Mockingbird [11/13]
Nearing the end, now, folks.
Rating: R
Pairing: Sam/John
Word Count: ~1,300
Disclaimer: Lies, Theft and Deceit.
Warnings: Daddycest. AU beyond belief.
Spoilers: Devil's Trap and beyond.
Summary: A moment of peace before the storm.
Part I
Part X
+++
Mockingbird
Chapter XI
+++
So snuggle up and hold me tight,
And dream sweet dreams all through the night.
+++
John cast a look of out the window to where Sammy sat on the porch, dozing in the warm sunlight. He had taken his shirt off and the shadows cast uneven patched of light and dark all over his tanned skin. He was beautiful like that, quiet and content, and it was easy to forget that just last night, he had terrified John. He had been terrified of John. The man figured it was probably a consequence of coming back from a not-quite-possession to find his father yelling at him, but it had taken him forever to coax Sam into relaxing. Even now, in the early morning sunshine, Sam was skittish and uncertain in a way that John couldn’t quite wrap his mind around.
He set down the cheap motel coffee pot and took a sip. Frowning at the distinct taste of plastic, he looked up just in time to see a butterfly flutter across the patio and narrowly avoid Sam’s nose. The boy laughed, startled. The insect settled down on the warm boards and they both watched it lift and lower its wings as though it was pulsing.
John took his coffee and quietly crept out the door. He answered Sam’s welcoming smile with one of his own, set the mug down and lowered himself to the ground next to the butterfly. He reached over slowly with his fingers spread and made to carefully cage it, to Sam’s dismay.
“No, Dad!” he protested, trying to bat John’s hand away. “Don’t! You’ll kill it!”
John pushed his fingers aside. “Shush, Sam. I won’t hurt it, trust me.” He tightened his fingers under Sam’s disbelieving gaze, just far enough to make sure it didn’t get away, but not nearly far enough to do damage. He lifted his hand for Sam to see. When his son leaned in close he opened his fingers without warning, watching the small wings brush Sam’s cheek before the boy drew back, startled.
Sam laughed, a delighted, little-boy giggle. John couldn’t fight a smile himself. He tucked Sam’s bangs behind his ear and leaned forward to press a soft, sweet kiss to his lips. He drew back to find Sam looking at him with wonder in his eyes, a little like he used to do when he was still a toddler, and brushed his thumb over his son’s cheekbones.
“We’ll be fine,” he said softly. Sam blinked at him, soft and curious, and John smiled. “We’ll be just fine.”
+++
They were in the middle of a studio somewhere in L.A., chasing after some idiot who didn’t know enough not to meddle with incantations but enough to cause some serious damage, when somehow, from one second to the next, the guy had Sam grasped by the air. It only took a few seconds before Sam collected himself and rammed his elbow into the guy’s solar plexus, losing a few strands of hair in the process, but his pained cry still stayed with John. Stayed with him when he poked his shotgun into the man’s belly. Stayed with him even after he had bundled Sam up and put him in his truck. He still heard it echoing in his ears when he brushed his teeth in front of the sink after dinner.
When a red-faced Sam emerged from the shower, not bothering to cover himself up with a towel, John had made up his mind. “We’re cutting your hair,” he declared.
Sam’s pleased half-grin was immediately replaced by a stubborn frown. “I won’t let you,” he said.
With practiced ease, John tangled his hand in the boy’s hair, yanked him to the ground and pressed his knee into Sam’s sternum. “I said,” he repeated calmly, “we are cutting your hair.”
+++
John dried his face and hair with a towel and cast a surveying look over the bathroom counters and floor for the last traces of Sam’s long curls before he flicked the light switch. He opened the door and stopped, caught completely off guard by the sight of Sam kneeling by the side of the bed, his fingers clasped together and his forehead resting on his hands. It took John a little while to make out the words he was muttering, but when he did, he couldn’t help but smile at his kid, his child.
“I didn’t know you prayed,” he said, brushing his hand along Sam’s temple as soon as he was in reach, as if there was still hair there for him to tuck back.
“I do,” Sam said quietly. He waited for John to lay down on the bed before he did the same and rested his head against John’s shoulder.
“You believe in God?” John asked him, only half serious.
“No,” his son sighed. “Not really.”
