Mockingbird [8/13]
I'm back! After a whole summer of tragedy and angst, I'm back in the fanfiction zone, and I have a plan: I'm going to post MB8 today (Friday), then I'll probably have LtDD3 ready next Friday, then MB9 will probably not be ready the Friday after that, and it's extremely unlikely that I'll have LtDD4 done the Friday after that.
You get the idea.
Also: Re-hymenated. Oh Dean.
Rating: Teen
Pairing: Sam/John
Word Count: ~3,300
Disclaimer: Lies, Theft and Deceit.
Warnings: Daddycest. AU beyond belief.
Spoilers: Devil's Trap and beyond
Summary: John cares for Sam when the boy is sick, and one of them is losing his mind.
Part I
Part VII
Mockingbird
Chapter VIII
+++
If that cart and bull fall down,
You'll still be the sweetest baby in town.
+++
Breakfast in a shabby little diner was a quiet affair. They sat, not quite looking at each other, keeping their hands to themselves even though Sam had made sure to press a quick kiss to John’s lips after he had stepped out of the shower.
“So,” John said, raising an eyebrow as he took a sip of his no-milk-or-sugar-ever coffee, “Any other self-therapeutic steps you want us to take?”
“I want Advil,” Sam groaned, hiding his eyes from the glaring fluorescent lights of the diner.
John looked at him, lips pressed into a flat line like always when he was worried and didn’t want to show it. His fingers trailed softly over Sam’s arm, raising goose bumps.
He met Sam’s gaze purposefully for a few seconds, then sighed and rose from his seat to pull a few crumpled bills from his pocket.
“Sam, go wait in the car,” he ordered. “Don’t move, don’t leave the truck.”
Sam felt the familiar stab of annoyance underneath the headache, but a stern look and a jolt of pain reminded him that obeying would be a really good idea right now.
He grabbed the keys that John pushed toward him across the table, crossed the diner and parking lot and climbed into the passenger seat. His head throbbed in time with his heartbeat, sharp bursts of pain, one after another after another after another.
Sam let his head drop against the cool glass of the window with a thud.
“Why me?” he asked dully.
Dean again, a jumbled mess of images, not just waiting but looking at him, an extended hand, half a smile. A muttered “Bitch,” so affectionate Sam wanted to tear his heart out of his chest.
He grabbed wildly for the handle, pushing the door open and dropping onto his knees on the rough pavement. He couldn’t open his eyes, not quite, not yet, not with the full vision still on the way.
The heavy hands on his shoulders caught him completely unaware.
“Sam!”
The voice cut into his mind, loud and sharp, like someone had suddenly cranked the volume in his head. Oh, right. Don’t move, don’t leave the truck.
“I didn’t-“ he defended himself, breaking off abruptly as someone twisted the knife in his brain.
“Shsh, Sammy, it’s okay. It’s okay, Sammy, just take it easy.”
Sam felt half-compelled to tell him that he wasn’t ‘Sammy’, damn it, but with another blinding flash of pain, the world slid out of focus.
Dean was closer now, staring right at him. Warm, inviting smile. He beckoned him closer, but Sam couldn’t move his legs, couldn’t follow. God, how he wanted to.
Dean’s smile didn’t falter as he turned away, walked away with his head held high and Sam just wanted to scream at him to stop-
“Sammy.”
“Dad,” he gasped. He found a sleeve and snagged it tightly. He couldn’t see couldn’t -
“Come on, Sammy, up.”
No, not up. Up was exhausting and painful and his eyes were watering. It was so much easier to give in to gravity, to slide down, to lay down and die a peaceful, pain-free death.
Not that saying so would have worked on his dad. Sam was dragged upright and over, still couldn’t quite open his eyes. Something was digging into his calves. He barely had time to register it as a bench before he was pushed down again, albeit more gently this time.
“Sit tight. Don’t move.”
There was a definite warning in his words this time. Sam nodded, well aware of what had happened the last time he hadn’t heeded that particular order. He’d never had a vision that included him before, he mused as he put his head in his hands, but then again his visions had always been about people dying. None of them had ever featured people who were already dead. And that was twice now.
God, this sucked.
He started as an icy rag materialized in front of him, along with a hand that, apparently, was connected to his father’s body. He stared a little.
“This should help,” came the gruff explanation.
