Under the Bridge | 4/8

Nov 04, 2007 23:04



Part Three

--

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.”

--

Part Five
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