and blood down to
his dick. He thinks of Mary, brings up the image of Ben, legs spread and hands
on the wall, to his mind, and manages to control himself, to will his arousal
away.
Lilith spares him little more than a glance, but Eisheth gives John a concerned
look, one he waves away so that she can pay attention to her sister. She sighs,
turns back to Lilith, and says, “If I were, it would only be the truth,” voice
and words mild, almost placating. “There’s spare chocolate on the table if you
don’t want to wait for these to bake.”
Eisheth goes back to the pain, loads them up on the pans. John keeps his eyes
on Lilith, watches as her eyes narrow, leans back as she stalks across the
kitchen to grab the chocolate on the table. She stands there and eats, watches
her sister place the pans in the oven, set the timer.
“I was about to explain the anger to John,” Eisheth says, wiping off the
counter with a damp cloth. “But you’re more than welcome to, if you’d like.”
“Too lazy, Eish?” Lilith drawls, chocolate on her teeth. “Too hesitant to share
even more of our secrets with the hunter? Because you’ve been as generous as an
angel, really.” Eisheth flinches in on herself, and John almost says something
in her defence, but Lilith spins and pins her eyes on him, says, “Don’t say a
word, human. Sit there and keep your fucking mouth shut and maybe something of
what we’re saying will filter into your puny little mind.”
John raises an eyebrow, settles back into his chair and crosses his arms over
his chest. Eisheth walks to the sink, starts doing the dishes, making herself
as small a target as she possibly can.
“Soldiers fighting a war,” Lilith says, taking the chair Eisheth had been
sitting in before and turning it so that she can straddle it, “that’s what Eish
said?” John nods, resists the urge to take the rosary out of his pocket and
hold it in front of her face. Lilith snorts, says, “True enough, on some
accounts. Tell me, hunter: what happens to a group in the field if their C.O.’s
missing?”
John’s drawn to his memories of Vietnam, can’t help it, not when she puts the
question that way. “Chaos,” he answers bluntly. “Nothing good, that’s for
sure.”
Lilith’s eyes gleam. “We swore our loyalty, our allegiance, our very existence
to the young master. For all intents and purposes, he’s our commander and we’re
his foot soldiers. He’s gone. We’re demons. You think we’re gonna sit around
and make fucking daisy-chains?”
“The young master calms us by his very presence,” Eisheth says, finally
speaking up, though she’s being cautious about it. She dries her hands, turns
and leans against the sink, glances at the oven timer before looking at Lilith,
watching her, wary. “He soothes the part of us that wants to rage and shriek
and behave as many humans assume demons behave when they’re on the surface. His
presence reminds us that we have a plan, that we are more than mindless beasts
intent on damnation and hellfire, that we’re engaged in a battle of strategy
with an enemy just as wilful as we are.”
“He’s your conscience,” John half-says, wondering if he’s imagining the
undertone in Eisheth’s voice.
Lilith huffs, says, “You’re an idiot, hunter, just like they’ve said. We’re
demons, we don’t have fucking consciences.”
Eisheth throws her sister a glance, tells John, “It’s hard to explain, but I
think you’re beginning to see. The young master helps us retain our sanity;
we’re not on a high enough tier by ourselves to hold on to our minds when we’re
in the human realm for long amounts of time. Our Prince anchored us before,
just like Lord Belial anchors many, and Lauviah serves his own sworn
followers.”
The kitchen goes silent, save for the almost sub-vocal growling coming from
Lilith’s direction, until the timer dings, startling John. Eisheth swoops on
the oven, pulls out pans of heavenly-smelling pain au chocolat and raisin-
stuffed croissants. Lilith takes one right from the pan, unmindful of how hot
it might be, and rips a chunk off, chewing and swallowing. John can see the
second the chocolate hits, along with the pastry, as some of the tension eases
off of Lilith’s shoulders, melts right away like the chocolate has inside of
the bread.
“Would you like a piece?” Eisheth asks John.
John watches Lilith lick her lips, stare right at him as she uses her canines
to tear off another bite of bread.
“Only if I can wrap it up to go,” he says. Lilith gives him a predatory grin
and Eisheth merely smiles sadly and offers John a covered basket.
--
John doesn’t sleep well that night, doesn’t sleep well the next night, either,
despite having spent all day tuning up the Impala. On the third day of Ben’s
absence, John decides he can’t just sit around or he’ll go crazy; he heads for
the city library and starts writing down everything he’s learned over the past
couple of weeks, as well as everything he’s guessing at.
That takes up day three, and days four, five, and six are spent in books, hours
of dust and grime and papercuts. He lugs Bobby’s books to the library, has
claimed a table in one back corner near the religion section and spreads out
over the table, books and papers fighting for top spots. Every so often, John
makes a note on a different piece of paper, uses coffee breaks to call Ash and
leave short messages at the Roadhouse. He texts Dean once a day, simple message
that says Ben’s not back yet, and never reads Dean’s replies. He even calls
Joshua, his resident expert on demon-touched humans, once, talks to him for
thirty seconds.
Day seven comes early, John breaking out of a sound sleep into panic. His
nightmares are getting worse.
--
When a search for food yields nothing in sight save some boxes and cartons
growing mould, John showers and shaves before he drives to the diner where Alan
Visser’s wife works, orders a full breakfast. He made a solid start into it
before Mrs. Visser slides into the booth across from him, pot of coffee sitting
on the table.
“Alan’s said I owe you an apology,” she says, no prelude, no nonsense in her
tone.
“It’s not necessary,” John says, replying mildly, thinking that he just wants
some peace and quiet, maybe a top-up on his coffee, nothing more complicated
than that, certainly not an apology from some overprotective mother-hen
sticking her nose where it doesn’t belong.
She seems to intuit some of what John’s feeling, because she smiles, the
expression jagged, almost like it doesn’t fit. “And that’s good, because I’m
not giving you one.”
John tilts his head and says, “Oh?” like he’d been expecting that response. In
truth, it startles him, until he remembers what she’d been like that night he’d
brought Ben in here, with her impatience and distrustfulness.
“Alan said you’re a good man, and good for Ben,” she says, close to haughty.
“But my husband has a soft heart and he’s been fooled before. I wanted to let
you know that I’m watching you, John Winchester, you and that no-good son of
yours.”
“Don’t talk about my son like that,” John says, the beginning traces of anger
in his voice. “You don’t know Dean, you have no right at all to lecture me
about him.”
She sniffs, stands up and refills John’s coffee cup. “You might’ve fed Ben, and
you might’ve made him smile, but don’t assume I’m an idiot, Winchester,” she
says, low and quiet, like she doesn’t want anyone else to overhear her. “A fair
few of the others have done just as much, and they all turned on him, in the
end. When you do the same, we’ll still be here. If you remember anything,
remember that.”
The phone rings, cutting her off, and she walks back to the counter, head held
high. John’s reluctant to admit that she’s impressed him, just a little, but if
pressed, he thinks he might confess to Ben. The kid’s evidently made a good
decision, choosing this woman as a protector of sorts.
“Winchester?” she calls out. John looks at her, and she says, “It’s Alan,” like
she hates passing on the message.
That has John moving, and the first thing he says when he takes the phone from
her is, "How'd you know I was here?"
"Saw your car out front when I passed by earlier," the pastor says. "Ben's
done."
John blinks, says, "What?"
Alan sighs, explains. "Ben's done with this round of lessons. He called from
the car; he'll be at the church in a few minutes. I thought you'd like to
know."
"I'm on my way," John says, and drops the phone, leaves it hanging. He can hear
Mrs. Visser calling out after him, but he ignores her, heads straight for the
Impala.
--
John drives to the church, parks as near to the entrance as he can, first spot
after the handicapped spaces, and gets out of the car. Alan's on the steps,
waiting, in a pair of blue jeans and a Hard Rock Cafe sweatshirt that John
can't help grinning at despite the anxiety making waves in his stomach.
"Second honeymoon," Alan offers in explanation. "It's worn in and the stains
come out pretty good, but the wife won't mind if there are more."
John's about to ask what that means, why Alan looks as if he's expecting a
hearse, not Ben, but he sees Alan stiffen, follows his gaze. It's not the black
hybrid that Arioch drives, that dropped Ben off at the motel and then turned
around and picked him up a week ago; instead, it's the SUV that John has come
to associate with Marchosias. John steps forward as the vehicle slows to a
stop, and the window rolls down to reveal a grinning host with black eyes,
cocky tilt to his head.
"Ah, Winchester, we meet again. Tell me, how's that son of yours doing?"
Marchosias -- it has to be Marchosias -- looks as if he knows something John
doesn't, the way he's smiling, practically laughing.
The back door opens and Ben steps out, unsteady on his feet, though he slams
the door shut hard enough to rock the car. John moves towards Ben but stops
when the kid stares at him, blank and even.
"Your watchdog'll come and find you later," Marchosias says to Ben, eyes
gleaming as he licks his teeth. "Be good, young master." He turns to John,
says, "Watch out," and the window rolls up as the SUV pulls away in a squeal of
tires.
Ben's tense, looks exhausted as he stands there, weight on one foot, eyes
shadowed and wary behind a sea of calm emptiness. John thinks of what Eisheth
said, can't help shuddering.
"I've been worried," John says, once he gets closer, seeing Pastor Visser
taking a step forward out of the corner of one eye. It's hard to remember that
this is the kid John fucked against a wall, that he's been in screaming matches
with, that he's falling for against his will; it's even harder to remember
that, despite the worry, they didn't part on the best of terms. John doesn't
apologise, not to many people, never if he can help it, but he says, "I'm sorry
for what I said before. I've had time to think, and I talked to some people -
- I was wrong. Are you." John pauses, wonders if he's lost the right to ask,
but decides to anyway. "Are you okay?"
Ben doesn't move, doesn't react. John hates the dead look in the kid's eyes,
wishes there was something he could do or say to kindle the fire in them. Hell,
at this point, he'd even take anger. John moves around the corner of the bench
and freezes when he sees Ben skitter backwards.
"Just leave," Ben says, and the tone of voice is so tired, so numb, that John's
left gaping. "Just. Just take your son and your friend and get out of town.
You're not wanted here. You never were."
"Ben," Alan says, narrowing the distance between him and Ben, reaching out and
gently touching the kid's arm. "Ben, you don't mean that. This is John. You
like him, remember?"
Ben hisses, jerks away from Alan's touch and wavers on his feet, blood draining
from his face. John guesses it's from the sudden movement but doesn't know why
that might happen, unless.
"What did they do to you?" John asks, the question half a growl. "Ben. What the
fuck did they do?"
Ben narrows his eyes; John holds his breath as he watches a spark come to life
in the depths of those green cats-eyes. "Nothing I didn't want and everything I
asked for," he replies. The tone sounds moderately more alive but the words
have John furious.
Alan must be able to see that there's going to be some kind of explosion,
either from one of them or between them, because he's trying to get John to
calm down, trying to get Ben to sit down. John wants to tell the pastor to stop
wasting his time, that he and Ben fight all the damned time and sometimes even
mean it, but Ben merely looks at the man and he's stepping back, holding up his
hands in a gesture of resignation.
"I'm calling Dan. Don't go anywhere," Alan tells Ben before the man walks away,
muttering under his breath.
Ben nods, a sharp, jerking movement, and doesn't say anything else.
"What do you mean, nothing you didn't want," John asks.
Anyone else would recognise the danger implicit in John's tone, would be trying
to placate him or be backing away, but Ben holds his ground and sneers. "What,
are you deaf now, Winchester? I asked for it. You need me to explain that to
you?" Ben turns his face to one side, spits on the ground, comes perilously
close to hitting the edge of John's shoe. "Always knew hunters were idiots, but
I thought you were better. Guess I was wrong."
John's seeing red, eyes focusing like tunnel-vision on the kid standing in
front of him. He's almost about to open his mouth and lay into the kid, but he
realises he's actually seeing red -- it's not saliva lying on the ground,
staining a small puddle into the cement, but blood. Just like that, the anger
fades into fear and worry, and he looks up at Ben, asks, softly, "What
happened?"
Ben shrugs, though the corners of his mouth tighten like he's holding back a
grimace of pain. "Lessons," he says, simple and plain.
"You've been gone for a week," John says, arguing weakly. "You were in lessons
all that time?"
"Let's say I'm a slow learner," Ben replies, and the shadow's back in his eyes.
John blinks, shakes his head. "No, you aren't," he says firmly. Ben's smart,
would have to be to survive all this time on the streets, not to mention how
he's survived inside of a system that only makes sense to demons. Besides, even
Bobby's been impressed with how intelligent Ben is, what kinds of things he
knows and what sorts of connections he can draw between seemingly unrelated
things -- and it takes a lot to impress Bobby.
Ben wavers on his feet, puts one hand out and surreptitiously steadies himself
by gripping the back of the bench; John follows the angle of Ben's arm and sees
that there are bruises and abrasions around Ben's wrists, that his knuckles are
skinned.
"Why is Alan calling Dan?" John asks, hoping against hope that he can catch Ben
off-balance; ordinarily, he's relatively sure it would be futile, but Ben's
gotten paler and looks like he's having trouble focusing.
"Because Dan was an emergency medical," Alan starts to say, coming back out of
the church. He stops mid-sentence, after looking at Ben, and snaps out, "John,
catch him before he falls."
John's already moving, having seen the shudder Ben gave before his fingers
slipped off of the bench, and he's there just in time to keep the kid from
cracking open his skull on the cement. Ben's eyes are closed, and John stares
for a moment at the kid's face before he realises that the back of Ben's
sweater is damp with something.
He goes to check and see what it is, but Alan says, "Not out here," in a voice
that seems to know what it's talking about. "Come on, carry him inside. We'll
need to get him cleaned before Dan can do anything anyway."
"Cleaned? Before Dan can do anything? Alan, Pastor, what's the problem?" John
asks, though he's lifting Ben, carrying him in his arms, inwardly wondering how
the kid can be so light even though he's close to John's height. John holds Ben
tighter, hears the kid's breathing change, sound soothed instead of pained; Ben
curls into him and John wants to kill someone.
--
Alan leads him to a back room somehow connected to the vestry and is telling
John that this church used to be an old opera house, before opera fell out of
style, that there are labyrinthine tunnels and attics connecting the two floors
and the basement together, crooked little staircases and narrow hallways so
that the musicians and performers could easily get from one side of the
building to the other, top to bottom, as the stage directions called for.
"We've closed up some of the passages," Alan says, gesturing for John to put
Ben down on a little sofa in one of the farthest rooms away from the front
door. "No, on his stomach. Yes, like that," the pastor instructs. "But others
are kept open. There's a door in the back that Dan has a key to, I'll be right
back." At John's look, guessing what John's about to say, Alan says, "Dan's
going to need water and better light. I had to move the lamps up to the altar a
week or so ago, so I'm going to get those and then grab the filtered water we
have around here somewhere."
John nods, pulls over an ottoman and sits down, holding one of Ben's hands in
his own. He's rubbing one thumb over Ben's fingertips, but then remembers what
he'd seen out front, before Ben passed out. He looks down, brushes his thumb
lightly over the skinned knuckles, then pushes up the sleeve of a sweater
John's just now realising is a different one than the dark green cable-knit one
Ben left wearing last week.
He hadn't been imagining things -- Ben's wrist and lower arm is torn up,
covered in bruises and red skin as if Ben had rope tied around him and fought
it. No blisters that John can see, thankfully, but there doesn't seem to be one
square inch of Ben's arm from his fingers to his elbow that's untouched.
