[FIC] Father's Gun (53/?)
Title: Father's Gun
Authors: diana_lucifera & tersichore
Pairing: Dean/Sam
Rating: Mature
Warnings: minor character death, mentions of torture, the slowest of burns, and excessive bed-sharing
Summary: After the events of "Brother's Blood," Sam and Dean are faced with teaming up with John to hunt the Yellow-Eyed Demon, all while keeping Sam's powers a secret and dodging their dad's questions about just why things between them are so... different.
Previous Chapter | Master Post
Sam wakes up to the sounds of shuffling footsteps. He groans sleepily, rubbing his face against the sheets and wincing when he feels a tiny puddle of wetness smear against his cheek. The gait he hears doesn’t belong to his brother, though Sam thinks he recognizes it. He gropes for the knife under the pillow just in case, but it seems to have shifted during the night. He flexes his empty palm into a fist and cracks open one eye.
It’s just Pastor Jim. He’s standing just inside the doorway, looking at something he has clutched in his left hand. Sam relaxes, sits up with a groan and a rustle of blankets.
“Mornin’,” he murmurs, sleepily shoving hair off his face.
“Good morning, Sam,” Pastor Jim replies softly.
He moves to tuck the thing in his hand into the pocket of his slacks, and Sam abruptly recognizes it as his cell phone. He frowns in confusion.
“What’re you doing with that?”
Pastor Jim doesn’t answer. He stares at Sam with an unreadable expression.
“Where’s Dean?” Sam asks, feeling his hackles rise.
“He went out.”
Sam slides his hand under the pillows again, renewing the search for Dean’s knife as subtly as he can.
“Where did he go?” he asks warily.
Pastor Jim takes a step forward.
“Don’t worry,” he says. “He’s fine. Everything’s fine.”
His voice is gentle, disarming, and his eyes have that same kind, warm glow Sam recognizes. He raises one palm in a calming gesture that might even have a prayer of working if Sam hadn’t already spotted his own Taurus clasped tight in the hand at Jim's side.
“Christo,” Sam spits, clamoring to his feet.
Pastor Jim’s eyes don’t go black. His face doesn’t contort, and he doesn’t start laughing maniacally or railing about his evil plan. He isn’t possessed, and instead of relief, Sam can only feel crushing disappointment. His stomach twists sickly.
“I know how this looks,” Pastor Jim says, raising the gun to train it on Sam. “God help me, I’m still not sure it’s the right thing to do, but I just can’t take the chance, Sam. You have to understand that.”
“What are you talking about?” Sam demands.
His mind is whirling a mile a minute. He doesn’t know what’s going on, but he knows he needs to get out of here. There’s only one door, and the preacher is standing between it and Sam. He wonders if Pastor Jim could really shoot him, if Sam might be able to shove past him and escape in a moment of hesitation. Would he have enough time? Would it be worth the risk?
“I promised I’d help you,” the other man says, treading slowly backward. “I promised I wouldn’t let you hurt anybody. This is the only way I can make sure that doesn’t happen. The thing inside you? Your place in the demons' plans? It’s too big, Sam. It’s too dangerous. There's too much at stake for us to be taking chances.”
Sam knows this argument, has heard these words before in a different voice, and oh no. No, no.
“It’s going to be all right,” Pastor Jim is saying soothingly. “He’s not going to hurt you. I’m not going to let either of you boys get hurt.”
“My dad?!” Sam exclaims, panic creeping into his voice. “You called my dad?”
“He’ll be here in a few hours. We’re going to figure this out, Sam.”
If he doesn’t put a bullet in me first, Sam thinks hysterically. If he doesn't just call and tell you to kill me yourself and save him the trip.
“Pastor Jim, you don’t understand!” he protests. “I know you’re trying to help, but you don’t know what he’s been like. You can’t trust him! He’s a hunter, and I’m-!”
“You’re his son,” Pastor Jim interrupts firmly.
“Where’s Dean?” Sam demands. “Just ask him, okay? He’ll tell you-”
“I sent him away. Your father and I agreed that he doesn’t need to be around you right now.”
Sam’s eyes go wide, then narrow sharply, his fear transforming quickly into anger.
“You can’t do that!”
“I didn’t have a choice,” Pastor Jim says. “After what I heard last night? With everything I know about you two? You must know that Dean is safer the further away he is from you.”
