Mockingbird [5/?]
Fic! More fic! Pepper spends time designated for homework on boy-sexxin', and isn't that the best excuse for procrastinating around? ^_^
Rating: R
Pairing: Sam/John
Word Count: ~2,100
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Warnings: Daddycest (for real this time), spanking (also for real this time) and character death (got that for you too).
Spoilers: Devil's Trap and beyond
Summary: Leaving stubborn boys at home while going to hunt is never a good idea.
Part I
Part IV
Mockingbird
Chapter V
+++
If that diamond ring turns brass,
I’m gonna buy you a looking glass
+++
The air was crisp and cool around him as John closed the door to the truck as silently as possible. He took in the farmhouse, treacherously well-kept considering it was supposed to be abandoned, and shared a look with Walker. They passed a nod, and Walker inclined a hand toward the door.
You do the honors.
John nodded, steeled himself, and threw himself forward. It was a dance, and the hunter John Winchester knew the moves perfectly.
Sweeping arms, weapon gripped tight, steps quiet and quick because fangs had damn good ears. One step, two. Going in high if Walker went low, stooping if he stood, pirouettes to glance into corners and behind doors. He fell back into the rhythm of working with a partner sooner than he liked to admit - quick glances, nods, the silent I got your back. Covering ground in matching strides, pressed against doorframes. Raised fist - wait; a crooked victory sign - two of them.
The heartbeat thrumming in his ears drowned out everything as John took center stage. One, two strides, raise the machete high.
Both fangs turned at his steps, the male screamed; “Lenora!”
The word filled John’s mind as his arm fell in deadly precision with the beat.
Blood splattered across the stage and John turned, another step, towards the other creature, vaguely aware of Walker in his peripheral vision, arm raised.
And then Sam barreled into him from the side with a yelled “Dad, don’t!”
John blinked, stared.
The fang bolted. Walker tore after him, his heavy steps no longer rhythm but a harsh disturbance in John’s ears.
“Sam, what the fuck are you doing?” he roared, letting the machete drop to his side even if he was seriously tempted to give his son a solid smack with it, “I nearly took your head off!”
Sam swallowed, pale, and stared at the tips of his boots, visibly retreating into safe silence.
John gripped his shoulder painfully hard, having transferred his blade to his left, and gave him a harsh shake.
“Nuh-uh,” he growled, “you’re not getting off that easy.”
Clanging steps heralded Walker’s return, his dark face contorted with fury.
“It’s gone,” he reported with ice in his voice.
John turned to his son with deadly calm.
“Sam? Enlighten us.”
Sam swallowed, mumbled something.
“You figured it out?” John repeated, eyebrows arched, “Figured what out?”
“They’re not killing anyone,” Sam said, voice growing bolder as he spoke even though his eyes never left the floor, “The cattle mutilations, that’s them. I checked. There’s not a single person gone missing in this area in over three years. Not one.”
He finally did raise his head, not even acknowledging Walker as he turned to face his father completely.
“They’re not killing people, so we don’t have a right to kill them.”
“What!?” Walker roared, grabbing for Sam’s throat with one hand, knife in the other.
He never even touched the boy. John gave Sam an icy look as he knelt to wipe the blood off the blade with Walker’s shirt. He’d been a good hunter, yes, but John was the only one to lay a finger on his boys.
Sam stood stock still with large eyes; blood on his jeans, his jacket, his face. John took his arm.
“And that’s why you God damn obey me, Sam,” he snarled, “Is that clear?”
He was damn glad when Sam just nodded.
+++
He left Walker and the car Sam had stolen where they were, breaking his stride only to make sure the boy had thought to wear gloves while driving. He seated his son in the truck, even though he could feel some resistance now, and treated every fidget with an icy glare. The ride to the motel seemed to take forever, while Sam stared at his hands and John every so often would crane his neck around because he was sure he had heard sirens.
John eased the car into the parking lot with a quiet sigh of relief. Sam felt something hot and angry spread through his stomach at the sound; it wasn’t like he had offed Walker, this wasn’t his fault. He had just done what was right, and of course his father somehow managed to turn it all into a Grade-A nightmare. And with the over-protectiveness again, now that he was an adult and didn’t need it anymore.