Very carefully, having put two and two together, John starts moving Ben's
sweater away from his body; the kid shivers but doesn't wake up. John swallows,
feeling the fabric stick to something, and slows down, but he doesn't stop
until he's maneuvered the sweater off of Ben's body. He drops the fabric on the
floor and just stares.
John's not sure how long it's been since Ben left wherever this lessons are
held at, but the kid's still bleeding; half of the wounds are sluggishly
letting out blood, the other half are just barely scabbed over, still damp.
From what John can tell, it looks like Ben was whipped: the wounds are narrow
and long, but deep. John wants to vomit but he won't let himself.
"You won't go back there," he whispers, leaning down and resting his cheek on
Ben's head, inhaling the smell of hair and sweat, tears and blood. "I swear it,
Ben. You'll never go back there."
--
Footsteps echo on the floor; John's not sure how long it's been but they aren't
coming from the direction Alan left in. John reacts immediately, pulls the gun
from his jeans and aims in, crouching on the floor in front of Ben, a bottle of
Holy Water in his other hand.
Dan comes around the corner and freezes mid-step, holds up his hands so that
John can see what he's carrying: a cell phone in one hand, closed, and a field
medic's kit in the other, big red cross on the side of the case. "I'm not
possessed," Dan says. "I'm just here to patch Ben up."
John swallows, stands and sets the gun down on a small table near Ben's feet,
but doesn't let go of the Holy Water. "How'd I know if you were lying?" he
asks, and can't stop the rise of bitterness. If there had been three solid
things in his world before this, now there's only two: Mary's still dead and
Dean's still all he has left of his family, but demons aren't reacting to the
things they should be the way they should be.
Dan looks sympathetic but not much; he brushes past John and sighs when he sees
the mess some damned demon has made of Ben's back, picks up one wrist to look
at the damage, then asks, "Where's Alan?"
"Gone to get some better lights and some water," John replies, still watching
Dan carefully, cautiously. The other man doesn't so anything but hum
acknowledgment before pulling over the ottoman and opening the kit. He takes
out antibiotic ointment, wads of cotton, and starts with Ben's knuckles,
cleaning them before wrapping them in some cotton and tape.
"Army?" John asks, watching Dan work his way up Ben's arms, cleaning
everything, wrapping and bandaging when necessary.
Dan glances up, quick flick of his eyes, and says, "Marines, 2/8," before
returning his attention to Ben. "I was in Lebanon, then Grenada. Saw enough and
decided once I was out that I wanted to learn to heal as well as kill. Went
through the classes and worked as an EMT until my wife died. I moved down here,
opened the store, and found out that taking care of this kid was a full-time
job."
Lebanon. From what John remembers hearing on the television and from the few
people he keeps in touch with from his old unit, that whole conflict was quick
but bloody, terrorists blowing things up and giving the States an excuse to put
one foot in the Middle East and not ever bring it back.
"How often does he look this bad?" John asks, standing near Ben's feet, close
to the gun.
Dan shrugs, says, "'Bout every time he comes back. Actually, to be honest with
you? This is the best. No bruising on his upper arms, nothing on his face, and
these wounds were made cleanly, which means no one actually laid a hand on him.
I haven't checked his feet yet, but Alan said Ben was standing easily enough."
John can't believe what he's hearing but it would make sense with the way Alan
didn't have a problem arguing with Ben, with the look Dan had walking in here.
He hears another set of footsteps, but the rhythm's familiar, if a little
heavier.
Alan walks in, holding a large container of water, sets it down next to Dan's
feet and looks over Ben's back. "Not as bad as we'd feared, then," he says to
Dan, before he dips a cloth into the water and starts to wipe off Ben’s back.
Both of the men are taking this calmly, far too calmly for John's taste. "How
often does he have these lessons?" he asks, thinking that maybe, if he was used
to seeing this more often, he'd react in the same way, cool heads and steady
hands.
Dan's too busy threading a needle for stitches to look up, but he answers,
"It's been a while since the last set."
That's not an answer and all three men know it; John's ready to push but Alan
says, "Longer between and this time it's shorter? That doesn't make sense,
though, does it? I can't think of any reason why his teacher would be happier
now than."
Alan stops abruptly and John looks the pastor right in the face and says, "It's
about me."
No one can say anything to that.
--
Dan sews quickly, gets all the sutures done in about an hour and a half. Ben
hasn't regained consciousness and John's thankful because they aren't doing
this with any anaesthetic. Once the stitches are in place, ugly black silk
thread carving up and down and across Ben's back, Dan cleans the excess blood
up, tweezes fabric out of some of the smaller cuts, cracks his knuckles.
"He doesn't have any scars," John says, as Dan's checking Ben's legs and feet
to make sure they're unharmed. "If it's worse than this, why doesn't he have
scars?" Dan's hand pauses and Alan stiffens; neither of the two men look at
each other. "Dan? Alan?"
Alan breaks first, probably because John's glaring right at him. "When the
sutures are ready to come out," he explains, "Ben will go home and his father
will do it. No one in the city's ever taken out a thread from Ben's injuries.
After he leaves the house and comes back here, there won't be any sign he was
injured."
Demon-tainted and demon-touched, but now they're saying that Ben's demon-healed
-- there's no way to remove a thing like that from a person's soul. Or, John
reminds himself, no way that he knows of right now. He'll find something.
"How often does he have lessons?" John asks, tone placid despite the worry and
anger battling for dominance inside of him.
"At least once every five or six weeks," Dan says, finally sitting back,
closing up his kit. "Sometimes once a month."
John nods, lets that percolate, then says, "I'm taking him with me. Back to the
motel for now, but after that. I'm taking him away from here, with me."
Alan looks at him and says, "If you can get him to leave, we owe you a debt of
gratitude, John."
"People have tried before?" John asks before he can stop himself.
Dan turns to look at him, disbelief written all over his expression. "You think
we'd let a child stay here and go through this? You honestly think we wouldn't
do everything in our power to make him go? The best we can do is far less than
what we've done; we've pushed and pushed and pushed to get him to accept even
this much help from us." Dan stands up, grabs his kit, and says to Alan, "Call
me if you need me," before leaving without addressing another word to John.
John thinks he’d be offended, if it wasn’t for Alan’s murmured apology. “Ben
spends a lot of time at Dan’s, more than he does with me, anymore,” he adds.
“I’ve never seen as many symbols of protection around this city as I do at
Dan’s store. Still,” he says, “I can’t blame Ben. He wants to keep the guns
locked up, safe from the demons.”
“He said something about that,” John says, trying to wrack his mind. It was
when he and Dean had come back, wanted to try out the range. “Wait. He said he
doesn’t do guns. Why? And why would a pastor have keys to the shooting range?”
“Dan lets me work there to supplement my income,” Alan explains, feeling the
nape of Ben’s neck, for a temperature, John thinks. He resists the urge to go
over and rip the man’s hand off, doesn’t know where it comes from. “As for Ben
and guns, you should ask him.”
John nods, sees Ben shift slightly, not close to consciousness but in some
instinctive response to a stimulus that John’s not aware of.
“Will you need help getting back to your motel?” Alan asks, once a few minutes
have passed.
“No,” John replies. “We’ll be fine.”
If Alan hears the unspoken dismissal, the implicit alliance, he doesn’t say
anything about it.
--
John tucks Ben into bed, careful of the kid’s injuries; he lays Ben on his side
and props the kid’s wrists on a pillow, decides he’ll take the bandaging off
tomorrow to let the injuries air. He brushes hair off of Ben’s forehead, leans
down and kisses Ben’s forehead, allowing himself the luxury of fond softness
after a week of worry.
With the television on, the lights blazing, the curtains drawn, and John’s
things scattered about the room, it almost looks cozy, like evening instead of
early afternoon. He suddenly wishes he had more to offer Ben than the Impala,
wishes he could prove himself and his worth with a house, property, something
tangible and stable.
Ben probably wouldn’t like stable, though, John thinks, and wonders if he’s
consoling himself, justifying his own way of life. Used to roaming as he wants,
Ben’s likely to find a house, a permanent location, somewhat constraining, much
like Dean’s grown used to. One more thing Ben will have in common with Dean,
and a good thing, too; between the two of them, they need all the common ground
they’re able to scout out.
He can almost see Ben’s scoff, the mocking look, and he murmurs, “He defended
you, y’know,” as if there’s someone arguing with him. “He already thinks of you
as part of us.” Part of me, he wants to add, but even now, here, alone except
for his unconscious lover, to say something like that would be too much, would
feel too much.
“We’ll leave when you’re able,” John says, promises. “I don’t care about this
hunt anymore, about what’s going on. The hunters in town will have to deal with
it -- they’ve let it go on this long, they should pay for it. We’ll go west,
maybe, or up north-east. I always liked Vermont. There should be something up
there we can do.”
Ben doesn’t react. Then again, John didn’t expect him to.
--
The kid wakes up in the middle of the night. It’s not slow and easy, not by a
long shot: the kid bolts upright, out from under John’s arm, his hair mussed,
eyes wild, and looks like he’s searching for someone’s eyes to claw out.
“Hey,” John says, sitting up as well, sheets falling to bunch around his waist.
“Hey, Ben, Ben, what is it?”
“Be,” Ben starts to say, chest heaving as he gasps, one hand coming up to his
throat, as if he’s trying to throw off someone or something, like there are
hands around his throat. He stops, doesn’t finish the word, and John frowns,
trying to figure out what Ben might have been about to practically scream.
Ben breathes and all of the tension drains away, just like that, everything
going back to normal. John’s amazed, reaches out and tentatively places a hand
on Ben’s shoulder, mindful of the sutures under the t-shirt he’d wrangled on to
the kid earlier. Ben turns, lays eyes on John, and all of John’s instincts are
telling him to cower, to make himself as small as possible in hopes that
whatever large and deadly creature is passing might miss him, might not see
him.
“John Edward Winchester,” Ben murmurs, and a small smile crosses his lips. It’s
cold, cruel, and matches the look in his eyes perfectly, an ancient, old evil
that even the demons who hate Ben might bow at the feet of.
At this moment, John understands how Ben’s the key, how he might be capable of
unlocking the doors to hell and opening them for any and all hellspawn who want
to walk over the earth. He hates it, hates seeing that look, and he prays it’s
only reflex that has him saying, “Christo,” nothing more.
Ben doesn’t react to the name, just tilts his head in the way that’s reminded
John of Mary before, of Dean. “If it doesn’t work on demons like Kokabiel, like
Eisheth Zenunim, what makes you think it’s going to work on someone like me?”
he asks, voice as loud as the breeze brushing through dead leaves outside. “And
if it has no impact on humans, why are you wasting breath, John Winchester?”
“Because I’m worried,” John says, answering before thinking. “I’m worried about
you, Ben. I don’t want to see you possessed or hurt or trampled on anymore?”
“They won’t possess me,” Ben says, and John wants to slap away the smile on the
kid’s face. “Only one of them has the power and He won’t leave hell, not until
I open the gates and make Him a place of power here, on the surface.” Ben’s
eyes are gleaming, not with fever or anger, but with the hard practicality of
knowing what needs to be done and how to do it.
Despite how dry John’s mouth is, despite how much he thinks, in this one,
brief, instant, that maybe Bobby’s right and they should kill Ben, he says, “I
won’t let them do that, Ben. I won’t let you do that.”
The lights in the bathroom flicker, on-off, on-off, in split-motion that makes
John think of ghosts. There are shadows moving outside, something more than
branches, less than people, and the wind picks up, howls once before settling.
“You can’t stop me,” Ben says. It’s not bravado, but pure and simple fact, and
it has John’s hand connecting with Ben’s cheek a second later.
John breathes, can’t believe he’s just slapped his lover, but when he sees
something pushing at the back of Ben’s eyes, he feels relieved. He wasn’t doing
that to Ben, but to whatever it is that these lessons bring out in him, is
trying to help Ben and this seems to be working. Ben blinks, shakes his head,
and when he stills, looks back at John, his eyes are cold and hard again,
nothing of Ben in the brittle green depths. John thinks of what Eisheth said,
the evil in Ben’s eyes isn’t him, and narrows his own eyes.
“You’re not my Ben,” John says. “You’re not Ben at all. What the hell are you?”
“I am Ben,” the kid replies, sliding out of bed, standing next to it in his
boxers and one of John’s t-shirts, too big for his frame. His eyes are like
green ice and ooze menace. “But I’m not yours. I don’t belong to anyone.”
The words hurt, would hurt even more if John thought Ben meant them, under
whatever this part of him is. John gets out of bed as well, standing on the
other side, hands itching for a gun, a knife, a weapon of any kind.
“Ben,” John says, trying to figure out how to call Ben back, to help him fight
what an Eisheth called an uphill battle. He’s not expecting Ben to narrow his
eyes, glare at him and tilt his chin up; he’s even less prepared to go flying
across the room and end up pinned against the wall. John gags, then finds his
breath, back aching from the impact, and watches as Ben sashays around the bed,
towards him. John almost expects to see wings crush their way out of the kid’s
back, wouldn’t be surprised if they did at any second. “You’re telekinetic,”
John says, wheezing the slightest bit, shocked. “Why didn’t you ever say
anything.”
“You should see everything I can do,” Ben murmurs, coming to a stop in front of
John, lifting one hand and running it down John’s chest, pausing when his
palm’s pressed against John’s stomach. “The name-giving was inborn, did you
guess that yet? The only thing. And everything else comes from my father, the
gifts he gave to me when I was still a baby.”
The bed behind them shivers, then moves a foot closer; Ben gestures and one of
the pillows levitates, displaying the gun hiding underneath. Ben jerks his
fingers and the gun flies to his hand, sits there comfortably, like Ben knows
what he’s doing, is more at home with guns than he ever let on before.
John inhales, seeing the safety click itself off, and says, “You don’t do
guns.” Ben grins and John feels the force holding him to the wall double. He
grimaces, calming himself enough to breathe and little more, says it again.
“Ben, you don’t do guns. Remember? You told me that yourself.”
“Oh, hunter,” Ben purrs, moving closer, rubbing himself against John. “You were
supposed to be such a threat, did you know that? And yet, here you are, at my
mercy. I could do what my father wants and bring you to him right now; I could
make it so that you’d go willingly, by yourself, did you know that? Or I could
do what my teacher says,” Ben whispers, standing on his tip-toes and licking at
John’s neck, “and just kill you now, save father the trouble.” Ben inhales,
bites down and John can feel blood rising to the surface of his skin, can feel
the tiny little teeth-marks settle into his flesh.
Everything in him wants to fight, wants to rage and scream and get out of this
trap, kill the bastard who caught him, cursing himself for being so stupid and
getting into this situation, but this is Ben and there hasn’t been anything,
anyone, since Mary that John has wanted as much as he wants this kid for
himself.
“Do it, then,” he growls, staring in Ben’s eyes. “Kill me or take me to your
thrice-damned father. Whatever you want, I’ll do, and you don’t need to waste
time on any more tricks, any more games. I’m not a complicated man, Ben; you
know what I want and what I’m willing to do to get it.”
Ben’s eyes flicker, some little light in them that has John hoping against
hope, but Ben merely sighs and turns around. The pillow falls at the same time
as John, both of them dropping to the ground in a loud thump. “It’s not as much
fun if you don’t fight,” he mutters, stalking to the bathroom and slamming the
door, locking it, without touching it.