John snagged his hand, pressing the rag into it and maneuvering the hand so it pressed against his temple. He noted dully that the stinging cold of the cloth actually seemed to help, that it distracted him from the throbbing. He would have to tell Dean -
Right.
“You okay, Sammy?” his father asked as he dropped down on the bench next to him.
Sam grunted in reply, hoping he sounded vaguely affirmative.
“Sam?”
A little sharper in tone, expecting an answer. Sam flattened the cloth against his forehead.
“Don’t feel so good,” he mumbled against a wave of nausea, tilting against his father’s side almost without noticing, and when had the weather fairy cranked up the heat anyway?
+++
Sam seemed barely lucid on the way back to the motel, muttering and tripping, tilting heavily to one side. John managed to deposit him on the bed with a little difficulty, using his military training to navigate around the endless limbs, and went to fill a plastic cup with tab water from the bathroom before returning to his son’s side.
Sam blinked slowly, eyes glazed and almost feverish, but he let John guide him up, pillow his back against the headboard and press the cup into his hands.
“Drink this,” he ordered, taking care to keep his voice kind but firm, “small sips.”
“Yes, sir,” Sammy rasped, pressing the heel of his hand against his eye, the other clasped around his drink.
John had to catch the cup when Sam suddenly swayed, mumbling into the cushions John lowered him into one minute and out cold the next.
+++
A few hours later found John at the small rickety table the room held, several ancient tomes and brightly colored new-age books stacked sky-high. All books had been acquired when he had left Sam, despite every one of his instincts screaming against it, alone for half an hour to borrow every book on visions from the local library that he could find.
He had been holding his breath when he unlocked the motel room door, books left in the car for a moment, but Sammy had been fast asleep, only shifting and muttering slightly when John sprinkled him with holy water. John had felt the same rush of relief he always did when he came home to find his sons (son) alive and well and buried the sudden urge to cry deep underneath the stacks of library books.
Research was slow in coming. A large number of books were mainly about self-help yoga crap enlightenment visions, power animals and inner caves, and apparently no one had ever thought to write about demonic visions. Death omens, yes; long tunnels and floaty angels, yes; demons, no.
He hardly noticed the feeling at first, the uncomfortable nagging at the back of his neck that usually meant he was being watched. He cursed his inadvertency when he finally became aware of the wispy hairs on his skin rising, but when he turned he could see only Sam, watching the ceiling with hooded eyes.
It was time to take a break, anyway.
John dropped his pen and rose, rubbing tired eyes, crouching down next to the bed.
“Hey, Sammy,” he said softly, “You need anything? Help with something?”
The boy shifted his long legs, making John keenly aware that Sam was wearing nothing but a dark shirt and boxers, stark contrast against his pale skin. His sick kid. God, he was a pervert.
Sam arched his back, his chest rising off the bed. Legs straightened all the way to his toes, he rolled over, fixing a surprisingly clear, dark gaze on John. Soft lips curled into a smile.
“Oh, it’s not about what I need - more about what I want. Though I doubt you would be willing to help me with that.”
His haughty tone sent shivers down John’s spine. Sam’s eyes were dark, yes, but not that dark…
Nonetheless, he whispered, “Christo.” Sam laughed.
“Oh Daddy, don’t be like that. Is that really what you think of your only son?”
John felt unbidden tears burning in his eyes. As if his kid didn’t know how much that memory still stung, would always sting. If this was his kid, anyway.
He leaned closer, aware that he was pleading.
“Sammy, son, snap out of it, please.”
Sam grinned lazily. He rose onto his elbows with a grace that John’s son had never quite mastered and cast him a wink.
“Don’t worry, Daddy,” he drawled, slow, provocative, sex-on-legs, “begging usually does the trick.”
He flicked John’s nose with two fingers and turned away, cushioning his head on his elbow. John couldn’t bring himself to move as he listened to the boy’s breathing evening out; growing slow and tranquil as he slipped from his father’s grasp.
+++
Sam burned up a little while later, tossing and muttering through fever-induced nightmares. John found himself reaching for the pills on the bedside table with shaking fingers - Please, Mary, don’t let this happen to our boy, I’m begging you, please - and barely calmed down enough to wake him with a soft brush over his cheek. He nearly dropped the medicine when Sam opened fever-hazy eyes and blinked at him in confusion. John held him upright with some difficulty for a drink of water, lowered him back down slowly.