He’s standing at the entranceway now, one hand grasping the heavy door handle, and Sam realizes that he means to lock him in, to trap him here in this stone room in the basement of the church with its barred windows and fortified doors. This room, stripped now of all of Pastor Jim’s weapons and books, with its thin mattress and its temporary supplies… It’s not a panic room anymore.
It’s a prison cell.
“Wait!” Sam shouts, darting forward. “Stop! Don’t-!”
“I really am sorry, Sam,” Pastor Jim says, slamming the door shut with a scream of protesting hinges. “This is for the best. You’ll see.”
Sam can hear his keys turning in the locks. He pounds on the door with all his strength.
“Open the door!” he yells. “Pastor Jim, don’t do this! Just listen to me, please!!”
There’s no sound from the other side of the wall. Sam pounds another futile fist against the thick wood, feeling tears prick at the corner of his eyes.
“I trusted you,” he rasps, and it sounds pitifully, stupidly naïve.
He hangs his head and draws a deep, tremulous breath. Dean was right. Of course Dean was right.
And now he’s gone.
~
The first thing Dean is aware of is the feeling that something is terribly, terribly wrong. He feels sick, his body wracked with cold sweat, his stomach in knots. It takes him a minute to get his eyes open, and he finds himself staring at a churning gnarl of neon stripes and smears. He pinches his eyes shut again and hopes desperately that he doesn’t puke.
He’s moving- No, he’s inside something that’s moving. He cracks open one eye and finds himself staring up at a ceiling made of gray cloth and dull plastic. The air blasting down into his face from the vents is slightly musty and chillingly cold. There’s a large window on his right looking out over miles of unfamiliar highway in either direction, and in the seat next to him, there’s a sullen teenager with two-tone hair glaring at Dean over his phone.
A bus. He’s on a bus.
Why the hell is he on a bus?!
“Where am I?” Dean demands, fighting a rolling wave of nausea as he clamors to his feet.
“We’ll be in Kansas City in about an hour,” a woman across the row from him replies, the clacking of her knitting needles slowing to a stop as she stares at him.
“Hey, sir?” the bus driver calls, glaring at him in the rearview mirror. “I’m going to need you to sit down!”
“We- What? How-” Dean gasps, heart pounding. “How did I get here?!”
The teenager yanks one of his earbuds out, glowering up at him.
“Hey, he said sit down.”
The bus goes over a bump, and Dean stumbles, grabbing the back of the seat in front of him in a white-knuckled fist, head spinning.
“How did I get here?!” he demands again.
“Dude, what is wrong with you?” the kid scowls. “You’ve been on the bus since, like, Missouri.”
“I got on?” Dean interrogates him. “I walked on?”
“Ye-ah…” the teenager says slowly. “What, you don’t remember?”
Dean doesn’t remember. The last thing he knew, he was in bed next to Sam. No, wait, he was having breakfast with Pastor Jim. And then… he thinks he remembers getting in his car?
What happened after that?
“You did look kind of wasted,” the kid continues. “Your friend had to help you out, but you were definitely awake. Tried talking to me for a little bit before you finally passed out. Man, you really don’t remember? How much did you have?”
Dean tries to think back, ignoring the bus driver as she orders him again to sit down. He remembers being in the car, and then feeling weird… Pastor Jim apologizing for something...
Fuck.
“Stop the bus!” he shouts, shoving past the teenager’s legs and stumbling down between the rows. “Stop!”
“Sit down!!” the bus driver hollers.
Dean doubles over and retches onto the carpet. One of the other passengers shrieks, and the driver swears colorfully. She pulls over onto the shoulder, opening up the doors to let the smell out, and Dean staggers off the bus, ignoring her protests.
There’s a cluster of cheap restaurants at an exit a half-mile down the road, and Dean makes his way to it as quickly as he can, stopping only once to vomit onto the asphalt.
The last thing he remembers, it was just past sunrise. Now the sun is hanging high in the sky, beating down on him in a sharp contrast to the chill of the bus. That means he’s lost five, maybe six hours?
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
Everything’s a blur and his head is pounding, like someone took the worst hangover he’s ever had and multiplied it by three. Dean’s not quite sure how he makes it to the parking lot or how he finds the car to boost. His limbs are weak, his hands fumbling on the lock, the wiring. The car bursts to life, and Dean presses his damp forehead tight against the steering wheel, willing himself not to be sick again.
He doesn’t have time to throw up. He doesn’t have time to panic.