--
John tries to sleep but can’t, the look on Ben’s face imprinted on his eyelids
every time he closes them. In the end, John turns the television on, sound
practically on mute, and doesn’t see whatever informercial’s playing at this
time of day. He wants something to kill, something that he can hurt, that he
can make pay for this, and after half an hour of silent seething, John stands
up, goes over to the desk, and searches the index of both the Pseudomonarchia
Daemonum and Michaelis’ Admirable History, making a list of all the demons
whose names begin with ‘Be.’
It takes a couple hours, but the list, in the end, is quite short, no more than
two dozen names. John rearranges them in order of their importance, and comes
up short when the top two names are ones that have been thrown around quite a
bit lately: Beezelbub and Belial. What was it Eisheth said, that when Lord
Belial tells them to leave it alone, to stop asking questions about Ben’s
lessons, they do?
He has a terrible feeling now and he looks over at the bathroom door. John’s a
patient man when he has to be, has survived slow, near-torturous treks through
jungles and stake-outs in trees, can outwait and outthink any supernatural
creature he comes up against. He’s constantly telling Dean to slow down and get
all the facts before making a decision or going after something supernatural,
but John’s never been one to sit back and wait when his family’s in trouble.
The lockpick set is in his hands after a second of rummaging through the
duffel, and John rests on one knee, taking a deep breath as he looks at the
bathroom door handle. He wants to do this, won’t regret it, no matter what
happens or what’s waiting for him on the other side, so he jimmies the lock in
half-a second, no challenge, really, and puts the set out of reach before he
turns the handle, lets the door swing open.
Ben’s sitting on the floor, crammed in between the toilet and the stained
bathtub, knees pulled up to his chest. His eyes are closed and he looks like
he’s asleep, apart from the way his lips are moving, as if he’s praying.
John gets closer, feels an irrational surge of anger at the thought that Ben’s
praying to his demonic father again, after John told him not to, but he watches
Ben’s lips and is surprised. Ben’s reciting the litaniae sanctorum, in Latin,
without a misstep. Alan had said that Ben attended church, went to Mass, but
John hadn’t realised that this teenager, demon-touched, actually knows the
prayers and can say them.
“…Sancte Martine,” Ben says.
“Ora pro nobis,” John responds. Ben shudders, pauses, opens his eyes and stares
right at John, though John gets the impression that the kid isn’t seeing him,
is instead looking right through him at something or someone else. That worries
John, but Ben’s eyes are closer to normal, fractured and broken but without
that cold gleam from earlier, not the numb look from the steps of the church.
Ben continues with the prayer and John says the responses; when the prayer’s
done, Ben starts in on the litaniae de sanctus angelis ex sacra scriptura. John
struggles to remember the words -- praying to the saints is all well and good,
but he’s never believed in angels the way that Jim does, up in Minnesota, or
even the way Bobby does, so he never took the time to memorise the litany -
- but he settles in, lulled by Ben’s slow, steady rhythm. At one point, he
reaches out, takes Ben’s hands, and the kid lets him, doesn’t react except to
blink and say the next angel’s name.
--
Ben moves from prayer to prayer, and though John’s bones hurt from sitting on
the cold tile, he doesn’t move, says the responses as he’s prompted by the form
of the prayers, holding Ben’s hands. Finally, when the sun’s just started to
lighten up the room behind them, Ben blinks, stops. John holds his breath,
waits for something, and sighs when Ben just leans his head back and falls
asleep.
He manages to get his arms around Ben enough to pull him out, then picks Ben up
and tucks him back into bed. John stands there, thinks for a second, then turns
his phone off and crawls next to Ben, cradles him close and tight. For the
briefest instance, John thinks that, even in sleep, Ben is going to fight him,
but Ben exhales and scoots in closer.
***** Chapter 7 *****
John wakes up first, checks the clock and sees that they’ve slept about six
hours. He doesn’t want to move, has Ben draped all over him, fingernails
pricking into his skin as if Ben’s body is saying that someone will have to
fight to get him away from John, one leg draped over both of John’s, cock half-
hard as it presses against John’s thigh. That makes him feel better, mostly
because John doesn’t think that the creature Ben became over the night has any
sexual drive whatsoever, at least none that aren’t related to killing, to
violence and fear.
Ben murmurs something unintelligible, presses his face into John’s shoulder,
and his hold on John tightens. John lifts an arm, draws Ben closer, and the kid
says, “You didn’t kill me.” The words are muffled, but John doesn’t need to ask
Ben to repeat himself.
“Why would I do that?” John asks, voice sleep-rough and scratchy as the stubble
on his chin.
Ben shifts, leans up on one elbow, looking down at John. “I’m too dangerous to
be left alive,” he says simply, reaching with his other hand to trace a line
across John’s face. It’s a tender gesture, too tender, and John wants to trust
it but he can’t. “Singer would kill me, given half a chance. I bet your son
wants to.”
“We don’t kill humans,” John says, taking hold of Ben’s hand, fingers easily
circling Ben’s wrist. “You’re still human. You can be saved.”
Ben gives John a sad smile, mildly states, “No, I can’t.”
John wants to argue as well, but he doesn’t, just says, “It’s too early in the
day for a conversation this heavy.”
“John, it’s after noon,” Ben says, but he grins, wide and bright, and doesn’t
push the issue any farther, instead lying back down, snuggling into John first
and then, as if he can’t get settled, rolls on top of John, straddles his
waist, looks down at John. His hands rest on John’s chest, light pressure, and
Ben asks, “Comfortable?”
“Not even,” John says, and flips them so that Ben’s on his back and John’s the
one looming over him. Ben spreads his legs apart and John settles between them,
chest-to-chest, his lips an inch from Ben’s own. “Better now, though.” Ben
laughs and John wants nothing more than to press his lips against Ben’s, use
his tongue to explore that sharp-witted mouth, plunder and lay claim, but Ben
said no kissing, so John dips his head, starts sucking at the hollow of Ben’s
neck.
Ben’s hand trails over John’s back, and he tugs on John’s hair, not giving up
until John sighs, bites hard and then looks up, asks, “What?”
“We need to do this in a different position,” Ben says, and shifts slightly
under John.
John’s horrified, sits up and says, “Oh, fuck, I didn’t even.”
Ben sits up as well, reaches out and puts a finger across John’s lips. “I know.
And I’m pleased. No one else treats me like I’m.” He laughs, a hollow sound,
says, “Like I’m human. Now. Did that completely ruin the mood, or do I still
have a chance at your dick?” Blood flushes through John’s body, heads straight
for John’s cock when Ben adds, “If I’m on my hands and knees, will it kill you
to see the sutures? Or do you want me to ride you, hmm? That way you wouldn’t
have to look at me.”
“I don’t care about that,” John says. All he can think of is getting inside of
Ben, but he doesn’t want to hurt the kid, doesn’t want to force the issue. “Are
you sure you’re.”
Ben growls, and the sound sends a chill down John’s spine, he reaches down,
puts his palm over Ben’s groin and squeezes. The growl turns to a groan, and
Ben arches up, says, “Don’t tease. Please, don’t tease.”
“Last thing on my mind,” John says, wishing for all the world that he could
take the tiny hints of pain away from Ben, have kept him from those damned
lessons Ben had been so flippant about. “What’s going to be the easiest way?”
John asks, fingers tracing around the waistband of Ben’s boxers, starting to
pull them down.
“Think you can manage to stay on your back?” Ben asks in return. John wants to
wipe that sardonic smile off of Ben’s face, but he can’t hit the kid and he
can’t kiss the kid, so he does the next best thing, yanking down Ben’s boxers
and wrapping his hand around Ben’s cock. “Okay,” Ben breathes. “Sure. Yes. You
can. Good. Get there.”
--
They reposition after they both strip, John on his back, condom already on, Ben
kneeling next to him, legs spread as he works himself open. Ben had been ready
to fuck, hadn’t cared about lube or relaxing, but John had made his point,
telling Ben that they’d always take the time to prepare or they’d never fuck
again. Ben had grumbled but now, watching him fuck himself on his fingers, John
thinks Ben can’t regret it too much.
“’M ready,” he pants, and John rests one hand on Ben’s hip, mindful of the
stitches criss-crossing Ben’s back. “Please, I swear, I’m ready.”
John’s hand curls tighter for a moment, then moves; he bats Ben’s fingers out
of place, pushes one of his own up, sees for himself. Ben arches back, it has
to hurt, pull on the sutures, but John can’t bring himself to chide the kid,
not when he’s hot and tight around John’s finger, not when John’s reached the
limits of his patience.
“Fine,” John says, physically hauling Ben on top of him, helping Ben get
positioned above his dick. “You’re ready. Let’s go.”
Ben smiles, a look that plays at being shy but, instead, promises more than
John thinks he can stand. “Impatient much? Just relax, John, and let me drive.”
John wants to respond to that, wants to argue and push his own point, but then
Ben starts to lower himself onto John’s cock, agonisingly slow. Ben’s tight,
hot, and the lube is sticky-slick against the latex.
John resists the urge to thrust up, waits until Ben’s seated entirely on John’s
dick, eyes closed and a smile on his face. Fingers skitter over Ben’s hips,
until John finds a resting place, digs in and holds tight as Ben starts to
move, rising up then sliding back down, slow at first, getting faster and
faster, until he’s slamming down to meet John’s upward thrust.
Mary had liked to do it this way as well, long hair moving with her, sticking
to the sweat that always seemed to gather in small of her back and, every time
she leaned back, arched, her hair would brush against John’s thighs, tickle-
light against the tight pressure of her cunt. Ben’s hair, wild and curly, is
plastered to his neck and temples, but he arches as well, almost exactly the
same angle, and John leaves this line of comparisons alone, gives up thinking
entirely, focusing just on the slide of latex against skin, weight and touch
and the growing pressure in his balls.
“Ben, god,” John mutters, before moving one hand, starting to jack Ben in
between upward and downward motions. “Come on, wanna feel it when you come
around me,” he says, and Ben groans, picks up the pace a little more.
“Can’t you do anything without talking?” Ben pants. “Jesus, all you do is talk,
talk, ta.” Ben stops mid-word, coherent speech going out of the window,
dissolving into wordless noises, moans and pants, hitching breath and full-body
groans, as John tightens the movement of his hand on Ben’s dick, jerking a
little rougher, swiping his thumb on the vein underneath.
It doesn’t take much longer before Ben’s stiffening and coming, white strands
of come landing all over John’s chest, and the feel of it, the tightness, has
John holding Ben steady and thrusting up two times, five, eight, before he
comes as well.
They stay like that until both of them catch their breath, then Ben moves off
with a wince. John takes the condom off, ties it up and tosses it to one side
of the bed. He’s about to apologise for hurting Ben, for aggravating the kid’s
injuries, but Ben leans down, watches John’s face while he licks his own come
off of John’s chest. John makes a show of pursing his lips, doesn’t say a word,
and Ben smiles, snuggles back down when John’s clean.
John tangles one hand in Ben’s hair, waits, then finally says, “I’m sorry. What
I said about Arioch, last week.”
Ben sighs, the sound cutting John off and thankfully, because John’s awful at
apologies; he never makes them because he doesn’t know how. “Who’ve you been
talking to?” Ben asks. “Eisheth, right? What did she say?”
“That I don’t really know anything that goes on around here,” John replies.
“And she’s right. I don’t know what the deal is with this town, the demons and
the hunters. It’s like no hunt I’ve ever come across before. That’s because of
you, isn’t it?” John doesn’t know how seriously Ben took the question, because
the kid starts laughing, can’t seem to stop. “I’m trying to be serious, here,”
John finally snaps.
“Sorry,” Ben offers, not at all apologetically. “And I’m sorry for ruining your
hunt. If I’d’ve known our way of life here would disturb such an illustrious
hunter, I would’ve briefed everyone first.”
John rolls his eyes, cuffs Ben lightly on the back of the head. Ben grumps, but
doesn’t say anything else, so John asks, “Are you hungry?”
“Is there anything here to eat?” Ben asks, sitting up. When John shakes his
head, Ben grins and says, “What were you planning on feeding me, then? Or are
you actually suggesting we get cleaned up, get dressed, and leave the room?”
John opens his mouth, but Ben grins, his head cocked, and says, quite
seriously, “Do you trust me?”
Instead of answering immediately, John takes the question as seriously as Ben,
thinks it over. Against all reason, all logic, he finally says, “I do.”
Ben nods, waits half a minute, then says, “I’ll get the door.”
John’s about to ask why, but Ben clambers off, is halfway across the room when
there’s a knock. John reaches for his gun, but Ben turns, doesn’t have to do
more than look at John to have the hunter relaxing, leaning back against the
pillows.
Ben opens the door, and it’s a man that John doesn’t recognise, but he does
recognise the tone when the man says, “It is good to see you hale and whole,
young master.”
“Hardly hale and never whole, Ari,” Ben responds, obviously at ease with both
this demon and his own nudity. “We’re hungry and too lazy to bother getting out
of bed. Would you get some food for us and bring it back here?”
“And what are you in the mood for?” Arioch asks, addressing the question to
both Ben and John.
Ben turns, shrugs, and John returns the gesture. “Surprise us,” Ben says,
looking back at Arioch. “And maybe some clothes, as well?”
Arioch bows from the waist, gives Ben a faint smile, and says, “I’ll return
quickly, young master.”
The demon leaves and Ben closes the door, seems to straighten his shoulders,
and turns to face John. John’s not sure why Ben’s got that look on his face, as
if he’s expecting an inquisition, but then John realises: there’s no way Arioch
showed up out of coincidence, which means.
John thinks back to last night, Ben saying that John should see what other
gifts he has, the question of trust that Ben just posed, and asks, mildly, “How
quickly is quickly?”
The look that passes over Ben’s face in a shadowed second, wary shock, doesn’t
hurt John, it doesn’t, he won’t let it. “Why, you ready to go again before he
gets back?” Ben asks, smart mouth and smarter words. Ben’s eyes trail over
John’s body, covered with just a thin motel sheet, and adds, “You don’t look
like it, old man.”
“Oh, you little tease,” John mutters. “Respect your elders.”
He realises his mistake a moment after Ben starts laughing.
--
Arioch brings them Indian and a small suitcase full of neatly folded clothes.
The demon doesn’t say anything until he leaves, at which point he nods at Ben
and says, “Call if you need anything else, young master. Otherwise I’ll be here
to retrieve you in four days.”
“For what?” John asks, suddenly concerned.
“I have to get the stitches out,” Ben replies, without looking at John, instead
going through the clothes, picking out a pair of jeans, a t-shirt, clean
underwear. “Ari always takes me home for that.”
John bites back the first comment that comes to mind, then the second and third
as well, finally allows, “I see,” to slip through his lips.
Ben gives him a shadowed look, but nods at Arioch and says, “Four days. Try to
stay out of Markos’ way until then, okay?”
The demon smiles, says, “I will take that as an order. Until then, young
master.”
The smell of basmati rice fills the room once Ben closes the door, and the kid
drags the desk over to the side of the bed, turns it lengthwise, and starts
laying out food. John snags a piece of naan the second Ben opens that package,
starts chewing while he looks over the other offerings: two types of curry,
some samosas, lamb kebabs, and a box of pedas. Ben goes after one of the
cookies first, nibbling at the edges while he goes into the bathroom and
emerges with two glasses of water, the cookie in between his teeth.
Ben puts the glasses down, climbs back onto the bed, and John leans over, bites
the rest of the peda out of Ben’s mouth, swallowing it down. Ben’s eyes shutter
over and John wonders if that was too much of a kiss for the kid’s taste.
