Fresh Fic part two

[teand]

Warnings and insecure author babbling in part one


Familiar Admonishments (part 2)

Over the next two weeks, school went from bad to worse as Dean gave up on even trying to alleviate his boredom and just fought to make it through to the end of the year. He could see freedom on the horizon, and he aimed all his attention toward it.

"Is everything all right at home, Dean?"

He had no idea why Ms. Henderson was asking. It wasn't like she fucking cared. I've had my father's blood on my hands, he thought. And I know my mother used to sing to me but I can't remember her voice. And my little brother just turned eleven and he'd already rather use a blade than a gun and that scares the shit out of me because blades take you in too close. And I know how to kill you, quick and quiet. But all he said was, "Everything's fine."

"Are you sure?"

He gave her a look like she was something they'd caught in a binding circle, and she stopped asking questions.

That afternoon on the way home, Sammy said he wanted to play on his school's soccer team.

"Why?"

"Some of the other guys in my class do."

Sammy tried hard to make friends. Dean couldn't understand why he bothered. "If some of the other guys in your class jumped off a bridge, would you?"

"Give me a break. That's so fucking lame."

Dean smacked the back of his head, palm of his hand cracking against the curve of his little brother's skull. "Don't let Dad hear you talk like that."

"That didn't even hurt," Sammy muttered, frowning. "Dean? About my birthday..."

Dean stumbled over a crack in the pavement. The night of Sam's birthday, his incompetence had kept him out of their room longer than usual. If Sam had woken up... "What about your birthday?"

"Nothing."

"Okay."

And a half a block further.

"Thank you."

This smack was softer, the closest he could come to a public caress. Hugging had been off the menu for almost a year. "You're welcome, jerk."

They had frozen fish and chips and canned peas for supper, and Sammy was getting ready for bed by the time their dad came home from the garage. He'd been sucking up to Stan and working all the extra time he could get at the garage, putting every extra dollar aside to help carry them through the long summer of hunting. Dean didn't exactly agree with his dad's idea of extra but since he'd discovered that the security camera at the grocery store was a fake they'd been eating a lot better and, since he wanted out of this shithole apartment in this shithole town as much as his dad did, he didn't say anything, just skimmed money off the grocery allowance for Sammy's new runners.

He didn't want to know how much of the extra was going to pay his dad's bar bill either.

He wasn't entirely surprised to wake up that night as his dad opened their bedroom door.

The smell of the whiskey made Dean afraid it was going to be the night of Sam's birthday all over again even though, as he stripped off his pajamas, he could see his dad's cock rising already hard up from the patch of dark curls. Determined to wipe the memory of his earlier failure clear, he bent his head and wrapped his mouth around heated skin pretty much the moment he hit the sofa bed. It was harder now it was hard - and he would have snickered at that except he had his mouth full. He felt a grip on his shoulder trying to pull him off, heard a whispered Dean, and then his mouth was filled with a nasty taste. He jerked up onto his heels to see his dad staring at him - shock and embarrassment about equal.

Wiping his mouth, and his cheek, and his chin, he said without thinking, "That was fast."

Embarrassment won. But before Dean could start to panic, afraid he'd made things worse, his dad smiled, chuckled, then started to laugh. Soon they were laughing so hard together they had to use the pillows to muffle the sound. Dean had no idea why the familiar admonishment...

"Shhh, Dean. You'll wake Sammy."

...was suddenly so funny. He didn't care. Things were cool with him and his dad and that was all that mattered.

Later when it was almost summer, he learned how to keep his teeth covered and relax the muscles of his throat, but only on nights when there'd been too much whiskey for his hand to be enough. And it was totally worth it for the look on his dad's face as, one big hand cupped around Dean's head, he fell apart as he came.

Sammy passed the seventh grade with straight A's. Dean passed. And put only as much effort into it as passing required.

Summer meant hunting and the Impala and hotel rooms and no privacy.

Lying in bed with Sammy's knee poking into his thigh and his breath hot and moist on the side of his neck, Dean stared at the red exit sign by the door and listened to his dad sleep. Four feet might as well be four miles. There was no way he'd roll over and rise up on his elbow and lift the sheet and beckon Dean over. Not with Sammy right there.

There were times, as the summer went on, that Dean knew his dad wanted it. Could see the need. And the fear. And the shame. But it always cycled back to the need.

