Under the Bridge | 5/8

[rei_c]

Part Four

--

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.

--

Part Six