“Smells good,” John says, warily. “What are you starting with?”
“The samosas, I think,” Ben finally says, turning away from John, reaching out
for one of the samosas. They’re heavy and thick with the smell of minced and
spiced meat; Ben opens a plastic container of mint chutney and dips the samosa
before biting off a chunk, following that up with a scoop of yoghurt on his
naan. John watches as Ben’s eyes close and the kid smiles around the food,
chewing slowly and swallowing. “So good.”
John swallows, starts in on a kebab instead of deciding that the kid might make
a better meal than the spread of food Arioch brought them.
--
They do the food justice, decimating all but the last few pedas, and Ben lays
back on the bed, one hand over his stomach, and groaning. “I’m never going to
eat again,” he swears. “Fuck, I can’t believe I ate that much.”
John feels much the same, doesn’t remember the last time he ate so much in one
sitting, feels heavy and weighted down. He gets out of bed, pushes the desk
back, cleans up the remains of those foil packets and Styrofoam containers,
rinses off the glasses and refills them, finally lies down next to Ben, staring
up at the ceiling.
“I met Lilith while you were gone,” John eventually says, once the silence gets
to be too much. He doesn’t see Ben stiffen but he can feel it. “I never guessed
that demons would have a weakness for chocolate.”
“Really, it’s only Lilith,” Ben says, as if he’d been waiting for John to say
more, felt compelled to speak up when John hadn’t added anything else to his
statement. “And, y’know, chocolate’s an aphrodisiac, does weird things to the
brain. Dopamine and serotonin, something like that.”
John hums, asks, “Will I get to meet the other two? Eisheth said that Agrat Bat
Mahlat was in California, and Naamah was up north somewhere.”
Ben shifts, turns his head, and John does as well, meeting the narrowed green
cat’s-eyes staring at him. “Why do you care?” Ben asks, bluntly. “I thought you
killed demons, remember? Or are you softening up? You know what they do to
hunters who switch sides, John; you act any more sympathetic and the other
hunters will start wondering if it isn’t a good idea to hunt you.”
“They owe you their loyalty,” John says, picking out his words carefully, the
verbal equivalent of walking through a minefield and just as dangerous.
“Eisheth said they owe you their existence. If you told them not to.” He stops
as Ben snorts, sits up, glaring at the door. “What?”
“You honestly think I’d command them to act against their nature?” Ben asks,
and when he looks at John, John can see the incredulity on Ben’s face,
seemingly at odds with the anger in his voice. “Not to mention that word would
get around, and fast. What do you think my father would do when he found out?
Or Marchosias?”
John sits up as well, wants to reach out and touch Ben, but just as he lifts a
hand, Ben scrambles off the bed, moves to the chair across the room and sits
down, eyes hard and focused on John. John sighs, wonders how this went so
wrong, so quickly, and says, “You’re seventeen, Ben. Don’t you want to get out
of here, try something different, see what the rest of the world has to offer?”
“If you can’t accept that there are parts of me beyond your hold, John, then
you can’t accept me,” Ben says. John half-expects the kid to start getting
dressed, to storm out of here, but Ben just continues to sit there. It gives
John hope, until Ben adds, “You don’t own me, John. I don’t belong to you.
There are things I have to do and people I’m bound to that you’ll never
comprehend. I’m not someone you can control, not someone that anyone can
control. The sooner you understand that, the better for your own health.”
“You say I won’t be able to understand everything,” John argues back, “but you
never explain things to me. How can I even try if I don’t know what’s going
on?” Ben tilts his head, as if he’s honestly thinking about it, and John pushes
just a little more, says, “Help me understand, Ben.”
The kid doesn’t say anything and John doesn’t move, afraid to interrupt the
kid’s thoughts, push too far and have Ben shut down on him again. “The sisters
aren’t the only ones who’ve sworn loyalty to me, John,” Ben says, looking down
at his hands for a brief moment, before looking back at John. There’s a twisted
smile on the kid’s face, one that John doesn’t know how to interpret. “And I’m
not just responsible for demons.”
“There are other humans who’ve sworn to you,” John guesses. “On which side?”
Ben’s smile gets a little harder. “On both. Fate’s a bitch. Most of them are my
father’s friends, some of their children, but there are a handful of the
psychics and witches scattered around the country who own their loyalty and
lives to me.” He pauses, adds, “Aurelie Bontecue, for one.”
John gapes, says, “Aurelie’s pledged herself to you?” He thinks about the
knife, still under his bed, the one that can apparently kill a cherub, thinks
about the ring in his duffel, made for Ben, he’s sure of it, the charms and
compasses and all of the times she’s saved his life and Dean’s. “But I don’t.
Why?”
“Beats me,” Ben replies instantly. “She’s usually relatively harmless, limited
contact with hunters, stays out of the hierarchy’s squabbles, doesn’t call on
God, the saints, or the angels. I’ve never met her in person, there wasn’t any
reason for her to and she’s dangerous enough that my father wasn’t keen on the
idea, but if she had that knife all along, I don’t know what game she’s playing
at. I don’t know how she could hide it for so long, but sending that to you
means she wants my father dead. What that would get her, I’m not sure.”
“If he does, wouldn’t you,” John searches for a word.
Ben cuts him off before he can find a suitable one. “Wouldn’t I inherit?” Ben
asks, as if he’s not sure that’s where John was going and wants to be sure.
When John nods, he says, “Most of the major alliances would be broken, because
I haven’t come into my full power yet. Still, I’ve made bargains of my own. His
kingdom wouldn’t be gone, just made a little smaller. It wouldn’t make sense to
kill him, though, especially when I don’t know who and what would survive the
experience.”
“You’ve thought about it,” John says, blankly. “About killing your own father?”
“It’s not like he’s done such a stellar job,” Ben hisses. “And I’m not the only
one who’s contemplated it. You think Eisheth hates seeing what he puts me
through, you should meet Naamah. Practicality’s a bitch, and the bitch’s named
Naamah. But I can’t.” Ben runs his hand through his hair, says, “No matter how
much I want to, I won’t.”
John rubs his forehead, doesn’t even know where he would start trying to think
about this. He never knew that demons were so complicated, though he thinks
maybe he should have, that they have plans and back-up plans and back-ups to
the back-ups. After all, he’s never found the demon responsible for Mary’s
death, for his son’s death, hasn’t even found the reason behind their murders.
“What do the people who’ve pledged themselves to you get?” John asks. He can
see the benefit for Ben: demons who’ll work for him, which has to be useful,
living around here, and the psychics, that makes just as much sense.
“Most of them get to keep living,” Ben says, wry smile on his face. “My
father’s not keen on psychics he can’t control. But some of the seers had
visions before they swore, and other humans seem to understand that, no matter
what happens, it’s better to have the protection of someone like me than no one
at all.”
John nods, asks, “The knife, the one Aurelie sent me, that you couldn’t even
look at. It can kill a cherub. She said you had to be the one to use it. Why
won’t you?”
Ben sighs, tucks one strand of curled hair behind his ear, pulls his knees up
to his chest. “Because that knife was made with metal from the lancea longini
and forged in tongues of fire that emanated from the Holy Grail. I’m demon-
touched; it should theoretically kill me the instant it comes into contact with
my skin.”
It makes sense that Ben wouldn’t want to use it, but that doesn’t explain the
absolute panic on Ben’s face when John had opened the box, the absolute fear
and the way that Ben curled in on himself and started praying to his father.
“What else?” John asks, because he knows there’s more.
“There have been a string of connected prophecies made since the Dark Ages,”
Ben says, looking at the floor. “A few of them made it into grimoires then, but
not many. The frequency’s increased ever since and came to a peak the day I was
born. Most of them are incomprehensible but a few of my father’s sworn seers
spoke with demons of prophecy and foresight. Those demons helped interpret the
visions.”
“What do they mean?” John asks, prodding when it seems like Ben won’t say any
more on the subject.
Ben looks up at John, conflict in his eyes, then back at the floor, as if he
can’t stand to watch John, to see John’s reactions, as he explains. “They seem
to think there’s a way for someone who’s demon-touched to hold the knife and
not be killed by it, some innate aspect that person possesses, though none of
the prophecies are really clear on what it is or how it’s recognised. This
person uses the knife to put an end to a first tier demon, but doing so
unleashes something terrible on the world. Spear of Longinus, a fallen cherub -
- the resulting spiritual and supernatural backlash is unimaginable.”
Ben stops, shudders, gathers himself and goes on. John’s heart is racing, just
listening to this.
“The prophecies say that the demon’s death serves as a sacrifice and that the
backlash will open a conduit, bringing all of the demon-touched to their full
powers and starting a chain-reaction of evil.”
“Which ends up culminating in The Book of Watchers,” John breathes. “Opening
the gates of hell to earth. Ben. They were talking about you? How can you be so
sure?”
Ben doesn’t waste time and doesn’t sugar-coat his answer. “Because my father’s
a cherub and he expects me to kill him. He’s told me about the knife before,
how else do you think I’d be able to recognise it on the spot? He’s told me
about the prophecies I’m meant to fulfil and the things I’m supposed to do,
including how I get there.” Ben pulls his knees tighter to his body, looks as
if he’s about start rocking back and forth, his hair falling over his face and
hiding his eyes. “Why do you think I know all the hunters in this town? If it
gets to the point where I can even think about picking up that knife, it’s too
late. They have to watch me, get to me before that.”
John exhales, feels like walking over and taking the kid in his arms, never
letting go. He can’t move, though, is frozen where he’s sitting. “Even if you
leave, it won’t end, will it,” he says, voice full of resigned protest. There’s
nothing to protest, every word Ben’s said has the ring of truth to it. John
wants to argue but his chest aches, listening to Ben. First Mary, now Ben; John
can’t physically breathe “They all want you to leave but you can’t.”
The people here, they at least know what to watch for, but Ben, stuck, trapped
in these lessons, tricking for demons, knowing he can’t leave for fear of
something even worse happening, fuck. It’s a miracle the kid’s as balanced as
he seems to be. John thinks, if he’d been raised with all of this, he’d’ve gone
insane years ago.
“It could be worse,” Ben finally says, shrugging off whatever mood had been
gripping him, relaxing and loosening, looking at John.
“How?” John asks, frowning. “How could it be worse than this?”
Ben gives him a small smile, all the more beautiful for how forced it looks.
“It means they can’t possess me, they can’t kill me or maim me, and no one from
outside’s allowed close unless they mean me no harm. The beatings, the fucking,
that’s just something that happens to my body, and I’ve gotten used to pain. It
hardly even hurts anymore.”
John shakes his head; for all that Ben’s over the age of consent, he’s still
not a legal adult and the thought of this kid going through all of this for the
sake of people who’ll never know, it saddens John in a way that little can
anymore.
--
John eases away from the serious talk after that and Ben lets him without
argument. In the back of his mind, John wonders what it took for Ben to admit
all of that, wonders what Ben must think of him, feel for him, to tell John
point blank what the kid’s meant to do. An hour or so later of careful
discussion, mostly John telling Ben embarrassing things about Dean, Ben slips
into bed for a nap, sleeping on his stomach, the black stitches covering his
back visible through the thin motel sheet.
Worried, unable to sleep, John gets out of bed, puts on some clothes and picks
up his phone, goes outside and sits on the curb, breathing. He’s tempted to
call Jim, ask what the priest thinks, but the two are only cautious allies, not
friends, and whatever John tells Jim gets around to Bobby sooner rather than
later. John has no desire to give Bobby any more ammunition when it comes to
Ben.
He should call Dean, let his son know that they have four days before Ben’s
going back to his father, four days to formulate a plan, but, instead, John
finds himself scrolling through his phone book and calling a certain witch-
friend of his up in Cincinnati.
“’Ello, John,” Aurelie says, picking up the phone before it even rings once. “I
was wondering ‘ow long it would take ‘im t’ tell you.”
“Sometimes, Aurelie, you can be a downright bitch, you know that?” John
replies, already frustrated with the woman. “Look, will you just give me a
straightforward answer for once: why Ben? Why him?”
Aurelie laughs and John thinks, in that moment, he’s never hated the woman as
much as he does now. She’s laughing. He wants to kill her. “Because ‘e ‘as your
‘eart, John,” she says, the most plain John’s ever heard her talk before. “And
you would stop at nothing t’ protect ‘im and keep ‘im on the right path. ‘E ‘as
my loyalty because ‘e ‘as you and there is no one else’s ‘ands I would trust
‘im in, ‘im and the world.”
John exhales, says, “You’re playing with fire, Aure. What if I can’t save him?
What if he does everything they say he’s going to? What if there isn’t a way
around these prophecies?”
“I’ve told you before, John: ‘e might be the key, but the way you feel, the way
you act, it will ‘old ‘im back,” she says, before John hears the ringtone.
He pulls the phone away from his ear, studies it, then calls Eisheth. He
doesn’t spend much time talking to the demon before he hangs up, takes a deep
breath, and calls his son. When Dean answers, John says, “Put me on
speakerphone so I don’t have to say this again to Bobby.”
“Dad, what,” Dean starts to say, but then he stops, switches to speakerphone.
John can hear Bobby, can hear Dean, and he takes a deep breath before saying,
“I’m sorry, but I think you two should finish up whatever hunt you’re on. You
need to be back here inside of four days.”
--
John and Ben don’t leave the room for the next few days. They order in food or,
if that gets boring, Ben calls Arioch with that psychic method he hasn’t
explained yet and the demon goes and gets them whatever they’re in the mood
for. Eisheth stops by a couple times with snacks and sweets, even brings them
hot chocolate and cookies still warm from the oven one night when John and Ben
are sitting outside and stargazing.
They have sex when they feel like it, which is often, and sleep when they’re
tired, which happens a lot. John prods Ben to talk, to tell him something about
his childhood or what he likes, and John learns that Ben loves books and
libraries, hates roast beef with a passion, and once had his mouth rinsed out
with dish-soap for asking who his guardian angel was. Ben’s never left the city
and John asks how the kid would feel, hypothetically, of course, about leaving
without a steady place to go to, living how, say, John lives.
Ben gives John a narrow-eyed look and says, “I don’t know. Why? Are you
planning on kidnapping me or something?”
“No, of course not,” John replies, and distracts Ben by grazing a hand down
Ben’s hips. The kid can focus when he needs to but he’s seventeen and treating
this like a vacation, so the distraction works and John sinks a little deeper
into Ben this time, falls a little bit more in love. He’s worried about what
will happen, of course, wants to think about the future and study it from every
angle, but even good plans sometimes backfire and the distraction John meant to
offer Ben works on himself as well. Everything gets pushed to the background in
favour of sex and food and sleep.
--
On the morning of the fourth day, John wakes up and sees clothes, piled neatly,
just inside the door, along with a box of donuts from what he’s heard is the
best bakery in the city. John’s getting used to this, doesn’t like that fact
but can’t deny it, and he merely sighs as he sits up, looks at the clock. Ben
shifts, undulates against the length of John’s body, flexible and boneless like
a cat, and sits up yawning.
“What time will Arioch be coming to pick you up?” John asks, hand fitting
against Ben’s neck, fingers sliding into grooves John’s made there, just for
him.
Ben wipes sleep out of his eyes, sees the donuts, and hums. “Eleven,” he
answers, climbing over John and sliding out of bed, picking up the box and
inhaling. “God, I love these,” he mutters, and opens the lid, eats a donut in
three bites.