Those times usually meant he'd be sent out running wind sprints or tested on how fast he could strip and reassemble the guns blindfolded. Would have helped a lot had Sammy been old enough to send out to run wind sprints but that wasn't how it went so Dean sucked up the extra training and tried not to think about how much he missed being held.

It was probably a good thing that hunting also meant no whiskey and his dad falling into bed exhausted more often than not because Dean knew he wouldn't have said no and Sammy... well, Sammy wouldn't have understood.

The last week in August found them joining Caleb at a cabin in the Oregon woods. Caleb had been hunting some kind of very territorial wood spirit that had claimed about two miles of popular hiking trail as well as a sizable chunk of national park and it had turned out to be more than he could take on alone. Unfortunately, he'd discovered that the hard way and the hikers he'd saved had in turn saved him from bleeding out.

"Dean and I can handle it."

Dean felt like bursting, he was that proud, so he elbowed Sammy who snorted and rolled his eyes.

"John..."

"He's strong, and he's fast, and he's a better shot than you are."

"And he's fifteen."

"He'll do what I say. Won't you, Dean?"

"Yes, sir."

Caleb didn't like it; Dean could see that in the way he looked at him, frowning. He squared his shoulders, conscious of the bulk he'd started to put on over the last couple of months, and tried to look like he was everything his dad said he was.

In the end, Caleb gave them the hunt. He had no choice really - Labor Day Weekend was coming up and the park would be filled with people desperate to hang on to the last bit of summer.

Dean sat at the table with the two men as they laid out the maps and worked on a plan of attack. He didn't say much, pretty sure they didn't want his opinion but he was there and that was the main thing. He was at the table, not on the sofa with Sammy reading a book. He was needed.

They set out the next morning just after sunrise.

"Take care of Caleb, Sammy. He needs to stay off that leg."

"Yes, sir." Hands lost in the arms of one of Dean's old sweaters, Sammy stood in the doorway and watched them until they were into the woods. Dean knew that because he stopped at the treeline, turned, and waved. And waited until Sammy waved back.

"Dean! Move your ass!"

"Yes, sir!"

The thing about wood spirits, they didn't care about night or day; it was all location, location, location. Dean didn't know why location had to be repeated three times but his dad had laughed when Caleb said it so three times it was. Probably part of a spell or something.

The trail swung around close to the cabin - that was why Caleb had rented it - and they had to work quickly before the thing realized they were there and attacked.

Dean would be the bait.

His dad hadn't liked it much but Caleb had sighed and said, "You're right, he's fast. And fast moving bait is likely to survive."

He had to keep the thing's attention on him while his dad closed the binding, and he had to stay out of its reach while his dad blew its leafy, green ass to shit.

And it almost worked that way.

It attacked. Dean dropped and rolled as his dad began to close the binding spell. It roared and tried to stomp him with a leg that looked like a moss covered tree trunk as it charged past him toward the greater threat. Damn thing wasn't as stupid as it looked.

Dean took a shot that blew its reaching arm - branch? - off what at passed for a shoulder. The fact it pulled a second right arm out from its body and whipped it around at him took him by surprise. The blow slammed him out of the binding circle and through a bunch of small trees. Or big bushes. Or something with a lot of little branches that hurt like fuck in a whole bunch of places.

At least he was clear of the debris field when it blew. Given the way sharp bits of wood went winging around inside the binding when the spirit animating all that greenery got its ass kicked back where it came from, that had to be a good thing.

Although his dad seemed to have missed that point when he got to him a moment later.

"Goddamn it, Dean! What part of 'stay out of its reach' did you not understand?!"

He would have answered, but he didn't get the chance as he was hauled to his feet and checked for injuries.

"That thing could have killed you! You can never make assumptions!"

As it became obvious he was only bruised, the handling became a little rougher.

"Suppose it hadn't just swatted you? Suppose it had stabbed at you! You'd be dead right now!"

Dean would have bitten off his tongue before admitting his dad's grip on his arms hurt but there were bruises rising under the new bruises being pushed into his flesh by clutching fingers and he couldn't stop the whimper.

His dad actually looked at him then. Really saw him. His grip loosened and above the line of whiskers, his cheeks paled. "You could have died."

"But I didn't."

"But you could have."

The look on his dad's face was scaring Dean more than facing that creature had, more than almost dying. He looked afraid, really, really afraid, and his dad wasn't supposed to be afraid of anything. His hand cupping Dean's face was actually trembling.