He twisted his head around to look at John who planted a quick kiss on his lips. Sam blinked at him, expression so thoughtful that John almost asked what was wrong, then he raised himself up on one elbow. “Dad…” he began hesitantly.
John reached up and ran the palm of his hand over Sam’s closely-cropped hair. “What is it, Sammy?” he asked.
“I’m not Dean,” his son said quickly. “I won’t ever be Dean.”
Frowning, John draped an arm over his chest. “I know that, Sammy,” he said.
“Then why..?” Sam began. He sighed and ran his fingers through his new crew cut. “Why are you trying to turn me into him?”
He flinched back when John raised himself up on one elbow. “I’m not,” John said. Slowly, carefully, he leaned down and pressed a kiss to the skin just to the left of Sam’s belly button. “You’re my boy. I would never want you to be anybody else, Dean or otherwise.”
His cheeks burned with the lie, so he kissed Sam’s stomach again, and again. He grinned when Sam grunted and shifted his legs.
“Not anybody else,” he said again. He eased Sam’s thighs apart and settled between them. Sam handed him the packet of lube, a fine flush already spreading over his face. John uncapped it and slicked his fingers, pushing the packet off the side of the bed - they’d need more, soon - and grinning at the boy who watched him with half-lidded eyes.
A few angled thrusts with his fingers, an almost angry “I’m ready, come on-“ from Sam, and then they were rocking together. Sam wrapped his legs around John’s hips, clawed scratches into his shoulders, muffled his moan in the shirt John was still wearing.
It was angry and it was painful, probably for both of them, but at least it wasn’t a lie.
+++
When John woke, it was to find golden sunlight filtering in through the blinds. He yawned and stretched, absently reaching out to pull Sam closer, but his searching fingers encountered only air and cooling sheets. He blinked and sat up, but his son was not in the bed or by the table. The bathroom door was halfway open, the lights off. Their research was still on the table where he had left it, an unorganized mess of newspaper clippings, photocopied books and charts that made sense to no one but himself. The shotgun rested in the corner. Even the colt with its single bullet was still there, resting calmly in its wooden case on top of John’s neatly folded white t-shirts.
All of his things were there, but Sam was gone.
+++
Chapter XII
Feedback is a writer's best friend!
Rating: R
Pairing: Sam/John
Word Count: ~1,300
Disclaimer: Lies, Theft and Deceit.
Warnings: Daddycest. AU beyond belief.
Spoilers: Devil's Trap and beyond.
Summary: A moment of peace before the storm.
Part I
Part X
+++
Mockingbird
Chapter XI
+++
So snuggle up and hold me tight,
And dream sweet dreams all through the night.
+++
John cast a look of out the window to where Sammy sat on the porch, dozing in the warm sunlight. He had taken his shirt off and the shadows cast uneven patched of light and dark all over his tanned skin. He was beautiful like that, quiet and content, and it was easy to forget that just last night, he had terrified John. He had been terrified of John. The man figured it was probably a consequence of coming back from a not-quite-possession to find his father yelling at him, but it had taken him forever to coax Sam into relaxing. Even now, in the early morning sunshine, Sam was skittish and uncertain in a way that John couldn’t quite wrap his mind around.
He set down the cheap motel coffee pot and took a sip. Frowning at the distinct taste of plastic, he looked up just in time to see a butterfly flutter across the patio and narrowly avoid Sam’s nose. The boy laughed, startled. The insect settled down on the warm boards and they both watched it lift and lower its wings as though it was pulsing.
John took his coffee and quietly crept out the door. He answered Sam’s welcoming smile with one of his own, set the mug down and lowered himself to the ground next to the butterfly. He reached over slowly with his fingers spread and made to carefully cage it, to Sam’s dismay.
“No, Dad!” he protested, trying to bat John’s hand away. “Don’t! You’ll kill it!”
John pushed his fingers aside. “Shush, Sam. I won’t hurt it, trust me.” He tightened his fingers under Sam’s disbelieving gaze, just far enough to make sure it didn’t get away, but not nearly far enough to do damage. He lifted his hand for Sam to see. When his son leaned in close he opened his fingers without warning, watching the small wings brush Sam’s cheek before the boy drew back, startled.