He has to get back to Sam.
Chapter 54
Authors: diana_lucifera & tersichore
Pairing: Dean/Sam
Rating: Mature
Warnings: minor character death, mentions of torture, the slowest of burns, and excessive bed-sharing
Summary: After the events of "Brother's Blood," Sam and Dean are faced with teaming up with John to hunt the Yellow-Eyed Demon, all while keeping Sam's powers a secret and dodging their dad's questions about just why things between them are so... different.
Previous Chapter | Master Post
Sam wakes up to the sounds of shuffling footsteps. He groans sleepily, rubbing his face against the sheets and wincing when he feels a tiny puddle of wetness smear against his cheek. The gait he hears doesn’t belong to his brother, though Sam thinks he recognizes it. He gropes for the knife under the pillow just in case, but it seems to have shifted during the night. He flexes his empty palm into a fist and cracks open one eye.
It’s just Pastor Jim. He’s standing just inside the doorway, looking at something he has clutched in his left hand. Sam relaxes, sits up with a groan and a rustle of blankets.
“Mornin’,” he murmurs, sleepily shoving hair off his face.
“Good morning, Sam,” Pastor Jim replies softly.
He moves to tuck the thing in his hand into the pocket of his slacks, and Sam abruptly recognizes it as his cell phone. He frowns in confusion.
“What’re you doing with that?”
Pastor Jim doesn’t answer. He stares at Sam with an unreadable expression.
“Where’s Dean?” Sam asks, feeling his hackles rise.
“He went out.”
Sam slides his hand under the pillows again, renewing the search for Dean’s knife as subtly as he can.
“Where did he go?” he asks warily.
Pastor Jim takes a step forward.
“Don’t worry,” he says. “He’s fine. Everything’s fine.”
His voice is gentle, disarming, and his eyes have that same kind, warm glow Sam recognizes. He raises one palm in a calming gesture that might even have a prayer of working if Sam hadn’t already spotted his own Taurus clasped tight in the hand at Jim's side.
“Christo,” Sam spits, clamoring to his feet.
Pastor Jim’s eyes don’t go black. His face doesn’t contort, and he doesn’t start laughing maniacally or railing about his evil plan. He isn’t possessed, and instead of relief, Sam can only feel crushing disappointment. His stomach twists sickly.
“I know how this looks,” Pastor Jim says, raising the gun to train it on Sam. “God help me, I’m still not sure it’s the right thing to do, but I just can’t take the chance, Sam. You have to understand that.”
“What are you talking about?” Sam demands.
His mind is whirling a mile a minute. He doesn’t know what’s going on, but he knows he needs to get out of here. There’s only one door, and the preacher is standing between it and Sam. He wonders if Pastor Jim could really shoot him, if Sam might be able to shove past him and escape in a moment of hesitation. Would he have enough time? Would it be worth the risk?
“I promised I’d help you,” the other man says, treading slowly backward. “I promised I wouldn’t let you hurt anybody. This is the only way I can make sure that doesn’t happen. The thing inside you? Your place in the demons' plans? It’s too big, Sam. It’s too dangerous. There's too much at stake for us to be taking chances.”
Sam knows this argument, has heard these words before in a different voice, and oh no. No, no.
“It’s going to be all right,” Pastor Jim is saying soothingly. “He’s not going to hurt you. I’m not going to let either of you boys get hurt.”
“My dad?!” Sam exclaims, panic creeping into his voice. “You called my dad?”
“He’ll be here in a few hours. We’re going to figure this out, Sam.”
If he doesn’t put a bullet in me first, Sam thinks hysterically. If he doesn't just call and tell you to kill me yourself and save him the trip.
“Pastor Jim, you don’t understand!” he protests. “I know you’re trying to help, but you don’t know what he’s been like. You can’t trust him! He’s a hunter, and I’m-!”
“You’re his son,” Pastor Jim interrupts firmly.
“Where’s Dean?” Sam demands. “Just ask him, okay? He’ll tell you-”
“I sent him away. Your father and I agreed that he doesn’t need to be around you right now.”
Sam’s eyes go wide, then narrow sharply, his fear transforming quickly into anger.
“You can’t do that!”
“I didn’t have a choice,” Pastor Jim says. “After what I heard last night? With everything I know about you two? You must know that Dean is safer the further away he is from you.”