He jerked out of John’s grasp as the man tried to pull him out of the truck and to the door, returned the death glare with a glower of his own. He stalked into the hotel room, didn’t even notice his father had stopped moving until his quiet voice reached Sam’s ears.
“Take off your belt.”
Sam froze as his anger vanished like someone had flicked a switch. Cold, dark dread filled him instead, flooded through his veins and into his intestines. He couldn’t - could he?
It wasn’t that he was strangers with his father’s belt - saying ‘no’ to John Winchester virtually made that an impossibility - but it had been years. Not nearly long enough, but still a long time.
“What?” he whispered.
John gave him a dark glare in response.
“You heard me.”
Sam swallowed heavily, the sound loud and unnatural in the silence.
“Dad-“
“Now, Sam.”
His father’s voice was low and deadly, not the usual pissed-off tone but the dangerous one that even after all these years, Sam couldn’t not obey.
“But Dad,“ he tried again even as his hands scrambled to oblige without intent or permission.
A stern glower silenced him and he slid the leather free and handed it over, his brain seeming to have shut off all coherent thought. He managed something along the lines of This can’t be happening, but couldn’t quite get his body to resist as John dragged the jacket off his shoulders and shoved him onto his knees and over the bed.
“Dad-“
The sharp thwack of leather turned the word into a yelp as pain exploded across his ass. He didn’t have time to catch his breath as a barrage of blows came raining down, layered and hard and fast. Sam was sure that this was what losing his mind would feel like, he couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t remember it ever being so painful even as he tasted blood where his teeth dug into his lip. He couldn’t have said what his hands were doing, just that he was gasping and whimpering and trying hard not to scream out again.
For a moment, he didn’t even realize the belt was no longer coming down, buried his face in his elbow, blinked the threatening tears away. He gasped into his sleeve as a large hand wrapped itself around his arm, pulled him off the bed.
His father sat down, jerked him forward by his belt loops, roughly threading the strip of leather back into place.
He didn’t raise his head, focused more intently than necessary on the task at hand, each moving jerking Sam’s hips forward as Sam held his sweater out of the way out of sheer habit.
When his father reached for his shoulder, however, to draw him down on the bed, he nearly tripped over his own feet as he jerked away.
He held up his hands in defense, kept his eyes lowered.
“Just… Don’t touch me right now, okay?”
“Sure, bud.”
John drew his hand back and slipped his game face on, pretending that the rejection didn’t sting. Sam met his eyes for a moment, little-boy hurt openly visible on his face, before he spun on his heel, grabbed a jacket and slammed the door shut behind him.
+++
It was several hours later and noticeably chilly when Sam returned to the motel, hesitated in front of the door to their room. He was aware he had been pouting (even if he didn’t quite acknowledge the fact), but he felt like he hadn’t had a moment to stop, take a deep breath and actually think in about a lifetime. Maybe he could have chosen better circumstances than in the middle of the night, still covered in blood, but then Sam had never claimed to be rational when it came to his Dad.
He had scrubbed his face with his hands as best he could, stayed in the shadows. The jacket - his father’s jacket, ironically, which he had grabbed by accident - had done to cover most of the stains. No reason to think there would be a cop car showing up around here soon.
He heaved a sigh, reached down to turn the handle. It gave, and Sam frowned at it. His father was up, then, waiting for him. He didn’t know why he had expected anything different.
He eased the door open, tried not to sigh as John looked up from where he was sitting on the bed. Still sitting on the bed. He looked like he hadn’t moved at all. Sam couldn’t bring himself to say something, closed the door behind him and turned to the window. Could feel his father’s eyes boring into his back.
“You’re quiet,” he said softly.
Sam spun around.
“You don’t get to just waltz back into my life and be Dad again,” he said, eyes shining unnaturally bright.
Now he starts crying, John thought wryly.
“I’m not,” he said, slowly, letting the words roll of his tongue, “I’m not. I’m always Dad. Maybe I’m a horrible one, but I’ve always been Dad and I always will be.”
An awful, painful smile forced its way onto Sam’s face as the boy nodded.
“Yeah. I know.”
John shook his head, gestured awkwardly.
“I just… Can we-? Please.”