Heart pounding, Dean knew he had to do something -- anything - to get rid of that look and he could only think of one thing. He dropped to his knees, wincing as new bruises made themselves felt, and reached for his dad's fly.

"Dean..."

Just Dean. Not Dean no. Or Dean don't. And the hand on his head that could have stopped him just carded through his hair, once, twice, and then stilled. So he kept going.

It was different out in the woods.

They'd been running, fighting, and the smell of his dad was stronger as he nuzzled his face in through the wings of the open jeans. Stronger. Muskier. The air close to his skin warm and moist. He slipped the fingers of one hand in behind his dad's hardening cock and eased it out into his mouth.

It was light. They were doing this in the daylight, not hidden in the darkness. Something about that made it a thousand times more real. It was fast and a little sloppy and with every movement of his mouth or his hand, Dean tried to say, It's okay, I'm alive.

He heard the little whimper, felt strong fingers dig into his shoulders, and sucked harder, rocking back and forth with his whole body, concentrating, barely conscious of the zipper rubbing a line of pain against his cheek. He swallowed when it happened then stayed on his knees for a moment to catch his breath, his forehead resting against his father's stomach, ignoring the new bruises the grip on his shoulder was going to leave.

"Dean..."

Still on his knees, he looked up.

"Jesus, Dean."

His dad's thumb rubbed against spit-slick and swollen lips and without thinking, Dean opened his mouth under its gentle pressure. His dad's eyes widened even further, he made a sound almost like a sob, and snatched his hand back.

"Dad...?"

"We need to get back to the cabin."

Hauled suddenly up onto his feet, Dean staggered and would have fallen had some kind of skinny tree not been close enough for him to grab.

"For Christ's sake, Dean, your weapon's on the ground!"

He'd hung on to it through the attack and the landing until he'd dropped to his knees. "I..."

"No excuses. Pick it up and let's go."

"Yes, sir."

As Dean retrieved his weapon he decided he definitely liked beds better than woods. In a bed, they'd lie together, shoulder to shoulder, until his dad had his breathing back under control. Then a strong arm would pull him in close and strong fingers would strip an orgasm out of him as he bit at a pillow to keep from waking Sammy. Sure, sometimes his dad would fall asleep first, but given the hours he worked and the whiskey that was hardly surprising. Today, well, he'd barely been half hard so what the hell. And hikers could come along at any moment.

Not likely they'd understand what they were seeing.

He ducked under a spider's web.

And beds had a lot less nature going on.

The moment they cleared the trees, Sammy started forward to meet them -- although he waited at the edge of the property that came with the cabin. At the edge of the property they'd warded. Dean heard his dad murmur a quiet, "Good boy." when he noticed where Sammy had stopped.

"Well?" Sammy demanded when they were close enough.

Dean grinned. "We got it."

"Duh. Can I carry the backpack?"

Caleb was waiting for them on the cabin's tiny porch. "You get it?" he asked when they were close enough.

"Of course," Sammy snorted, lowering the backpack of left-over binding components, emergency first aid, and extra ammo carefully to the ground.

Dean didn't know what Caleb was frowning about. Maybe he didn't like that other Hunters had come in and got the kill. Maybe his leg was hurting him. He glanced up at his dad, saw his cheeks were flushed and he was looking anywhere but at the other man.

He looked up at Caleb only to find Caleb staring at him. "Are you all right, Dean?"

Dean snorted and moved to stand closer to his dad. "Piece of cake."

He had no idea what had gotten up Caleb's ass but the guy looked seriously pissed.

"A word, John..."

"Dean, take Sammy out to the range."

Caleb had set up a target on a couple of bails of straw out back of the cabin. While waiting for the Winchesters to arrive, he'd spent a few days sitting in a chair and slamming crossbow bolt after bolt into the center of the target. It wasn't exactly a range and, anyway, Dean had gone on the hunt, he should have his dad's back when Caleb blew. But all he said was, "Yes, sir. Come on, Sammy."

"Can I shoot the target?"

"Not unless your aim's improved."

"Jerk."

The range was just far enough away that even at the closest Dean could justify being to the cabin, he couldn't make out actual words. Even though both men were shouting.

"Dean, you've got a scratch on your cheek."

He touched the place where the zipper had rubbed.

"What?"