He’s standing at the entranceway now, one hand grasping the heavy door handle, and Sam realizes that he means to lock him in, to trap him here in this stone room in the basement of the church with its barred windows and fortified doors. This room, stripped now of all of Pastor Jim’s weapons and books, with its thin mattress and its temporary supplies… It’s not a panic room anymore.
It’s a prison cell.
“Wait!” Sam shouts, darting forward. “Stop! Don’t-!”
“I really am sorry, Sam,” Pastor Jim says, slamming the door shut with a scream of protesting hinges. “This is for the best. You’ll see.”
Sam can hear his keys turning in the locks. He pounds on the door with all his strength.
“Open the door!” he yells. “Pastor Jim, don’t do this! Just listen to me, please!!”
There’s no sound from the other side of the wall. Sam pounds another futile fist against the thick wood, feeling tears prick at the corner of his eyes.
“I trusted you,” he rasps, and it sounds pitifully, stupidly naïve.
He hangs his head and draws a deep, tremulous breath. Dean was right. Of course Dean was right.
And now he’s gone.
~
The first thing Dean is aware of is the feeling that something is terribly, terribly wrong. He feels sick, his body wracked with cold sweat, his stomach in knots. It takes him a minute to get his eyes open, and he finds himself staring at a churning gnarl of neon stripes and smears. He pinches his eyes shut again and hopes desperately that he doesn’t puke.
He’s moving- No, he’s inside something that’s moving. He cracks open one eye and finds himself staring up at a ceiling made of gray cloth and dull plastic. The air blasting down into his face from the vents is slightly musty and chillingly cold. There’s a large window on his right looking out over miles of unfamiliar highway in either direction, and in the seat next to him, there’s a sullen teenager with two-tone hair glaring at Dean over his phone.
A bus. He’s on a bus.
Why the hell is he on a bus?!
“Where am I?” Dean demands, fighting a rolling wave of nausea as he clamors to his feet.
“We’ll be in Kansas City in about an hour,” a woman across the row from him replies, the clacking of her knitting needles slowing to a stop as she stares at him.
“Hey, sir?” the bus driver calls, glaring at him in the rearview mirror. “I’m going to need you to sit down!”
“We- What? How-” Dean gasps, heart pounding. “How did I get here?!”
The teenager yanks one of his earbuds out, glowering up at him.
“Hey, he said sit down.”
The bus goes over a bump, and Dean stumbles, grabbing the back of the seat in front of him in a white-knuckled fist, head spinning.
“How did I get here?!” he demands again.
“Dude, what is wrong with you?” the kid scowls. “You’ve been on the bus since, like, Missouri.”
“I got on?” Dean interrogates him. “I walked on?”
“Ye-ah…” the teenager says slowly. “What, you don’t remember?”
Dean doesn’t remember. The last thing he knew, he was in bed next to Sam. No, wait, he was having breakfast with Pastor Jim. And then… he thinks he remembers getting in his car?
What happened after that?
“You did look kind of wasted,” the kid continues. “Your friend had to help you out, but you were definitely awake. Tried talking to me for a little bit before you finally passed out. Man, you really don’t remember? How much did you have?”
Dean tries to think back, ignoring the bus driver as she orders him again to sit down. He remembers being in the car, and then feeling weird… Pastor Jim apologizing for something...
Fuck.
“Stop the bus!” he shouts, shoving past the teenager’s legs and stumbling down between the rows. “Stop!”
“Sit down!!” the bus driver hollers.
Dean doubles over and retches onto the carpet. One of the other passengers shrieks, and the driver swears colorfully. She pulls over onto the shoulder, opening up the doors to let the smell out, and Dean staggers off the bus, ignoring her protests.
There’s a cluster of cheap restaurants at an exit a half-mile down the road, and Dean makes his way to it as quickly as he can, stopping only once to vomit onto the asphalt.
The last thing he remembers, it was just past sunrise. Now the sun is hanging high in the sky, beating down on him in a sharp contrast to the chill of the bus. That means he’s lost five, maybe six hours?
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
Everything’s a blur and his head is pounding, like someone took the worst hangover he’s ever had and multiplied it by three. Dean’s not quite sure how he makes it to the parking lot or how he finds the car to boost. His limbs are weak, his hands fumbling on the lock, the wiring. The car bursts to life, and Dean presses his damp forehead tight against the steering wheel, willing himself not to be sick again.
He doesn’t have time to throw up. He doesn’t have time to panic.
He has to get back to Sam.
Chapter 54