“Don’t, Sammy,” he whispered, “Don’t go where I can’t follow.”
“I won’t,” Sam promised, all little boy amazement, “You know I won’t.”
John nodded like he believed it even though his insides were icy cold. Sam fell asleep again with both hands clutching John’s tightly, curled into a ball and asking for Dean.
+++
He woke again some time later, before John had even had time to extricate himself from Sam’s grasp, even if he had wanted to.
“Dean’s here,” he whispered, lips cracked and bleeding in places, “Dean’s waiting for me, Dad.”
“That’s just the fever talking,” John soothed, “Try to sleep, Sammy.”
His son nodded, too exhausted to argue.
John stroked his hair and face until he had fallen asleep and couldn’t help shuddering at how cool Sam’s forehead felt to the touch.
+++
The next morning brought clouds and lifting spirits. Sam reveled in being able to sit up in bed without feeling like he was about to die. Dad didn’t make him eat, but he let him have decaf and stopped hovering long enough to take a shower and shave. Sam hadn’t wanted to say anything, but it was really getting kind of urgent.
He sat, pillows propped behind his back, and relished in the quiet clarity of the room. No fever-induced pictures, jumbled images from visions and dreams and who knew what else. He could see his dad moving, the bathroom door slightly ajar so he could see the man expertly run the sharp blade over his skin. He had to think of Stanford suddenly, of Jess in the bathroom; the door open enough so he could see movement, but never quite figure out exactly what she was doing.
“Dad?”
There was something in his voice that had his father put down the razor and stick his head out of the bathroom.
“Yeah, Sammy?”
Sam picked at a loose thread on the covers, not quite able to meet his eyes.
“Why didn’t you ever let me know when you came to check on me at Stanford?”
And just like that, his father picked up the razor again, raising his chin as he ran the blade over his skin.
“Because you would have felt like I was controlling you.”
Sam opened his mouth to object and snapped it shut again as his face quickly began to resemble a badly sun burnt tomato.
“Well, you kinda were,” he muttered to his pillow.
“What was that?”
John’s face was in the doorway again, but he didn’t look angry. Probably hadn’t heard.
“How long to you plan on staying here?” Sam asked instead, cursing his suddenly evaporated bravado.
“Until you’re better.”
Dad softened the harsh tone down with a short smile.
“And just for the record, Sam - I was not controlling you. I was doing what every parent everywhere does and making sure you were okay.”
Sam swallowed and looked away. He was tempted to call bullshit, because that would have been just about the only time John did what any parent anywhere else did, but for some reason that he couldn’t quite fathom, he kept his mouth shut.
+++
A thick layer of salt and cats’ eye shells circled the bed when he woke up the next morning, along with some kind of brown powder he’d never seen before. His father sat at the small table, cleaning weapons, even though Sam could tell most of the man’s attention was on him.
“Dad?’
His father put down the knife he had been working on and turned his head Sam’s way, body rigid with tension.
“Could you come over here, please, Sam?”
“Dad.”
Sam fought down an inappropriate chuckle, but his father’s “Sam. Now,” booked no resistance and he swung his legs out of bed, setting his feet down on the plush carpet.
“Dad-“
“For God’s sake, Sam,” his father interrupted, turning in his seat to face him fully, “Will you just cut the crap and get over here already?”
With John finally willing to meet his eyes, Sam could see the anxiety in his gaze, the raw nerves. He swallowed thickly and pushed off the mattress. He swayed when the blood rushed from his head but, under the watchful gaze of his father, made it across the salt line and to the table without incident. He plopped down in the unoccupied chair and covered his quiet panic with a smile.
“Can I at least have some coffee now?”
John rose to comply, still watching him out of the corner of his eyes like he wasn’t sure Sam not being possessed was a good thing or a bad thing.
Sam shuddered but accepted the offered cup graciously. The dark liquid was only lukewarm, making him wonder exactly how long his father had been at it already, but bitter in his throat. He swallowed gratefully and kept one hand wrapped around the mug while he picked up a newspaper cutout with the other.
He read the highlighted parts slowly, tired eyes protesting, and frowned.
“’Colleagues were puzzled by the, as they say, completely atypical behavior of the man,’” he quoted, “’They were especially baffled by the apparent resistance to pain.’”
He pursed his lips.
“What do you think? Demon or shapeshifter?”