"What, what?"

Sammy rolled his eyes. "You had a stupid look on your face. And you look like you got smacked in the mouth."

His lips were still a bit swollen. "I took a hit from the thing, okay? And I've got about a bazillion bruises."

"Can I see them?"

"Sure." He shrugged out of his jean jacket and stripped off his t-shirt. "This is where it hit me." There was a red welt rising across his chest. "And this..." He twisted around and tried to peer at his own back. "...is where I hit a tree. And this..."

"This looks like fingers made it." Sammy reached up and laid his small hand gently against the purple marks on Dean's arm.

Fingers had made that. Those. Dean swallowed, tasting his dad, their dad, on the back of his tongue.

"And this looks like a fire truck. See, here's the front, and the wheels and this bit is the ladder." He poked a little too emphatically at Dean's side.

"Ow!"

When the back door of the cabin opened, Dean had Sammy pinned in the dirt and was trying to make him say uncle. Sammy, who'd picked up a couple of nasty tricks Dean didn't think he'd taught him, had been unusually hard to pin.

"Say it!"

"Bite me!"

"Boys!"

They froze and turned together.

"Get your things. We're leaving."

Dean couldn't remember ever having heard his dad so angry. He called out a quick, "Yes, sir!" then rocked back on his heels, stood and reached out a hand to his little brother, hauling him up onto his feet. "Wonder what happened," he said, shrugging back into his shirt.

Sammy scooped up his jacket and handed it over. "Dad's done something to really piss Caleb off."

"Dad's the one who's angry."

"Caleb was angry before." He shrugged at Dean's expression. "He wasn't hiding it so good when you were gone."

"He tell you what it was about?"

"I'm eleven," Sammy snorted. "No one tells me anything."

They shoved the little they'd unpacked back into their duffle bags - Dean checked Sammy's before he closed it -- and went out the front door. Their dad was standing by the open trunk of the Impala. Caleb was standing on the porch, arms crossed. The air between them felt like the air before a storm.

Sammy ran forward, yelling "Shotgun!" pounding down the three steps, his worn runners kicking up dust as he crossed to the car. His bare ankles were filthy and Dean made a mental note to throw him into a bathtub the moment they stopped for the night.

"Dean..."

He stopped. Turned. Caleb still sounded angry but he looked... almost sad.

"Have you ever said no to your father?"

"No, sir!" Was that the problem? Was Caleb mad because he'd taken a hit out in the woods? Did Caleb think he'd gotten hit because he'd done something stupid? Dean's brows drew in. "I know how to follow orders," he snarled. "I would never do anything to let my dad down."

Caleb's mouth twisted up into something that was too bitter to be a smile and, just for a moment, Dean was afraid of what he was going to say. But his mouth untwisted and the almost sad returned and all he said was, "You can come to me if you need to." A slight jerk of his head toward Sammy bouncing on the front seat. "Both of you can."

"Yes, sir."

"Dean! In the car, now!"

And something in Caleb's face or voice kept Dean from taking the time to haul Sammy out of the front seat. He just wanted to get away. Just wanted to get in the car and drive until it was just him and Dad and Sammy again. Because he wasn't a kid and he wasn't stupid and something in Caleb's face or voice said I can't prove anything and I don't want to believe it, but I know.

It was supposed to be just between him and his dad.

Four days later, they dropped Sammy with Pastor Jim and went off to check on what was probably a coyote killing household pets.

"Might not be," his dad growled as they pulled away from the church.

It was.

They spent the rest of that night in the car, together in the backseat, where hard hands were gentled, careful of bruises. And when it was over, Dean felt safer than he'd ever felt in his life. Nothing could touch him. Wrapped in warmth, listening to the beat of his father's heart slow, his chest actually ached with everything he was feeling.

They had no privacy for the last few days of summer. Then it was a new town, and new schools, and a new shithole apartment. It was up a flight of dark narrow stairs on the third floor over a Hungarian restaurant, and it smelled a bit like food Dean couldn't identify but it had two bedrooms so that was an improvement.

Not that it mattered. September came and went and that night in the backseat of the Impala remained the last night his dad had touched him. Like that.