John grins, says, “C’m’ere,” and when Ben approaches, reaches out, pulls the
kid back onto the bed. Ben smiles, laughs, pushes the box to one side, and
freezes when John leans down as if to kiss him. John’s been good about not
kissing, resisting the urge that comes over him every time he looks at Ben’s
mouth, and, with a tight smile, lifts a thumb, runs that against Ben’s upper
lip, catching powdered sugar and glaze on his skin, putting it to his mouth and
licking up the flavour. It’s not good enough, nothing like what he thinks
swiping that sweetness with his tongue, straight from Ben’s skin, would have
been like, but it’s worth the relaxing in Ben’s muscles.
“Here,” Ben says, reaching for a donut. John opens his mouth, and Ben shoves
the entire thing in; as John sputters, pulling half the donut out, Ben scampers
away, into the bathroom. A second later, the shower’s running, and John
finishes breakfast, trying to convince himself that the shower really isn’t big
enough for two.
--
The morning’s tense, quiet. Ben’s using the time to go over one of the books
Bobby left, sitting cross-legged on the chair, peering over the desk, wearing
clothes for the first time in days. The jeans suit him, cling to Ben’s ass and
hips, felt butter-soft under John’s touch, and the shirt, long-sleeved, black,
buttoned up with the collar flared like some reject from the seventies,
highlights how slim Ben is but also alludes to some sense of power that the kid
holds wrapped up inside of him, humming through his veins and inside of his
bones. It’s addictive, that power, and if John was any weaker, hadn’t been
forged himself in war and loss, he thinks he might give in, do whatever it
takes to stay near the kid.
He’s dressed, though not wearing socks or shoes, and is about to let the kid
leave when Arioch comes to pick him up. He’s going to send off the first person
he’s let into his heart since Mary, is going to let Ben be healed by a demon in
a way that will seal Ben off from any chance of redemption, of heaven. John’s
strong, but he’s not sure he’s that strong.
Promptly at eleven, there’s a knock on the door. John opens it, sees Arioch
wearing yet another host. “Winchester,” the demon says, inclining its head.
“I’m here for the young master.”
John looks over the demon’s shoulder, sees the black hybrid, another demon
leaning against the car. He lifts his chin, asks, “Which one’s that?”
Arioch grimaces, holds himself completely still as he says, “Marchosias. The
master ordered him here.”
“Oh, joy,” Ben mutters, coming to stand at John’s side, and John looks, sees
resignation and a certain amount of tightly-controlled fear on the kid’s face.
Ben takes a deep breath, turns to John, and says, “I’ll see you later,” before
hugging John around the neck.
John holds Ben as tight as he can without, he hopes, hurting the kid, and
presses a kiss to the top of Ben’s head. “I’m counting on it,” he says in
return, voice rough, and watches as Marchosias gets back into the car, as
Arioch holds the car door open for Ben, then slides into the driver’s seat and
takes John’s lover away.
He doesn’t move, watching the road, fingers playing with his phone. Five
minutes later, Bobby’s car is pulling into the motel parking lot.
“Got your text,” Dean says, getting out of the car even before Bobby’s turned
it off. “We waited down the street and made sure they passed us before coming
here.”
“Are you ready?” Bobby asks.
John’s not, not ready in the slightest, but he nods, exhales through his nose,
and says, “Let’s go.”
--
Bobby drives, John in the passenger seat, giving Bobby directions to where he
and Dean had parked before, in the middle of a field, corn even taller now to
hide the cars. Dean’s following in the Impala, parks next to Bobby, both of the
cars facing the road for a quick getaway if it comes down to it. John assumes
that it will; judging by the looks on both his friend’s and his son’s faces,
they do as well.
Dean leads them towards the house, stalking through the trees, until he
crouches at the edge of the woods. Bobby bends low as well, dropping to one
knee as he studies the house, and John stands behind them, eyes fixed on the
front door, the black hybrid sitting out front.
“That’s the father’s office,” Dean whispers, pointing at the window he and John
had left from the last time they were here. “The one next to it, that’s a
storeroom off the kitchen. We’ll go in there, have to move through the kitchen
to get to the main hallway. That hallway connects the front door to the back,
passes the kitchen, the living room, a door to the basement, stairs going up,
and Ahrenson’s office.”
John interrupts, says, “The screens in all the windows are gone, except for the
one in Ahrenson’s office. The biggest problem won’t be getting in or out,
but’ll be evading all the demons in the house. Most of the ones that stay on
the grounds are the higher-ups who won’t respond to Holy Water or the rites.”
Bobby nods, says, “You got a plan for that?”
“None of us can be possessed,” John says. “Aurelie’s charms’ll work for that.
There are a few tricks I’ve learned, but no, no plan. You stay here, cover our
exit if it comes to that. Dean and I are going in by ourselves.”
Bobby doesn’t argue but he doesn’t look at all convinced that this will work.
John’s waiting for his friend to say something, but Dean speaks up first, says,
“Look, Bobby. The kid’s our problem. We can’t ask you to go inside. I owe him,
and Dad,” Dean snorts, shakes his head. “Just, if either of us get out, that’s
when we’ll need you.”
“You don’t expect to make it,” Bobby says, as if he’d guessed as much before.
Neither John nor Dean says a word to counter that assumption. Bobby nods,
shifts on his knees and gets comfortable, pulls out two guns, and says, “I’ll
be waiting.”
John sees the flash of gold around Bobby’s neck, the third of Aurelie’s charms,
and claps Bobby on the shoulder before looking at Dean. He’s never realised how
old his son is, not until this moment, seeing a soldier return his stare. All
at once, John regrets everything, raising Dean like this, never giving his son
a chance at normality, withholding the greater measure of himself from Dean.
Dean’s deserved so much more, still does, and John promises, that moment, to
himself, that if they both get out of this one alive, he’ll change, he will,
he’ll be a better father.
“Let’s do this, Dad,” Dean says. “I’m ready.” Dean’s voice doesn’t shake, none
of his limbs are, and John’s near to jealous, because this is one hunt that’s
already got the drop on him. The guns in his hands weigh him down, and the
knife tucked into the back of his jeans is burning its impression into his
skin, scalding him.
“All right,” John says. He takes a deep breath, nods at Bobby, and starts
running across the manicured lawn, toward the storeroom window. He can hear the
quiet thump of Dean following him, scans the house as he approaches it, looking
for people in any of the windows. As far as he can tell, there’s no one there,
no one except for Eisheth, opening the storeroom window for John, giving him a
hand in climbing inside.
John scans the room, checking to make sure it isn’t a trap while the demon’s
helping Dean, and once Dean’s inside, Eisheth closes the window. In the
reflection of the glass, he almost thinks he sees someone inside of the hybrid.
When he goes to look, there’s no one there.
“They’ve got the young master in the basement,” Eisheth tells them, her face
white. “I don’t know what’s going on; usually they take the stitches out in one
of the bedrooms upstairs.”
“They?” John asks.
Eisheth swallows, says, “The master, Marchosias, and Arioch. Paimon was down
there for a while as well, but I think he’s left already.”
John looks at Dean, sees the same implacable mask on his son’s face that’s on
his own, and turns back to the demon. “We’ve seen the stairs going down before,
we know where they are. Are there any other exits from the basement, any
windows or cellar doors?”
The door to the storeroom opens and, in a second, three guns are pointed at the
woman peering around the corner. “Eish, are they,” she starts to say, but then
she sees the gun, rolls her eyes and slips in, closes the door behind her.
John recognises the rolling eyes, has seen them on Ben a number of times
before, and he takes a guess, says, “Naamah.” The woman gives him a scathing
look, as if she’s searching for something. Unsure as to whether she found it or
not, John asks, “Am I right?”
She relaxes, says, “Yes, you are. Now, listen carefully. Once you go down to
the basement, you’ll have to take out three guards. They’re all principalities,
but they’ll go down easy enough with a quick gloria patri and a press of the
rosary to their foreheads. The master’s downstairs, along with the young
master, Arioch, and Marchosias. Ari won’t lift a hand to you, no matter what
the master tells him, and Marchosias won’t either because the master’s already
given instructions.”
“He knows we’re here?” Dean asks, glancing at Eisheth, who doesn’t appear to be
offended at the implication.
“No,” Naamah says, as if she’s exasperated by the interruption. “Eish, Lils,
Aggie, and I will make sure the door’s kept clear; you can come up when you
want to. If you do anything to the master, though, everyone up here will know
the second it happens, so be prepared to run for your lives.” She doesn’t look
as if she’s exaggerating.
John narrows his eyes, asks, “Why are you helping us?”
Naamah’s eyes flash, hint of black, and she replies, “Because I’m sworn to the
young master and because I’m pragmatic, John Winchester. If the young master is
meant to do what we all think he’s meant to do, then it won’t matter if he’s
here or with you. Until then, I’d rather he be with someone who’ll take care of
him than someone who comes close to killing him on a regular basis. Now, are
you ready?”
After checking with Dean, who simply nods, John says, “Yes.”
“Good,” Naamah says. “Give me a count of twenty to clear the way, then hurry.”
She leaves as quickly as she came, and John turns to Eisheth, asks, “What’s she
doing here?”
“The young master called her back,” Eisheth says, looks as if she might shrug,
were she not so wide-eyed and pale. “I don’t know why. He called Aggie too, but
she’s already in the hallway. Now go, and may the Lightbringer watch your
steps.”
“I’d rather have one of the saints, thank you,” Dean mutters as John’s opening
the door.
***** Chapter 8 *****
The two of them move fast, passing Naamah in the kitchen and a tall woman with
laughing brown eyes in the hallway. She nods and John guesses that must be
Agrat Bat Mahlat; he doesn’t respond to her in any way, eyes already focused on
the door leading to the basement. John reaches out, touches the doorknob and
lays down a quick blessing on the metal before he opens it, slides around the
edge.
There’s one host standing on the small landing above the steps and John recites
a gloria patri before pressing his rosary against the man’s forehead. The guard
opens his mouth in a silent scream and the demon rushes out from between the
man’s teeth and disappears in a noiseless burst of flame. The man slumps to the
floor and John uses the butt of his gun to knock the man unconscious -- it
wouldn’t do any good to have a civilian running around during this and the
other demons in the house certainly don’t need a free host moving about the
place.
Dean’s moved onto the landing as well, is looking down the staircase, and John
gives him the signal to go first, that there should be two more, and offers
Dean his rosary. Dean looks at him for a moment before taking it, and John
realises: that’s Mary’s old rosary, he’s never let Dean touch it before.
Then there’s no time for thinking. Dean’s halfway down the steps; John hurries
to catch up and sees his son take care of the second demon with a quick burst
of staccato Latin and Mary’s rosary. Dean doesn’t even grin but John thinks his
son will later, if everything goes better than they expect.
The third demon comes to investigate and Dean deals with him as well; once
that’s done, the two Winchesters press themselves against the wall, just before
the opening leading into the basement proper. They both listen but they don’t
hear anything more than the snip of scissors every so often, bitten-off sounds
from, John thinks, Ben. He can picture it, Arioch to one side of a table,
Marchosias on the other, Ben’s father looming over the kid and peeling black
silk thread out of Ben’s back, not being at all careful, disregarding whatever
pain Ben might be in.
John breathes anger down, peeks around the corner as quickly as he can, sees
that he’s not far off from his guess, except that Ben’s straddling a chair and
the father, a man that John can only see the back of, is bending over Ben,
scissors in one hand, tweezers in the other.
He gives signals to Dean, lets his son know where everyone is, then raises an
eyebrow in lieu of asking if Dean’s ready. Dean just rolls his eyes in return,
points his gun at the ceiling, and gets ready to move.
John goes first, aims at Marchosias, and hears the demon say, “Ah, our guests
have arrived,” distantly, as if John’s at one end of a tunnel and the demon’s
at the other. It takes a second for John to comprehend what the demon’s saying,
the meaning behind the words, and he feels his blood run cold. They’ve been
expected.
Ahrenson’s not paying attention, is focused on pulling the last long thread out
of Ben’s skin, and the kid’s gripping the chair, hasn’t turned around yet. John
glances at Arioch, sees the demon’s black eyes widened, as if he can’t honestly
believe that John and Dean are there.
“Master,” Marchosias says, but the man holds up one hand, and the dominion
stops, doesn’t say anything else, doesn’t move except to glare at John. John’s
gun doesn’t waver, but he waits, watches as Ahrenson runs a hand down Ben’s
back, from neck to ass, and the scars, the markings of the stitches and the
lashings they were put in to correct, disappears.
Ahrenson nods, as if that’s been taken care of, and says, “Marchosias, Arioch,
go and wait upstairs.” Marchosias looks as if he’s going to argue, but Arioch
moves instantly, careful not to touch either John or Dean when he moves past
them, goes up the stairs. John hears the door at the top of the landing creak
open and latch closed; he wonders why he never heard the noise when it was him
coming down. “Marchosias,” Ahrenson says again. “Now.”
John would swear the house shook at that command, but nothing down here moves,
nothing upstairs, and Dean doesn’t seem to have felt it either, so he keeps his
mouth shut, returns the demon’s glare with one of his own as Marchosias sweeps
past, baring his teeth at John and leering at Dean.
The door upstairs slams and Ahrenson ruffles Ben’s hair, asks, “Don’t you want
to see who’s here to visit?”
John expects Ben to argue, to come back with a smart retort, but Ben’s
shoulders drop, as if he’s trying to get ready for anything. The kid turns
around and his lips part in speechless surprise when he sees John. “Father?” he
asks, voice quieter and more subservient than John’s ever heard before.
“Father, I don’t understand.” Dean, at John’s left elbow, shifts; John looks at
his son and sees disgust, shock, written all over Dean’s features.
“They’ve come to rescue you,” Ahrenson says. He turns around and John looks the
man in the eyes for the first time. Ahrenson has a distinguished appearance:
the suit he’s wearing, jacket in the corner, sleeves rolled up to his elbows,
looks expensive, matches the gold Rolex around one wrist and the heavy gold
ring on the other hand, the graying temples, broad shoulders and trim waist.
Still, John can see a measure of cruelty lurking at the corners of his smile
and his eyes, they aren’t human. His eyes are yellow.
“They’ve come to rescue you and take you far away from here,” Ahrenson says
again, mocking as he walks toward John, stopping halfway between John and Ben.
“And the four sisters, the Prince’s brides, have helped them, each and every
one.” Ben pales; John can’t understand why. “Eisheth, of course, I can
understand her, and Agrat’s treating this as a game, like everything. I can
almost reason out Naamah’s motivations, to some extent, but I would never have
thought Lilith to help. Proud, domineering Lilith. What has your hunter got on
the first of our Prince’s wives, Ben?”
Ben swallows, stands up. “Father, they’ve only done this to. There’s no need to
punish them. I don’t have as strong a hold on them as you’ve commanded. It’s my
fault and I’ll take the blame.”
Ahrenson smiles, cold, calculating. He doesn’t look at Ben as he says, “Of
course you will, my son. But what of these humans, hmm? John and Dean
Winchester, the two hunters most feared and respected by our kind. What are
they to you, that they would even come here, into my house, for you?”
“He’s not yours,” John says. “He’s not anyone’s. What you’re doing to him is
wrong.”
John feels static build up in the air, a swirl of magnetic electricity, and
he’s half-expecting it when his guns fly out of his hands, crash against the
wall opposite him, Dean’s following half a moment later. John tears his eyes
away from the demon and stares at Ben, but Ben’s standing there in shock, not
reacting. The telekinesis, it isn’t him; John looks back at Ahrenson and sees
the yellow eyes swirl, amused.