Sam stared at him, at his father sitting there on the bed and looking so god damn helpless that it sent shivers down Sam’s spine. He crossed over to him in two large strides, sliding onto the bed in the least painful way possible.
There was a moment of silence while neither of them moved, before John gestured uncertainly with one hand and Sam lifted his arm and then he was suddenly in his father’s arms, clinging tightly and feeling incredibly small despite his size.
John threaded his fingers loosely through the dark strands of hair, rubbed his neck, whispered words that Winchesters didn’t believe in with his lips right next to Sam’s ear.
He wasn’t sure when the caress had stopped being comforting and turned into something... else, but it had and he knew it and from the way Sam was suddenly still and hesitant in his arms, his son knew it too.
“This is weird,” he heard Sam mutter and couldn’t agree more. He lifted the boy off him, stared at him as his son stared back.
“Dad,” Sam breathed.
Their mouths clashed together like two meteors thrown off the beaten path.
There was no right, no finally, just friction and heat as they wrapped themselves around each other, fingers clinging in hair and fabric, jerking and pulling and trying to climb into one another.
It could have been seconds or hours when they broke apart, breathless and panting against skin, when his father untangled his hands from Sam’s hair and took his arms. John guided him upright, carefully balancing him like an expensive vase before he slumped onto his back.
“Oh God, I’m a perverted old freak.”
“Yeah,” Sam said with a dismissive wave of his hand, “But we already knew that.”
“You watch what you’re saying, boy,” John retorted without any real conviction.
Sam snorted and reached for his shoulder to pull him back up.
“Sammy,” John whispered, almost whimpering at Sam’s hot breath against his neck, his ear.
“I know,” the boy whispered, breath damp through the fabric of John’s shirt, “But it’s kinda nice, too.”
His lips were soft, slightly sticky and perfect. John couldn’t help but reach into that too-long hair, tug him a little closer, and Sam couldn’t help but go with it, couldn’t help leaning forward as he followed John’s lips.
Here he was, half in his father’s lap with the man’s tongue in his mouth, wrapped in the pain of a recent beating and a building headache, covered in the blood of a man they’d murdered. If they had been anything but Winchesters, it would have probably struck him as odd.
+++
Chapter VI
Feedback? Pretty please?
Rating: R
Pairing: Sam/John
Word Count: ~2,100
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Warnings: Daddycest (for real this time), spanking (also for real this time) and character death (got that for you too).
Spoilers: Devil's Trap and beyond
Summary: Leaving stubborn boys at home while going to hunt is never a good idea.
Part I
Part IV
Mockingbird
Chapter V
+++
If that diamond ring turns brass,
I’m gonna buy you a looking glass
+++
The air was crisp and cool around him as John closed the door to the truck as silently as possible. He took in the farmhouse, treacherously well-kept considering it was supposed to be abandoned, and shared a look with Walker. They passed a nod, and Walker inclined a hand toward the door.
You do the honors.
John nodded, steeled himself, and threw himself forward. It was a dance, and the hunter John Winchester knew the moves perfectly.
Sweeping arms, weapon gripped tight, steps quiet and quick because fangs had damn good ears. One step, two. Going in high if Walker went low, stooping if he stood, pirouettes to glance into corners and behind doors. He fell back into the rhythm of working with a partner sooner than he liked to admit - quick glances, nods, the silent I got your back. Covering ground in matching strides, pressed against doorframes. Raised fist - wait; a crooked victory sign - two of them.
The heartbeat thrumming in his ears drowned out everything as John took center stage. One, two strides, raise the machete high.
Both fangs turned at his steps, the male screamed; “Lenora!”
The word filled John’s mind as his arm fell in deadly precision with the beat.
Blood splattered across the stage and John turned, another step, towards the other creature, vaguely aware of Walker in his peripheral vision, arm raised.
And then Sam barreled into him from the side with a yelled “Dad, don’t!”
John blinked, stared.
The fang bolted. Walker tore after him, his heavy steps no longer rhythm but a harsh disturbance in John’s ears.
“Sam, what the fuck are you doing?” he roared, letting the machete drop to his side even if he was seriously tempted to give his son a solid smack with it, “I nearly took your head off!”
Sam swallowed, pale, and stared at the tips of his boots, visibly retreating into safe silence.