Sam laughed, a delighted, little-boy giggle. John couldn’t fight a smile himself. He tucked Sam’s bangs behind his ear and leaned forward to press a soft, sweet kiss to his lips. He drew back to find Sam looking at him with wonder in his eyes, a little like he used to do when he was still a toddler, and brushed his thumb over his son’s cheekbones.
“We’ll be fine,” he said softly. Sam blinked at him, soft and curious, and John smiled. “We’ll be just fine.”
+++
They were in the middle of a studio somewhere in L.A., chasing after some idiot who didn’t know enough not to meddle with incantations but enough to cause some serious damage, when somehow, from one second to the next, the guy had Sam grasped by the air. It only took a few seconds before Sam collected himself and rammed his elbow into the guy’s solar plexus, losing a few strands of hair in the process, but his pained cry still stayed with John. Stayed with him when he poked his shotgun into the man’s belly. Stayed with him even after he had bundled Sam up and put him in his truck. He still heard it echoing in his ears when he brushed his teeth in front of the sink after dinner.
When a red-faced Sam emerged from the shower, not bothering to cover himself up with a towel, John had made up his mind. “We’re cutting your hair,” he declared.
Sam’s pleased half-grin was immediately replaced by a stubborn frown. “I won’t let you,” he said.
With practiced ease, John tangled his hand in the boy’s hair, yanked him to the ground and pressed his knee into Sam’s sternum. “I said,” he repeated calmly, “we are cutting your hair.”
+++
John dried his face and hair with a towel and cast a surveying look over the bathroom counters and floor for the last traces of Sam’s long curls before he flicked the light switch. He opened the door and stopped, caught completely off guard by the sight of Sam kneeling by the side of the bed, his fingers clasped together and his forehead resting on his hands. It took John a little while to make out the words he was muttering, but when he did, he couldn’t help but smile at his kid, his child.
“I didn’t know you prayed,” he said, brushing his hand along Sam’s temple as soon as he was in reach, as if there was still hair there for him to tuck back.
“I do,” Sam said quietly. He waited for John to lay down on the bed before he did the same and rested his head against John’s shoulder.
“You believe in God?” John asked him, only half serious.
“No,” his son sighed. “Not really.”
He twisted his head around to look at John who planted a quick kiss on his lips. Sam blinked at him, expression so thoughtful that John almost asked what was wrong, then he raised himself up on one elbow. “Dad…” he began hesitantly.
John reached up and ran the palm of his hand over Sam’s closely-cropped hair. “What is it, Sammy?” he asked.
“I’m not Dean,” his son said quickly. “I won’t ever be Dean.”
Frowning, John draped an arm over his chest. “I know that, Sammy,” he said.
“Then why..?” Sam began. He sighed and ran his fingers through his new crew cut. “Why are you trying to turn me into him?”
He flinched back when John raised himself up on one elbow. “I’m not,” John said. Slowly, carefully, he leaned down and pressed a kiss to the skin just to the left of Sam’s belly button. “You’re my boy. I would never want you to be anybody else, Dean or otherwise.”
His cheeks burned with the lie, so he kissed Sam’s stomach again, and again. He grinned when Sam grunted and shifted his legs.
“Not anybody else,” he said again. He eased Sam’s thighs apart and settled between them. Sam handed him the packet of lube, a fine flush already spreading over his face. John uncapped it and slicked his fingers, pushing the packet off the side of the bed - they’d need more, soon - and grinning at the boy who watched him with half-lidded eyes.
A few angled thrusts with his fingers, an almost angry “I’m ready, come on-“ from Sam, and then they were rocking together. Sam wrapped his legs around John’s hips, clawed scratches into his shoulders, muffled his moan in the shirt John was still wearing.
It was angry and it was painful, probably for both of them, but at least it wasn’t a lie.
+++
When John woke, it was to find golden sunlight filtering in through the blinds. He yawned and stretched, absently reaching out to pull Sam closer, but his searching fingers encountered only air and cooling sheets. He blinked and sat up, but his son was not in the bed or by the table. The bathroom door was halfway open, the lights off. Their research was still on the table where he had left it, an unorganized mess of newspaper clippings, photocopied books and charts that made sense to no one but himself. The shotgun rested in the corner. Even the colt with its single bullet was still there, resting calmly in its wooden case on top of John’s neatly folded white t-shirts.
All of his things were there, but Sam was gone.
+++
Chapter XII
Feedback is a writer's best friend!