There’s no warning before John’s flying backwards, pinned against the wall,
arms outstretched, legs spread. Dean skids across the floor, cracks his head
against the wall, and is bleeding from the impact when he ends up pinned
against the wall as well, next to John.
“In nomine Patris,” Dean starts to say, as argumentative as ever, but Ahrenson
gestures and slashes gouge their way across Dean’s face, blood dripping into
Dean’s mouth. John’s never been more proud of his son -- and more worried -
- when he says, “et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti. Amen.”
Ahrenson laughs, laughs, and asks, “Did you really expect that to have any
effect on something like me, Dean? Honestly, come now. If it won’t work on my
underlings, did you honestly think it would work on me?”
Ben steps forward, face pale, and asks, “Father? I. Why are they here? Why did
you let them in?”
“Am I not allowed to do what my son has done?” Ahrenson asks.
Ben’s mouth works open and closed as if he’s searching for an excuse, but
John’s stomach drops when Ben falls to one knee, bows his head, and says, “I
beg forgiveness, father. I didn’t think they would be of any consequence to
you.”
John’s remembering what Alan said, that Ben’s entire attitude changes in the
presence of his father. John had believed him but now that the evidence is
right in front of his eyes, he wants to scream. This is worse than he’d
expected, far worse, and he doesn’t know how Ben can stand to act this way.
Practicality is one thing, but this is close to sacrilege, as far as John’s
concerned.
“Oh, Ben, they aren’t,” Ahrenson says. John can see Ben’s hair ruffle again
even though no one’s anywhere close to the kid. “In truth, I think it’s time
you had another lesson.”
Ben stiffens but doesn’t move, doesn’t argue, and when someone says, “Oh, fuck
you, you bastard,” it takes John a second to realise the words came out of his
own mouth.
Ahrenson laughs, says, “Not like one of Lord Belial’s, not when I just finished
healing him. Come, John, do you think I’m that cruel? No, I think it’s time
that I told Ben some very important things about where he came from and who he
is. You see, John, our Lord decided it was time to involve you; none of us
wanted to do this until you could be here, and Dean, well, his presence is just
a bonus.”
The demon walks over to Ben, bends down and lifts the kid’s chin; John can see
absolute peace on the kid’s face, as if he trusts the person in front of him
with everything he is. John doesn’t know if it’s truth or an act, but Dean,
next to him, seems to believe it, because he says, “Ben, come on, dude. Snap
out of it, you little bitch.”
Ahrenson doesn’t even gesture this time, and Dean’s groaning in pain. John can
see slices in Dean’s t-shirt, can see as the blood stains the cloth darker.
“You should shut up, Dean,” Ahrenson says, calm. “You aren’t needed for this,
so I’d keep my mouth closed if I was you or else I’d be worried about losing my
tongue.”
“Dean,” John says, carefully and slowly, keeping his eyes on Ahrenson, “don’t
say another word.”
The demon inclines its head at John, says, “My thanks, John. Did you know,
you’ve been in the habit of doing me all sorts of favours.” John frowns, and
Ahrenson laughs, helps Ben to stand up. John watches the kid, sees him get up
and then stand without moving, completely motionless as if he’s not breathing,
is, instead, a statue.
“You see, John,” Ahrenson drawls, “I’m going to give Ben a history lesson, of
sorts, and I thought it only fair that his lover should hear it as well.” If
John wasn’t watching the demon, he’d swear from the tone that the creature’s
rubbing its hands together in glee. “Now, Ben,” Ahrenson says. “What’s my name?
Have you told Winchester?”
John opens his mouth, feels a swipe of whiplash claws rip down the side of his
face, temple to jaw, and winces, closes his mouth again.
Ben’s eyes flicker, moving from his father to John and back again, and he says,
“No, father. I haven’t told him who you are or what your position in our
hierarchy is.”
“Tell him now,” Ahrenson commands.
“Father,” Ben says, and John can almost see the underlying salute inherent in
that word. “You are Azazel, fallen cherub and first of your kind, right-hand of
the Lightbringer, commander of the Prince’s armies and brother to the Hand of
Temptation,” Ben says, as if he’s quoting from memory. “Bound by the archangel
Raphael on the rocks of Dudael, freed by Shemhazai, the antagonist of Enoch the
Metatron,” and Ben’s voice dips, quiets, as he adds, “Azazel, instructor and
teacher of the Lightbringer’s general.”
Azazel. Ben’s been raised by fucking Azazel. John doesn’t know how to react to
that, doesn’t know how anyone would react in this situation.
Azazel smirks as if he knows that John’s brain has shut down, and says, “Ben.
Lord Belial has instructed you in the time of the whirlwind, has he not?” Ben
nods, and Azazel says, “Why don’t you enlighten your lover. He hasn’t had the
benefit of a proper education and your own confessions to him haven’t exactly
been the most,” he pauses, says, “instructional.”
“The time of the whirlwind,” Ben says, eyes fixed on his father’s face, as if
John’s not even in the room, “began after the thrones Focalor and Murmur, along
with the power Vual, were released from their bindings to Hitler. High-ranking,
first sphere demons came to earth and mated with women as they had in the days
preceding the Nephilim. The children born were culled until only the strongest
few survived, all of them women. When those women bore children of their own,
one of the Lightbringer’s most trusted was sent to choose children who would
usher in the time of prophecies.”
Ben takes a deep breath, says, “It is said that the demon went to psychic
children and bound them to him with blood, power, and sacrifice, corrupting the
children and expanding their power beyond anything seen in humanity before.
When the time of prophecies begins, those children will be called to fight at
the forefront of hell’s armies, led by a general that is strong enough to hold
within him even members of the fallen Trinity.”
John can feel acid in the back of his throat and he whispers, “You did it,
didn’t you. Bound children to you, and you’re corrupting them all.” He stops,
looks at the side of Ben’s face, and says, “Ben,” voice blank with shock.
“Ben’s one of them, isn’t he? You son of a bitch.”
“Careful, John,” Azazel says, chiding him. “I was made by God. I don’t think
you want to be calling Him names, do you? Now, you’re too busy swearing to put
things together. Think harder,” he coaxes.
John frowns, says, “Ben’s grandfather was a demon,” carefully, like he’s not
sure this is where Azazel’s wanting him to go. “He has the bloodline but he’s
human, and bound to you.” John stops, asks, “You took him from his parents. You
stole him?”
Azazel’s smile grows wider. “Warmer, John, you’re getting warmer. You see, I
bound them by blood, power, and sacrifice. I spilt my blood down Ben’s throat,
I twined my power up in his and left some there, and I sacrificed his mother.”
He pauses for dramatic effect, then adds, “On a ceiling, no less, in a blaze of
fire.”
“You killed my wife,” John says, once it’s all clicked. He feels ill, sick to
his stomach, like someone’s shoved a knife inside of his body and is slowly
twisting it deeper. “You’re the one that killed my wife and son. And you’ve
done it to others? How many?”
“That’s not quite where I was hoping you’d go with that one,” Azazel says,
sighing, “but humans, they have to be led by the noose before they’ll make an
honest connection on their own. I’ve done it to quite a few, but all of those
children are being raised by their surviving parent, living in family
situations that will have them desperately calling on their power in just a few
more years. Well, I say all of those children, but Ben’s here, in my home, my
son. He’s the only one not at home with his family.”
Azazel looks almost giddy, like he’s been waiting years to say these things,
and Ben’s not moving. John can’t figure out what the demon’s trying to say,
can’t put it together at all, he’s too sickened by everything Azazel’s telling
him, answers after years of searching for them.
Dean coughs, and when John twists enough to see his son, Dean says, “Dad. He
killed Mom, but you’re not raising the child he bound.”
“Sam,” John breathes, and he looks at Ben, standing there so still. “Sam?”
“In the flesh,” Azazel laughs. “You see, John, that night I came to your house?
I killed your wife. I pinned her to the ceiling and lit her body on fire as a
sacrifice to the Lightbringer. She burned alive and screamed the entire time
she was dying. The child that looked up at me from the crib, your son, reeked
of power even after I took mine back. You interrupted, took him from me, sent
him out of the house before I could finish the ceremony. If it hadn’t been for
Marchosias’ quick thinking, I would have lost him entirely.”
John feels devastated, like an old wound has been reopened and is pouring blood
all over the floor. “Marchosias possessed the EMT that took Sam from Dean,” he
guesses. “And told us that Sam was dead.”
“Instead, he was in my arms,” Azazel says, smiling. “And I have raised him as
my son. He calls me father, he obeys me, he will unlock hell for us, and all
because you believed one man when he said your son had died.” Azazel shakes his
head, says, “Tsk, tsk, John, to give up on your son so easily.”
John looks at Ben, at the way Ben’s just standing there, and says, “Ben,” then,
as if it’s taking too long to sink in, “Sam. Sammy, please.”
Ben blinks and he looks at Azazel, tilts his head, asks, “John Winchester is my
biological father?”
“He is,” Azazel says, simple and plain.
“But,” Ben starts to say. “But, father.” He shakes his head as if he’s hearing
things and asks, “I’ve had family? Real, flesh-and-blood family? All this
time?”
Azazel nods, says, “All this time you’ve had the man who’s genes you carry and
a brother, an older brother. I’ve kept you from them and raised you as my own.
Are you upset, Ben?”
John can’t figure out what tone Azazel’s using or why Ben isn’t reacting, isn’t
raging and screaming and doing something, anything, to take revenge on the
demon who stole him from a family that would have loved him, would have raised
him with care and concern and protected him.
One of the guns flies across the room and ends up in Ben’s hands. John doesn’t
know if Azazel did it or if Ben did, but the kid catches it like he meant to,
like he knew it was coming, and then does nothing but stare down at the weapon
in his hands.
“You could shoot me, you know,” Azazel says, almost as if he’s prodding Ben to
do just that. “You could kill this host, begin your revenge. I’d be formless
for a while, searching for a suitable host.” He smiles, says, “Are you going to
kill me, Ben? Do you hate me enough to do it?”
Ben lifts the gun, aims for the centre of Azazel’s forehead, and then just
stands there, frozen. “Do it,” John whispers, “Ben, do it.” He’s holding his
breath, and just when he thinks Ben’s about to pull the trigger, the kid drops
the gun, steps back, shaking.
“Father,” he says, voice trembling. “Father, why? I don’t understand.” Ben
drops to his knees, wraps his arms around his chest, starts rocking back and
forth.
John’s about to answer but realises that Ben’s still talking to the demon, is
still calling Azazel his father.
Azazel steps over to Ben, crouches in front of him, and says, “Because you’re
the one who’ll free the Lightbringer. Because you are the leader of the armies,
our little general, Ben, son, I took you because your gifts demanded it. Your
power demanded to be used, awakened, and trained. I took you because of the
prophecies and because I wanted to. I wanted you to grow up knowing what we’re
like so that you can be worthy of leading us when your time comes. Everything
I’ve done, it’s been for your own good, that and the destiny you hold within
that sack of flesh and blood.”
“Father,” Ben whispers. He looks up and John sees tear-tracks on Ben’s cheeks.
“Father, if they had raised me, would I.” He stops, swallows, as if what he’s
about to say is blasphemy, and whispers, “If they had raised me, would I still
be this way? Lord Belial, he says. Would it still be me?” Everything in the
room shakes and John finds himself holding his breath, sure that it’s Ben
causing it this time, not Azazel. Small bits of plaster shake loose from the
ceiling, and the scissors on the table, all of the thread that came out of
Ben’s back, are levitating, spinning madly.
“Oh, Ben,” Azazel says, and John’s come to expect tenderness from Eisheth but
never from this demon who beats his own son. The demon leans forward, kisses
Ben on the forehead, and as Ben shudders under the demon’s lips, everything
else stills, suddenly, like that power has been reined in and buckled down
tight. “Ben, it would still be you. But can you imagine if you had no clue
about any of this? How would you be able to bring them all to heel? Already,
half of Legion owes debts to you, even Pride. I have made your future so much
easier. If the price of having our Trinity free on the surface is putting you
through a little pain, I would do it over again the same way. We all would.”
John growls, says, “A little pain? A little? I saw him when Markos dropped him
off at the church. They told me that was the best he’s ever looked coming back
from one of Belial’s lessons and he still looked half-dead. You’ve put the boy
through more pain than any human has the expectation to endure.”
Azazel looks at John, says, “But he’s not human, John. The blood of demons runs
through him. If that wasn’t enough, he’s psychic. I know your feelings on the
humanity of witches and psychics.”
It’s a simple reminder, it shouldn’t change things, but, perversely it does. It
does. Azazel’s right. Ben’s not human.
“He’s my son,” John argues, but even he can hear that the statement sounds
weak, barely even a hint of protest.
“No,” Azazel says. “He’s mine.” John opens his mouth, but Azazel says, “No, no,
don’t do that,” and John’s mouth clamps together with an audible click, sending
shudders of pain through John’s face. “You see, John,” Azazel goes on, walking
over to John, trailing his fingers down the scratch on John’s cheek, digging
in, and John’s mouth is closed so he can’t let out the scream of pain trapped
in his throat. “You see, you might be Ben’s biological father, but I’m the one
who raised him. I’m the one he’ll always call father. He might have your blood
in him but he has mine, too. Do you still want him?”
For just a second, John thinks that Azazel won’t let him speak, that Ben will
hear silence and assume that John’s washed his hands of the kid, but then John
coughs, mouth open, and, through the choking at suddenly having his voice back,
says, “Always. Always.”
Azazel smiles, lets his fingers ghost down John’s throat. John tries to flinch
away but can’t, and then Azazel moves the shirt to one side, presses his thumb
into one of the marks Ben left at some point over the last four days. “As your
son or your lover?” the demon asks innocently.
John gags with the stench of death drifting off of Azazel’s body and then his
stomach shifts. Ben’s really Sam, which means he’s been fucking his own son.
Somehow, he never really thought about it like that until now, but the demon’s
right, he’s been sleeping with his own son. He’s fallen in love with his own
son. The thought that he didn’t know doesn’t make John feel any less guilty.
“Y’know, God’s not too happy with people who commit incest,” Azazel says,
walking away, as if he’s talking about the weather. “Seems to me there was
something in Leviticus about that. Not to mention the homosexuality. I’d think
there was a demon behind this if I wasn’t sure that none would dare touch Ben
that way and I made sure none of them interfered with you. Looks like you found
your way to those sins all by yourself, John. Well done. If you were one of
mine, I’d even congratulate you, I’m that impressed.”
“Even the devil quotes scripture, is that what this is?” John asks, spitting on
the floor, blood and saliva mingling together. Ben still hasn’t moved. “Are you
showing off, Azazel? I never knew you were a demon of pride.”
Azazel opens his arms, as if he’s receiving accolades, and says, “I am what I
was made to be, John.”
It’s curious, that phrase; it sticks with John, did when Eisheth said it the
first time, does now. He’s not sure why, shakes it off. “So you’ve told us,”
John says. “What are you going to do now? Kill us?”
“No,” Azazel says, as if he’s thinking about it. “No, I don’t believe I will.
For all the hunts you’ve been on, you haven’t had much of an impact, and you’ve
made my son happy for a time.” John bristles, wants to rail and scream that Ben
is his son, but Azazel doesn’t stop, so he keeps his mouth shut for now. “No, I
think I’ll let you go.”
“What, just like that?” John hates to admit it, but he’s shocked.