John gripped his shoulder painfully hard, having transferred his blade to his left, and gave him a harsh shake.
“Nuh-uh,” he growled, “you’re not getting off that easy.”
Clanging steps heralded Walker’s return, his dark face contorted with fury.
“It’s gone,” he reported with ice in his voice.
John turned to his son with deadly calm.
“Sam? Enlighten us.”
Sam swallowed, mumbled something.
“You figured it out?” John repeated, eyebrows arched, “Figured what out?”
“They’re not killing anyone,” Sam said, voice growing bolder as he spoke even though his eyes never left the floor, “The cattle mutilations, that’s them. I checked. There’s not a single person gone missing in this area in over three years. Not one.”
He finally did raise his head, not even acknowledging Walker as he turned to face his father completely.
“They’re not killing people, so we don’t have a right to kill them.”
“What!?” Walker roared, grabbing for Sam’s throat with one hand, knife in the other.
He never even touched the boy. John gave Sam an icy look as he knelt to wipe the blood off the blade with Walker’s shirt. He’d been a good hunter, yes, but John was the only one to lay a finger on his boys.
Sam stood stock still with large eyes; blood on his jeans, his jacket, his face. John took his arm.
“And that’s why you God damn obey me, Sam,” he snarled, “Is that clear?”
He was damn glad when Sam just nodded.
+++
He left Walker and the car Sam had stolen where they were, breaking his stride only to make sure the boy had thought to wear gloves while driving. He seated his son in the truck, even though he could feel some resistance now, and treated every fidget with an icy glare. The ride to the motel seemed to take forever, while Sam stared at his hands and John every so often would crane his neck around because he was sure he had heard sirens.
John eased the car into the parking lot with a quiet sigh of relief. Sam felt something hot and angry spread through his stomach at the sound; it wasn’t like he had offed Walker, this wasn’t his fault. He had just done what was right, and of course his father somehow managed to turn it all into a Grade-A nightmare. And with the over-protectiveness again, now that he was an adult and didn’t need it anymore.
He jerked out of John’s grasp as the man tried to pull him out of the truck and to the door, returned the death glare with a glower of his own. He stalked into the hotel room, didn’t even notice his father had stopped moving until his quiet voice reached Sam’s ears.
“Take off your belt.”
Sam froze as his anger vanished like someone had flicked a switch. Cold, dark dread filled him instead, flooded through his veins and into his intestines. He couldn’t - could he?
It wasn’t that he was strangers with his father’s belt - saying ‘no’ to John Winchester virtually made that an impossibility - but it had been years. Not nearly long enough, but still a long time.
“What?” he whispered.
John gave him a dark glare in response.
“You heard me.”
Sam swallowed heavily, the sound loud and unnatural in the silence.
“Dad-“
“Now, Sam.”
His father’s voice was low and deadly, not the usual pissed-off tone but the dangerous one that even after all these years, Sam couldn’t not obey.
“But Dad,“ he tried again even as his hands scrambled to oblige without intent or permission.
A stern glower silenced him and he slid the leather free and handed it over, his brain seeming to have shut off all coherent thought. He managed something along the lines of This can’t be happening, but couldn’t quite get his body to resist as John dragged the jacket off his shoulders and shoved him onto his knees and over the bed.
“Dad-“
The sharp thwack of leather turned the word into a yelp as pain exploded across his ass. He didn’t have time to catch his breath as a barrage of blows came raining down, layered and hard and fast. Sam was sure that this was what losing his mind would feel like, he couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t remember it ever being so painful even as he tasted blood where his teeth dug into his lip. He couldn’t have said what his hands were doing, just that he was gasping and whimpering and trying hard not to scream out again.
For a moment, he didn’t even realize the belt was no longer coming down, buried his face in his elbow, blinked the threatening tears away. He gasped into his sleeve as a large hand wrapped itself around his arm, pulled him off the bed.
His father sat down, jerked him forward by his belt loops, roughly threading the strip of leather back into place.
He didn’t raise his head, focused more intently than necessary on the task at hand, each moving jerking Sam’s hips forward as Sam held his sweater out of the way out of sheer habit.
When his father reached for his shoulder, however, to draw him down on the bed, he nearly tripped over his own feet as he jerked away.