He couldn't figure out what he'd done wrong. He was distracted enough that in the beginner's Latin class he'd taken so he could catch a nap first period after lunch, he forgot he wasn't supposed to actually be able to read the language and, over his protests, got bumped to the advanced class. The advanced teacher, Mrs. Bardley, was two years older than God and except for the lack of wings looked one fuck of a lot like a Harpy he'd taken a shot at back in July. She had a way of glaring at him that suggested he cut the shit and, reluctantly, he found himself liking her.

Which didn't help him stay awake in her class. He was sleeping only three or four hours a night, lying awake waiting for the door to open. Waiting to be wanted. What was his dad finding in the bottle alone that he used to find in him?

By late October, he couldn't stand it anymore. He waited until Sammy was asleep and snoring, climbed out of bed and walked quietly into the kitchen bare feet making no sound against the worn carpet.

His dad had his journal spread out over the table, but he was sitting, staring into a half empty bottle of Jack like there were answers written in the whiskey.

Dean reached the table without being acknowledged although he knew he'd been seen. Stood there for a moment. Finally said, "Dad?"

The dark eyes were bloodshot when they reluctantly met his.

Heart pounding, Dean took a deep breath. "Did you want to f... fuck me?" He stumbled a little over the word and his cheeks flushed darker with embarrassment. "Because you can."

The words hung between them for a moment.

"Oh God, Dean..."

The last time Dean had heard that much pain in his father's voice, he'd been four. Him and Dad and Sammy had all been huddled together, their house was burning, and his mother had just died.

The kitchen chair against the cheap linoleum made a sound like skin tearing, and then his dad was puking into the sink. Over and over and over until the sharp, bitter stink of bile filled the small kitchen.

Dean waited on the far side of the kitchen table. Waited, and watched, and held on as hard as he could to the memory of the backseat of the car and feeling safe.

"Go back to bed, Dean." An order not a request, punctuated by running water.

Dean stared at his father's back for a moment then did as he was told.

He walked Sammy home after school the next day then, with the car parked out front and his dad home early, kept walking, measuring the parameters of the town. The streetlights had come on and he was cold and tired and hungry when he finally climbed the stairs to the third floor, expecting anger, expecting at least to finally be seen.

Sammy was in bed and the whiskey bottle was out on the kitchen table, but all his dad said was, "There's soup in the pot."

It tasted burnt. He ate in silence. Washed the bowl and the pot and the spoon in silence.

"Dean." The edge of the bottle chimed against the glass although his dad's hand looked as steady as it always did. "We won't be... We won't..." A deep breath and a long, hard swallow that sounded like it ripped flesh off the inside of his dad's throat. "You and I, we won't be doing that any more."

He wasn't surprised. Although he wanted to ask why, although he wanted to ask what he'd done wrong, although he wanted to know if this meant he wasn't loved, if he wasn't needed, he bit the words off because he hadn't been a kid and he hadn't been stupid and his father had taught him to take responsibility for his choices and he'd been the one who'd allowed this to happen. No one had forced him. He managed to force a fairly believable, "Yes, sir." out from behind the iron bands locked tight around his chest, then he turned and headed for the bedroom.

"Dean."

"I'm going to check on Sammy." The one sure thing that would get him out of the room. He paused, one hand on the door knob, and he turned in time to see his father pour himself another shot. "I don't regret it," he said. "I won't regret it."

The glass rose. Amber liquid caught the light. "Then I'll regret it enough for both of us."

That was the last bottle of whiskey Dean ever saw in his father's hand. He stuck to beer after that like maybe he was worried Dean'd take advantage of him if he got drunk. Since Dean wasn't sure he wouldn't, it was probably a good thing.

The moment he turned sixteen, he got his driver's license. It was all he could do not to laugh at the pissant test and when the guy from the DMV asked him what was so funny, he almost said, "Try driving when you're barely tall enough to reach the pedals and your dad's bleeding out in the backseat and your little brother is screaming about faces in the smoke, and then get back to me about turning your wheels when you park on a hill, you fucking pussy."

He wasted no time in finding warm and willing bodies to make new memories in the Impala's backseat and, as long as it didn't interfere with his training or with the hunt, and as long as he gassed up the car and cleaned up after himself, he was allowed to do what he wanted.

He tried to deliberately fail advanced Latin but Mrs. Bardley cornered his dad at the garage and he finished the year with one A, a shitload of C's and a smile that could charm the panties off of any girl he pointed it at. And maybe that was because he tended to point it toward those girls likely to be charmed. If they weren't willing to sleep with him, they didn't really care about him, right?