Azazel smiles, showing teeth. “You’re more fun to play with alive. And, after
all, it’s not like you’ll escape us. You’ll end up in hell, John, you and Dean
both. There’s no way either of you could find complete absolution now and
letting you live will just add more transgressions to your scorecard. Sin well
and sin often, John, so that you’ll end up in my circle when you die. We’ll
have a lot to talk about, all of my son’s childhood accomplishments to start
with. That should fill a couple years of eternity; we’ll just have to use our
imaginations after that.”
Power buffets around John, opens up skin all over his body, and even as he’s
groaning in agony, he wonders if this is what Ben goes through, not a whip,
nothing physical, just this immense amount of demonic power slicing his skin
open. Just as John thinks he won’t be able to stand any more it stops, and so
does the power holding him against the wall. He falls to the ground with an
audible noise, hisses in pain as gravity exerts itself on the injuries.
Still, he has enough of his mind, even now, to grab the knife out of his jeans
and slide it across the floor to Ben, within an inch of the kid’s shoes. The
rune-covered golden knife glows with holy power in the presence of such a
powerful demon, and Azazel stares at it, eyes swirling. “Use it, Ben. Sam,
please,” John begs. “It’ll be over when you do, it’ll all be over. He won’t be
able to hurt you anymore, not him, not Belial, no one. You can get away from
him, from here, please, Ben.”
“Use it, Ben,” Azazel murmurs. “Just think, it’ll kill me and I’ll be gone
forever.”
Ben, horrified look on his face, backs away from the knife, shaking his head
and murmuring, “No, no, no,” over and over again. It’s the most movement he’s
made, the most emotion he’s shown, since Azazel ruffled his hair and told him
he has no choice, that he’s always been the one demons have been waiting for
since the time of Enoch and before.
Azazel laughs, throws his head back and laughs long and loud. He crosses the
room, kicks John, places his foot on John’s windpipe and grinds down when John
moves. “Do you see now, Winchester? Do you see how your son won’t listen to
you? He’s mine, my creature, my child, and he won’t kill me. The one person who
can end your revenge, and he refuses to do it.” Azazel leans down, says, “Isn’t
life an absolute bitch.”
Dean groans, rubs his head, and blinks blood out of his eyelashes, having
fallen to the ground at the same time as John. As if that’s a sign, Azazel
says, “I think that’s enough, then.” He goes to Ben, drags his fingernails up
Ben’s cheeks, whispers, “For now, my son, but not forever,” and kisses Ben,
lips pressed white against Ben’s. John can see tongue from here, wants to
vomit. Azazel caresses Ben’s cheeks and John watches as Ben sways, leans into
the touch. “I’ll be waiting, Ben,” Azazel murmurs, then walks past John and
Dean, heading up the stairs.
Once the door upstairs closes, John feels the entirety of the demon’s pressure
leave. He slumps, pants for breath. Dean’s not in any better condition, but
they’re both still alive and John’s world has just been turned upside down. He
props himself up on one elbow, grimaces at the pain, and looks at Ben, Sam, his
son and the person he’s, fuck, the person he’s fallen in love with.
Ben -- Sam -- looks back at him, eyes wide, shaking his head. “No,” he says.
“No, it can’t be true. I’m not yours. I don’t belong to you.” Ben shakes, and
the contents of the room do as well, table and chairs and everything else
pulling free of gravity.
John looks, takes in everything he’d only assumed was coincidence before: the
way Ben’s hair curls like Mary’s had, the way his eyes are the same shape as
John’s and the same colour as Dean’s, the mannerisms, the body language. John
should’ve known, but after seventeen years, labouring under the idea that Sam
was dead, feeling that ache in his heart every day, the thought had never
crossed his mind.
“It is,” John breathes. “You’re not his. You’re my son. Mine.”
Ben looks as if he’s about to hyperventilate, either that or pass out from the
shock. John makes a move, but Ben jumps, as if it startled him, and shakes his
head again. “No,” he says, “it can’t be true,” and runs up the steps,
disappears.
John lies back on the ground, looks up at the ceiling. He can hear movement
upstairs, people walking, running, and winces as everything in the basement
falls back to the ground, the surfaces they’d been on before.
“You’ve been fucking my brother,” Dean says, startling John. “You’ve been
sleeping with your own son. You’re in love with him. Jesus.”
“I didn’t know,” John says, feeling blank, too many shocks right on top of one
another. He’s found the demon that killed his wife, has a name for it now,
knows its plans, and, amazingly, has been left free to live. He’s found his
son, had Sam given back to him, and Dean’s still alive, they all are.
Everything turned out better than John could have hoped and yet he feels
bruised and broken inside. Ben’s his son and Azazel was right: incest committed
with full knowledge is a mortal sin. In spite of that, in spite of every law
John’s ever heard, every opinion John’s ever had on the subject, he doesn’t
know if he can give Ben up. “Dean. I didn’t know.”
Dean huffs, pushes himself off, not giving voice to the pain John can see
written on his son’s face. “Dad, I know. Come on, this is not a conversation we
want to be having in this house. Let’s get out to Bobby, get back to the motel,
and figure out where we go from there.”
John nods, lets his son help him up, and, once they get upstairs, they see the
four sisters standing in the hallway, all of them pale, all of them staring.
“The master left with Marchosias,” Eisheth says.
“And the young master ran out the back, towards the fields,” Naamah carries on,
no break in their words.
Lilith steps forward, says, “We’ve made sure no one’s outside.”
The fourth, Agrat, cocks her head and asks, “What happened?”
John and Dean leave without answering.
--
Dean jogs across the lawn, one hand pressed to his stomach, the other half-
carrying John. Every step sends waves of pain through John; he doesn’t know how
Ben can stand to move when it hurts this bad, when there are stripes of his
skin split open and bleeding all over his body.
Bobby stands up when they get closer, eyes wide in surprise as he sees the cuts
on Dean’s cheek, the scrapes on John’s face. “Where’s the kid?” he asks first,
then, when John and Dean are close enough, “How bad are you hurt?”
“One of them said he ran out the back,” Dean answers. John’s thankful, he’s
still in shock. “And Dad’s been hurt pretty bad, he’ll probably need some
stitches. We. We found out some stuff.”
“Once we get back to the room,” Bobby says, taking John’s other arm, starting
the process of getting to the cars and leaving the house behind them.
John doesn’t argue, doesn’t say anything. He makes it to the edge of the
cornfields before falling unconscious.
--
The car goes over a bump, wakes John up. He’s lying across the backseat, face
turned into the leather, and he groans when the car hits another bump in the
road. Everything’s hazy and he can’t feel his feet; his pulse, sounding in his
ears, is weak, irregular.
“Sorry, Dad,” Dean says. “But we’re trying to hurry. You’ve lost a lot of
blood.”
“’M fine,” John mutters, but they both know he’s lying. Gray lace starts
fuzzing at the edges of John’s vision and his hearing’s going again, far away
and distant, but he ignores it, forces himself to focus. “Bobby?”
The car turns, and John hisses as his face slides forward, bumping his nose
against the back of the seat and dragging his cheek across the leather, leaving
bloodlines slick on the surface. “Sorry. Bobby’s probably already in the room.
He asked if he should call Dan but I told him not to. Is that.” Dean trails
off, the car turns again, tires rolling over gravel as the Impala slows.
“’S’good,” John says. “No one else, not until we can all talk. Jesus.” He’s
going into medical shock now, knows what it feels like from experience, and has
just enough energy and willpower left to say, “You did good, Dean,” before
passing out again.
--
John blinks, wants to grit his teeth or do something to balance out the slow
and steady pain he can feel, pinpricks digging into his back over and over
again.
“Jesus, John, just stay under, all right?” It’s Bobby, but why Bobby’s here,
John doesn’t know. John doesn’t know what’s going on, why he can’t move, why,
when he opens his eyes and blinks, there’s an IV in his arm. “Dean! Give him
another one, he’s waking up again.”
“Bobby, are you sure,” Dean starts to ask, but Bobby cuts him off. There’s a
sting in John’s upper arm, the meat of his shoulder, and his vision wavers.
“Dad? Dad, just relax. We’re taking care of you.”
John wants to ask why, but he just asks, “Dean?” and closes his eyes.
--
There’s a noise. It irritates John, has him opening his eyes and making a
grimace of displeasure at how bright the world is. He tries to sit up but
can’t, doesn’t know why he can’t, and then Dean’s right there, next to him.
“I’ll turn the lights off,” Dean says, and disappears. The lights go off a
moment later, and Dean’s back, looking at John, checking his pupils and the
pulse on his throat, something on John’s face. “How are you feeling?”
“I’m fine,” John says, trying to wave Dean away. He can’t seem to get his arms
to move as fast as he’d like, though, and it feels as if there’s something
stuck to his face. He reaches up, intent on pulling whatever it is away, but
his fingers trail over two butterfly bandages in quick succession, and he
pauses. John blinks, looks at Dean, sees a row of careful stitches down one
side of Dean’s face. “What,” he starts to say, but then it comes back to him:
the house, the demons, Azazel, Ben. “How long’ve I been out?”
“Three days,” Bobby says, moving in to the field of John’s vision. He’s holding
John’s phone, says, “Ash’s calling with some new info. He wants to talk to you.
You feel up to it?”
John takes inventory of his body, his mind. Everything aches in a low-grade,
humming sort of way, apart from his back and his left arm, both of which feel
like they’re on fire. His face feels tender, almost puffy, and his chest aches
as if he can’t get enough oxygen. “Yeah,” he says, and holds his hand out for
the phone. Dean looks as if he disapproves but doesn’t say anything, and John
says, “Hello?” once the phone’s next to his ear and he’s leaning forward, after
leaning back on the pillows exacerbated the pain in his back.
“John, man, it’s good to hear you’re alive,” Ash says. “Bobby said it was
pretty touch-and-go for a while.” He lowers his voice some, adds, “Put Ellen in
a mood, lemme tell ya. She’s been cleaning like crazy and she usually only does
that ‘round certain times of the month, ‘f you catch what I’m saying.”
“What’ve you got, Ash,” John says, too tired to even think about why Ellen’s
reacting that way or how bad his condition really was for Bobby to admit
something like that.
Ash exhales, says, “That demonic activity where you are? It’s been fluctuating
like nothing I’ve seen before. Few days ago it was all over the place, then it
bottomed out like all of ‘em left, then it went back to normal. Well, what was
passing for normal. Now it’s clearing out. If I had to give you a map like the
one before, there’d be a dozen spots, tops, nothing as bad as last time.”
John frowns, feels the pull of the bandages on his face, asks, “Where are they?
The spots, I mean.”
“Four downtown, clustered pretty close, a handful in the same place out north,
another one that keeps moving but seems to stick close to the river,” Ash says.
“I’ve been working on a new program, found a way to pinpoint them a little
better, but that’s the best I can do.”
John hands the phone back to Bobby who walks away, talking to Ash in a tone too
low for John to hear, not when his ears are ringing and he’s trying to decide
if passing out again would be preferable to just lying down and pulling up the
sheets.
“I haven’t told Bobby what Azazel said,” Dean says under his breath, as John’s
shifting, turning to one side in hopes it won’t hurt his back as much. “About
who Ben is. I wasn’t sure if you wanted him to. I mean, he might not understand
that you. And especially with the plans Azazel has.”
“We’ll talk when I wake up,” John promises, closing his eyes.
--
Sleep comes fast and hard, deep, pressing into John from all angles. He dreams
of Ben, over and over again: Ben kneeling in front of Azazel, Ben being torn
apart by a faceless demon that John knows is Belial, Ben cooking next to
Eisheth, Ben unconscious and being sewn up under Dan’s competent hands, Ben on
his hands and knees, tight around John’s dick, Ben sleeping, Ben sitting under
the bridge and staring at the water like the second time John had seen the kid.
It’s that last dream that has John fighting his way towards consciousness and
he wakes up with a shudder, sitting up and throwing the blankets off. He’s back
in the room he and Dean originally rented, is sleeping in his bed, with Dean in
the one nearer to the door. Bobby’s books are still here, his weapons, but the
man’s nowhere in sight; either he’s left to go out and get something or he’s
sleeping next door.
John moves quietly in the direction of the bathroom, a little unsteady on his
feet, closes the door once he’s inside before he turns the light on. He almost
doesn’t recognise his reflection in the mirror. The bandages he remembers being
on his face are gone, and the scratch is healing, a pink line stretching across
skin that looks pale and slightly gaunt. John lifts his t-shirt, studies the
stitches still covering his stomach, his chest, and then turns, tries to see
his back.
Apart from the stitches, there’s one wound that doesn’t seem to be healing, a
crimson welt in the shape of a cross, right on the small of his back. John
frowns, but then realises: that’s where the knife pressed against him, that
knife made from the lancea longini which could have killed Azazel, if only Ben
had used it. John remembers urging the kid to pick it up, to kill the damned
cherub, but now, only now, here, days later, does he think about why Ben never
wanted to touch that knife in the first place: use it, kill the demon, and
usher in the end of the world. Fucking ridiculous choice and John had pushed
it, been disappointed when Ben had stepped away from the knife as if it was
meant to kill him, not his father.
John grips the edge of the counter, hangs his head, tries to breath. It all
aches, but, most of all, the thought that Ben’s really Sam. John’s never going
to get used to that.
He pisses, washes his hands and smacks water on his face, flinching when the
cold sinks into the scratch, and opens the door. Dean’s awake, is sitting up in
bed, and has the closest Dean ever gets to a blank look on his face.
“How do you feel?” Dean asks.
“Honestly?” John answers, and doesn’t say anything else, making his way back to
his bed, getting between the covers, sighing when he doesn’t have to worry
about holding himself vertical anymore.
Dean snorts, says, “I know. This whole thing, I don’t understand it at all.” He
pauses, says, “I still haven’t told Bobby. If you don’t want to, we’ll need to
come up with something else, because he won’t let it drop.”
John rubs his forehead, feels the action pull at the wounds still healing on
his arms, chest, back, down one cheek. “We have to tell him the truth, Dean. We
owe him that much, at least, for coming and helping us out on this one.”
“And when he asks about you and Ben,” Dean says, before grimacing, “sorry, Sam.
Christ, that’s gonna be hard to get used to. When he asks about you and Ben,
about.” Dean gestures, John takes it to mean the sex, nods his understanding,
encouraging Dean to continue. “Will you two still. I mean, he’s family, Dad.
Demons lie, but Azazel was right, that’s a sin in pretty much everyone’s book.”
John thinks about it, thinks about repressing the way he feels about Ben -- Sam
-- the way he already knows he’s going to react the next time he sees the kid,
his son. He’s never going to be able to look at Ben again without thinking of
how tight he is, how he loves to watch Ben come, hear the noises Ben makes as
John’s fucking him hard or soft, either way.
“I don’t know,” he says, quiet, unable to look his son in the face. “I wish I
could say I’d never be tempted, but.”
“But that’d be a lie,” Dean finishes up.
John looks up, nods, and frowns when it looks like Dean’s trying to find the
courage to say something. His son’s never been this hesitant to speak his mind
before. John thinks that maybe those hours, trapped against a wall in Azazel’s
basement, have changed Dean deep inside. To know suddenly, to be told that
Sam’s alive, that his death isn’t on Dean’s shoulders, but that the brother
Dean’s always longed for has been raised by demons because Dean let him go,
John’s not sure what Dean will evolve into, how that change will eventually
express itself.
He shakes the question away; he’ll learn later. They all will. “Dean?” he asks,
not a command, more a question.