He held up his hands in defense, kept his eyes lowered.
“Just… Don’t touch me right now, okay?”
“Sure, bud.”
John drew his hand back and slipped his game face on, pretending that the rejection didn’t sting. Sam met his eyes for a moment, little-boy hurt openly visible on his face, before he spun on his heel, grabbed a jacket and slammed the door shut behind him.
+++
It was several hours later and noticeably chilly when Sam returned to the motel, hesitated in front of the door to their room. He was aware he had been pouting (even if he didn’t quite acknowledge the fact), but he felt like he hadn’t had a moment to stop, take a deep breath and actually think in about a lifetime. Maybe he could have chosen better circumstances than in the middle of the night, still covered in blood, but then Sam had never claimed to be rational when it came to his Dad.
He had scrubbed his face with his hands as best he could, stayed in the shadows. The jacket - his father’s jacket, ironically, which he had grabbed by accident - had done to cover most of the stains. No reason to think there would be a cop car showing up around here soon.
He heaved a sigh, reached down to turn the handle. It gave, and Sam frowned at it. His father was up, then, waiting for him. He didn’t know why he had expected anything different.
He eased the door open, tried not to sigh as John looked up from where he was sitting on the bed. Still sitting on the bed. He looked like he hadn’t moved at all. Sam couldn’t bring himself to say something, closed the door behind him and turned to the window. Could feel his father’s eyes boring into his back.
“You’re quiet,” he said softly.
Sam spun around.
“You don’t get to just waltz back into my life and be Dad again,” he said, eyes shining unnaturally bright.
Now he starts crying, John thought wryly.
“I’m not,” he said, slowly, letting the words roll of his tongue, “I’m not. I’m always Dad. Maybe I’m a horrible one, but I’ve always been Dad and I always will be.”
An awful, painful smile forced its way onto Sam’s face as the boy nodded.
“Yeah. I know.”
John shook his head, gestured awkwardly.
“I just… Can we-? Please.”
Sam stared at him, at his father sitting there on the bed and looking so god damn helpless that it sent shivers down Sam’s spine. He crossed over to him in two large strides, sliding onto the bed in the least painful way possible.
There was a moment of silence while neither of them moved, before John gestured uncertainly with one hand and Sam lifted his arm and then he was suddenly in his father’s arms, clinging tightly and feeling incredibly small despite his size.
John threaded his fingers loosely through the dark strands of hair, rubbed his neck, whispered words that Winchesters didn’t believe in with his lips right next to Sam’s ear.
He wasn’t sure when the caress had stopped being comforting and turned into something... else, but it had and he knew it and from the way Sam was suddenly still and hesitant in his arms, his son knew it too.
“This is weird,” he heard Sam mutter and couldn’t agree more. He lifted the boy off him, stared at him as his son stared back.
“Dad,” Sam breathed.
Their mouths clashed together like two meteors thrown off the beaten path.
There was no right, no finally, just friction and heat as they wrapped themselves around each other, fingers clinging in hair and fabric, jerking and pulling and trying to climb into one another.
It could have been seconds or hours when they broke apart, breathless and panting against skin, when his father untangled his hands from Sam’s hair and took his arms. John guided him upright, carefully balancing him like an expensive vase before he slumped onto his back.
“Oh God, I’m a perverted old freak.”
“Yeah,” Sam said with a dismissive wave of his hand, “But we already knew that.”
“You watch what you’re saying, boy,” John retorted without any real conviction.
Sam snorted and reached for his shoulder to pull him back up.
“Sammy,” John whispered, almost whimpering at Sam’s hot breath against his neck, his ear.
“I know,” the boy whispered, breath damp through the fabric of John’s shirt, “But it’s kinda nice, too.”
His lips were soft, slightly sticky and perfect. John couldn’t help but reach into that too-long hair, tug him a little closer, and Sam couldn’t help but go with it, couldn’t help leaning forward as he followed John’s lips.
Here he was, half in his father’s lap with the man’s tongue in his mouth, wrapped in the pain of a recent beating and a building headache, covered in the blood of a man they’d murdered. If they had been anything but Winchesters, it would have probably struck him as odd.
+++
Chapter VI
Feedback? Pretty please?