Every chance he got, he picked Sammy up in the car just to see his eyes light up and the way he almost strutted to the passenger door. For his twelfth birthday, he drove him to a gigantic mall on the edge of the next town and the two of them spent the day together just hanging out, eating crap, and mocking the so-called normal people.

That summer, Dean spent less time angling to go on hunts with his dad and more time working on Sammy's training. He liked the way Sammy'd listen to him even when he wouldn't listen to anyone else. It made him feel needed.

Senior year of high school, Dean gathered a group of misfits around him and reminded the place of what cool meant. The girls giggled and the boys swaggered and Sammy got a solid smack on the head when he muttered, "Please. You're not fucking James Dean." But he forgot their names the moment he slid into the front seat of the Impala, flashed a grin at Sammy barricaded in among the odds and ends that hadn't fit in the trunk with the weapons, and his family pulled out of yet another shithole town.

The hunt wore the edges off between him and his dad that summer, and the year he was fifteen -those seven months while he was fifteen -- became nothing more than memory. He knew he was needed - to watch his dad's back, to train Sammy - he didn't need to feel safe, he was Dean Winchester.

Life became a mix of willing bodies and dead bodies and that was fine with Dean. Life was good and, most days, his biggest challenge was keeping his father and his little brother from killing each other. Too God damned much alike, that was their problem.

And then Sam - taller than him now, hair in his eyes, and vehemently no longer Sammy - announced he was going away to college.

"If you go, you never come back!"

Dean felt the world stop, just for a moment. He stared at his dad while the words hung in the air. Felt the world start up again when the door slammed. Knew it was a different world.

That night, Sam murmured just loudly enough to be heard over the grinding roar of the ancient air conditioner, "You could come with me."

His family was flying apart around him and, fuck, he suddenly missed being fifteen and knowing what it was to feel safe. "I can't," he said at last, fingers locked together to keep from reaching out, to keep from brushing them through the soft fall of Sam's hair. "You're... You can... Dad needs me."

The next morning, he drove Sam to the bus station and shoved one hundred and sixty-three dollars in his jacket pocket - all the cash he had. He must have said something, he must have said goodbye and be careful but as the bus drove away all he could hear was his own voice whispering, Shhh Sammy, you'll wake Dad. And he couldn't ever allow it to come to that. Wouldn't let himself seek the safety he craved, the surety he'd known that year, in the flesh of his little brother.

He didn't blame his dad for the whiskey over the next few days. He emptied a bottle or two himself.

But then life went on.

Hell, if there was one thing a Winchester learned early was that life went on, regardless.

Dean threw himself into the hunt, nearly matching his father's obsession. Where nearly meant there was no way in hell, and he pretty much meant that literally, that he was matching the whole celibate warrior monk shit. Enthusiastically indiscriminating was his middle name. No one got hurt, no one expected more than a couple of hours, everyone was happy. He hadn't had any complaints anyway.

An unexpected romantic interlude ended badly enough it wasn't likely to happen again; some guys just weren't cut out for romance. All things considered, he should have known that going in.

Once or twice, when he was in the neighborhood, and the neighborhood could be roughly defined by a hundred or so mile circumference, he might have driven through Stanford. He'd spent a lifetime walking Sammy home from school, it was a hard habit to break.

As each piece of darkness had its ass kicked back into hell, it was almost enough. It was purpose. It was making a difference. It was more than most people had.

"Dad's missing."

Him and Sammy. Sam. The family business. Hunting evil, protecting people. And the weird thing was, even with all the uncertainty about their father, even with the four lost years between him and his brother cropping up at the stupidest moments, Dean was happy. Really happy. Happy the way he remembered being...

...until a demon wearing his father's face pinned him against a wall, pinned him with power and with flesh, leaned forward and said, "He remembers your mouth. He longs for your mouth; your sweet, cocksucking lips. Your body moving against his. Your hands stripping the pleasure from him. His hands taking so many firsts from you, cheating you of the firsts you should have had. Do you remember, Dean?"

He didn't remember it like that.

Power twisted and Dean felt something tear inside. As the scream bubbled up in his throat, gouging new lies of pain into abraded tissue, the demon with his father's face glanced across the room to where his brother watched with horrified eyes then leaned closer still and whispered, his tone a parody of loving concern, "Shhh, Dean. You'll wake Sammy."

--end--