Dean sighs, says, “Dad. Dad, sure, Ben’s my brother, genetically, biologically,
whatever you want to call it, but he’s not Sam, y’know? I never had the chance
to. We never saw him grow up. We’re not responsible for that. We can’t just
call ourselves his father and brother because we’re not, not the way it counts.
And I hate to say it, but the demon was right: he’s Ben’s father.” He takes a
deep breath, and adds, “I don’t think I’ll ever be able to call him Sam. Sam
died the night Mom did. Ben, he isn’t.” Dean swallows, looks away, then back at
John, says, “Anyway, if you two want to keep on fucking, I won’t stop you. It’s
not my place.”
“He’ll come with us when we leave,” John says, amazed that Dean’s thought all
of this through and has come to this conclusion. Granted, Dean’s had time while
John’s been unconscious and sleeping, but John wasn’t expecting the stamp of
approval from his son. “It might not be your place but you have a say, Dean.”
“So I’ll get an extra room,” Dean says, shrugging, the first smile of this
conversation crossing his face. “You know how much I’ve been gunning for that
for years; I’m not gonna look a gift horse in the mouth. All I’m saying, this
is your decision. I’ll back you up whichever way it goes.”
That’s far more than John had been expecting, and he feels badly, guilty, for
underestimating his son. Dean might play the rebel, might drink and smoke and
fuck his way through town after town, but he’s always been loyal down to the
core.
“Thank you,” John says, somewhat awkwardly. The smile that lights up Dean’s
face is worth the discomfort, though, worth it and much, much more.
“You gonna try and find him first, or talk to Bobby?” Dean asks, settling back
into his bed, turning off the light.
John lies down, stretches out as much as the stitches will let him, and says,
“Bobby. He’ll be easier to find. I don’t even know how I’m supposed to find
Ben.”
--
Bobby is, to say the least, just as shocked by the turn of events as John had
been in that accursed house. “He’s Sam,” John’s friend says, as if he can’t
believe it. “All this time. The demon’s had Sam all along. And Sam’s supposed
to lead some kind of psychic army to, what, bring about Armageddon?”
“That’s what Azazel said,” John says, nodding, leaning forward and feeling the
stitches pull on his skin. “That’s what Belial’s been teaching Ben -- Sam all
along. Who knows if it’s true, though; we only have their word to go on.”
“I can’t quote any prophecies off the top of my head,” Bobby says, slowly,
thinking. He turns in his chair, starts moving the books on the desk around,
flips through a couple of them.
John raises an eyebrow, seeing Bobby go through the same books Ben had, the
morning Bobby and Dean came into town together, thinks that Bobby’s even
looking at the same pages. “Ben was looking through those before,” he says,
mouth moving faster than his brain. “He was looking through all of them, had
pages marked and everything, cross-referencing. He said his father never let
him look at the originals, just copies they printed out. Maybe Ben never
thought Azazel was telling the truth.”
Bobby’s looking at John and he asks, carefully, “John, you keep calling him
Ben. He’s not Ben, he’s Sam. I know you spent more time with him than Dean or I
did, but Ben, that’s just a name the demon gave him. That kid is not Ben
Ahrenson, he’s Sam Winchester.”
“Is he?” John asks quietly. “If he was Sam Winchester, he’d be my son. He
would’ve been raised on the road in search of a demon. He wouldn’t know
anything about demonic hierarchies or prophecies or how to use his gifts. He
wouldn’t have spent years tricking, bargaining with demons, getting beat by his
father.”
“You’re his father,” Bobby argues. “It doesn’t matter how he was.” He stops,
narrows his eyes, and says, “You’re not. John, tell me you aren’t going to keep
fucking him.” When John doesn’t immediately respond, Bobby leans back in his
chair, says, “Shit. You’ve got to be kidding. John, you cannot have sex with
your son.”
John sighs, says, “Then tell me what to do, Bobby, because I’m in love with
him.” It’s the plainest John’s ever said it, either out loud or in his mind,
and as much as he fought against admitting it, now that it’s out there, now
that someone else knows, it doesn’t seem to sound as earth-shattering as it
feels, like the words can’t possibly begin to express the fact that John’s in
love. The words are just, are just the window-dressing around a heart-deep
change, a soul-wide feeling. “I’m in love with Ben Ahrenson and Dean’s right,
Sam died the same night Mary did. I’ll never know what Sam would have been
like, what kind of man he’d grow up to be, but I can be there for Ben. I can be
there with him.”
“I’ll never be okay with it,” Bobby says. “I want you to know that. Never,
John.”
John nods, says, “I respect that. I don’t know what’s going to happen until I
find Ben and talk to him, but I won’t make you watch anything. I won’t flaunt
it in your face.”
Bobby grimaces, looks away, and says, “I’m gonna head back home. I’ll start
going through the prophecies and I’ll call Jim, see if he can’t use some of
those contacts of his inside the church to find any I might miss. I’ll get in
touch with Joshua, too, and ask if he might be able to find someone who knows
where to start looking for these other psychics.”
“Ask Dean about the pictures we took in Ahrenson’s office,” John says,
thinking. “He had a map, different coloured pins. They might mean something in
relation.”
“I will,” Bobby says, as he stands up, pops his back. “John, don’t do anything
stupid, okay?”
John smiles, standing up as well, and says, “Oh, come on. Where would the fun
in life be?” He step over, hugs his friend, and says, quietly, “Thank you.”
Bobby waves the thanks away, gathers up his books, and heads out the door.
John sits back down, wonders if he’s just lost the one person who’s seen two
separate wars with him, who he’s always been able to turn to for answers, for
help or supplies, for a steady arm and a way with Holy Water.
He sighs, decides not to dwell on it, and is halfway to the bathroom when
there’s a knock at the door. John frowns, answers it to see Hector, the front-
desk guy standing there with a small box. “Package, Mr. Winchester. Just came
in, thought I’d try to find you right away instead of waiting a couple days.”
“Thanks,” John says, and opens it once Hector’s gone. There’s a folded note at
the top, but John digs through shredded paper and pulls out a miniature
compass. It’s gold, not silver like the ones Aurelie gave to him before this
whole mess started, and there are runes engraved on the back, ones that John’s
surprised to find he’s more than familiar with. Swirling there, in demonic
script, is the same symbol tattooed on Ben’s back.
John unfolds the note, raising an eyebrow as he reads.
          John,
          This is set to your youngest, though the spells will take
          some time to settle and attach to his presence. Don’t
          worry, it will work the first time, it will simply take
          longer to track him. This one won’t shatter when you get
          close to him -- you’d better appreciate how much work that
          took.
          Keep this safe and, once he’s wearing the ring, make sure
          this compass falls into no other hands save those you trust
          with his life.
          Yours in faith,
          Aurelie
          P.S. No, I didn’t know it was him, but I knew that both of
          your sons were alive. You think I called Dean your oldest
          merely to irritate a wound never healed? Bring them both by
          my house at some point; I would like to meet the man I have
          bound my fortunes and future to.
He snorts, shakes his head, and sets the compass on the middle of the
bedspread, staring at it.
--
The next day, after a sleepless night of serious thought, John sets off in
search of Ben. The compass leads him all over town and John passes the diner
where Mrs. Visser works, the church, Dan’s store, Eisheth’s apartment. He
realises that the compass is tracking Ben’s aura or gifts somehow, and he
thinks for a brief moment of throwing the compass away; spells like that are
usually black magic and always dangerous. Still, it’s the only lead he has, so
John follows the compass out to the north side of town, halfway between city
limits and Ahrenson’s house, then through a criss-cross pattern of cornfields,
before heading back into the city.
The needle shrinks, shivers, when John approaches the river, and he shoves the
compass in his pocket on a hunch, drives toward the bridge where John first met
Ben, banishing Marchosias and earning the kid’s initial enmity. John parks the
Impala and walks down the riverbank, sees Ben sitting cross-legged on the
grass, watching the river.
“Morning, Ben,” he says, echoing the same words he used the second time he met
Ben.
Unlike that time, Ben calls him by his name, says, “John,” without turning
around. “I didn’t think I’d see you again.” John doesn’t reply, just moves and
sits down next to Ben, close enough that their arms brush. “Are you here to
kill me?”
John shakes his head, says, “No,” saddened that this person, so often reminding
John of a spitting cat, furious and full of life, could ask a question like
that in the tone Ben uses, soft, empty. “I’m here to take you away, if you can
bring yourself to leave.”
Ben shifts, just enough so that they aren’t touching anymore, and asks, “As
what? Your long-lost son, hidden and raised by a demon?” Ben gives a bitter
laugh, then says, “I’ve never been a particularly good son.” He snorts, adds,
“Who knows, I might end up having to kill you as well.”
John sighs, says, “I’ve never had the chance to be your father. Just let me be
what I am.” He feels ridiculous saying it, weak and vulnerable, a feeling that
only increases when Ben doesn’t say anything in return.
Traffic moves on the bridge, comes and goes, and the water keeps running past
their feet. John doesn’t say anything and Ben doesn’t either, for what feels
like days but is probably no more than an hour. There’s really nothing to say,
not for John, not until Ben gives him an answer, either way.
“What will you call me?” Ben finally asks. The question, after so much silence,
makes John’s heart skip a beat.
“It’s up to you,” John says, “but I’d prefer Ben. Not because I’m ashamed, but
because that’s how I came to know you, the way I think of you. If you want me
to call you Sam, I will, you’ll just have to give me some time to get used to
it.”
Ben hums and he falls silent for a few minutes until he says, “I like Ben. It’s
my name, y’know? Sam would feel strange.”
John turns, can’t help it, and looks at the kid, eyes roaming over Ben’s face,
as if there’s an answer to his question there. He can’t find it, though, either
way, and has to ask, “What does that mean?” trying not to let hope override the
caution in his voice. Judging by the look in Ben’s eyes, John’s failed
miserably.
“My father’s gone,” Ben says, and though he winces at the title, at who he’s
just said that to, he doesn’t take it back. “Most of the demons have left as
well. I have instructions but they aren’t much more than to keep up with my
studies and to not neglect those under my protection. Father said that nothing
will happen for five years or so, so I have time. If you.” He hesitates,
finally says, “If you want me to. If you still want me to go with you, I will.”
John smiles, digs into his pocket, and holds out the ring Aurelie gave him so
long ago, holds it between his thumb and his index finger, and offers it to
Ben. Ben eyes it warily, looks at John, and John says, “Aurelie made it. She
said it was the best thing she ever made. I don’t know what it does, exactly,
but it feels like a null zone.”
Ben’s eyes light up, and he lets John drop it into his palm, turning it over,
poking at it. “I’ve heard of these,” he says. “Arioch said they hide every
trace of a person’s psychic aura, like a blanket so that no one else can find
them or track them. They’re supposed to be impossible to make.” He looks up at
John, and then grins, shyly, and slides it onto his left ring finger, giving
John a look like he expects argument.
John doesn’t argue, doesn’t say anything, simply smiles, leans forward, brushes
hair out of Ben’s eyes. “I’m going to kiss you now,” he says.
Ben blinks, almost as if in surprise, but then scowls, says, “That’s what you
think,” and stands up, scampers off. John feels panicked, like maybe he pushed
too far, but when he scrambles up the riverbank, holding his side, he sees Ben
perched on the hood of the Impala, grinning wide and bright like the sun.
John stalks over, watches the smile on Ben’s face wobble, then slide off
entirely; even though Ben’s expecting anger from John, he doesn’t move, just
sits there. That’s something they’ll have to work on, but later, not right now.
John stands in front of Ben, curls his hands in the kid’s t-shirt and yanks him
forward. Ben slides with a muffled curse, one leg going to each side of John,
and then John’s got one hand in Ben’s hair, tugging back so that Ben’s face
lifts up, turns to meet John’s.
He’s been wanting to do this for weeks now and it’s even better than he dreamt.
Ben’s lips are already open, parted in surprise, and when John presses his
mouth against Ben, slides his tongue inside of Ben’s mouth, the kid arches,
puts his hands on John’s hips and rocks forward.
Ben tastes like sin, lips moving against John’s, tongue hesitant as it strokes
John’s. John’s growls, presses harder, and plunders Ben’s mouth, not pulling
back until Ben’s panting, out of breath, pupils wide and face flushed.
“I don’t kiss,” Ben says, sounding dazed.
“I do,” John growls, and bends down for another.
--
Dean’s packing things up when John and Ben get back to the motel room, turns
when they walk in and stares at Ben, eyes catching the ring on the kid’s
finger, the miniature compass around John’s neck.
John watches as his two sons look at one another, neither of them moving, and
lets out a breath of relief when Dean holds out his hand, says, “Dean
Winchester.”
Ben doesn’t move for a handful of seconds, though he finally takes a couple
steps forward and grips Dean’s hand, says, “Ben Ahrenson. You’re still a jerk.”
Dean grins, says, “And you’re still a bitch. It’ll be good to have someone else
around. Dad’s been going stir-crazy the past couple years. Make sure you work
out some of his tension, okay?”
Ben laughs, says, “You really are a jerk,” and John knows this is going to
work.
“I’ve got everything packed, Dad, Ben,” Dean says, gesturing at the two duffels
next to the door, a few things stuffed into brown paper bags. “I wasn’t sure if
there was anything else we needed to pick up or anyone we needed to see before
we hit the road.”
John looks at Ben, who says, half-blank, “Nothing on my account.” At John’s
raised eyebrow, Ben sighs, turns and stares at the wall as he says, “Ari always
bought me the clothes I needed and took them away when I’d worn them once. I
don’t know where he got them or what he did with them, but I don’t have
anything except what’s on my back.”
“Awesome,” Dean says, and both Ben and John stare at the oldest Winchester son.
“No, it is. We get to go Goodwill-ing.” John groans, and at Ben’s confused
look, Dean says, “Dad hates clothes shopping.”
“Only because you’re awful to get in and out of any place quickly,” John
interrupts. “Especially if there are women, doubly especially if there are
women in what passes for a thrift store music section.”
Dean rolls his eyes, says, pretending to speak in confidence, “It’ll be great,
trust me.”
“Eisheth?” John asks, changing the subject. “Any of the demons still around the
house?”
“I already talked to them” Ben admits. “I told them I’d be leaving town, I just
didn’t know if you’d come looking for me first. They said they’d check on me,
but with the ring, I don’t think they’ll be able to get a direct idea on my
location.” He pauses, says, “They’ll be leeching off of Lust for enough of a
fix but I’ll have to see them in a few weeks, otherwise Lilith will get antsy.”
Ben’s smile is hesitant as he looks between John and Dean; still, it’s the most
honest John’s ever seen Ben’s expression and John knows it’ll only grow in the
future.
“So. Packed, check. Demons, check. Where we heading?” Dean asks, picking up one
of the duffels and slinging it over his shoulder, lifting the other one and
heading for the door.
John looks at Ben, sees the kid shrug, and says, “Vermont, maybe. I’m sure we
can find something up there to keep us busy for a while.”
Dean snickers under his breath, makes some kind of snide remark that John’s
glad he didn’t hear, and, once he’s outside, yells, “I call backseat! Just make
sure I don’t have to see anything!”
Ben laughs, sidles up to John and purrs, “When’s the last time you fucked in
the car?” He presses himself against the length of John’s body and curls his
fingers around the waistband of John’s jeans.
John groans, cradles his face in his hands, and feels lighter than he has in
years.
Please drop_by_the_archive_and_comment to let the author know if you enjoyed
their work!