“Demon,” Dad grunted without looking up, “No recurring pattern.”
“Well then.” Sam drained the last of his coffee and threw the page down, “This is in Nevada. If we pack it up now, we can make it there in…”
He looked around for a clock, but John interrupted his eager calculations with a gruff, “We’re not going.”
Sam stopped mid-movement, a steep frown appearing between his eyes.
“Uh… Why?”
“I gave the hunt to Bobby.”
“Because?”
“Because you’re not well yet.”
His father’s voice had taken on a definite edgy tone, but Sam couldn’t help rolling his eyes.
“Oh, come on. You used to drag me out with a temperature. You took me hunting with a broken arm once, for God’s sake. Why not now?”
His father hissed in annoyance, but he wouldn’t quite look at him.
“Things are different now.”
“Different how?” Sam carefully edged his cup away so he wouldn’t end up breaking it in a fit of rage. “Different as in I’m bigger, stronger, more experienced? Or different as in ‘I don’t take your word as God’s law anymore’?”
John snorted as if to say, ‘Like you ever did that,’ but when he finally raised his head, his eyes were dark and angry.
“For the last time: I’m not discussing this with you.”
Sam growled, the mug now ending up on the floor anyway as he swept it aside. It cluttered away, thankfully in once piece, but Sam didn’t even spare it a glance.
“Oh, obviously, things have really changed.”
He flinched when John slammed his hands down on the table, half rising out of his seat to tower of him.
“Sam.”
With a calm that impressed even him, Sam rose to mirror his father’s pose, corner of his mouth drawing upwards in an unpleasant smile.
“Dad.”
His father glared at him.
“Sam, drop it.”
“I’ll drop it as soon as you tell me why we’re not going on this hunt.”
“Because we’re not going anywhere until I figure out what’s wrong with you, damnit!” his father exploded.
In the silence that followed his outburst, Sam sat down heavily, blinking a few times.
“Wrong with me?” Even to his own ears, he sounded scared and small, seeking reassurance in his father’s guilty face. “What do you mean, ‘what’s wrong with me’? What’s wrong? Did I do something?’
Dad sighed. He reached out to gently pat his arm. Sam tolerated it, even though the contact burned like John’s skin was scalding hot.
“That, for one. You can’t remember things. Conversations,” he clarified at Sam’s enquiring frown, “And when we have them, you’re… different.”
“Different?” Sam echoed, “Different how?”
With a sharp headshake, last warning to let the matter drop, John rose, picked up his jacket, and left Sam to fend with his white-hot panic for himself.
+++
It was dark when the sounds of the door opening and closing woke Sam from a restless doze. He could see his father’s silhouette move across the room. The door to the bathroom was shut completely before the light came on, visible in the small strip under the door. Running water, some rustling, then light off again and the door slowly opening.
He turned as his father began to strip, rustling the sheets so the man would know he was awake. He paused for a moment - Sam could feel the hard gaze - and then slid under the covers, quietly waiting for him to speak.
Sam took a deep breath.
“You know, that year that you were missing? I swore to myself so often that I would never fight with you again.”
John chuckled. “Kinda ambitious, don’t you think?”
Sam nodded in the darkness. He was silent for a long time after that, working up the nerve to what was coming next.
“Dad?”
He could hear the rustling of sheets as John turned to face him in the dark.
“Yeah, Sammy?”
“Can I - Can I sleep in your bed tonight?”
For one long, godawful moment that seemed to stretch into forever, Dad didn’t reply. Then he coughed, spluttering slightly.
“Um,” he mumbled, “Okay, I guess?”
Sam let out a rush of air he had been holding and nearly tripped over his feet as he scrambled over before the man could change his mind. He slid under the covers and stopped, half-rigid, because his plan had only been developed to the point of ‘get into the bed’. He lowered himself onto his half of the pillow slowly, not quite daring to breathe, let alone move, lest he touch his father.
He didn’t realize the man wasn’t moving either until a soft rustling startled him out of his near-panic and a large, warm hand settled on his stomach.
“Sam.”
His father tightened his hand a little, pulling him tightly against his chest, other arm coming up to rest on the pillow. Sam smiled to himself as he settled into the space, warm and hard and inviting like he belonged there, and allowed himself to relax.
+++
Chapter IX
Feed me!
You get the idea.
Also: Re-hymenated. Oh Dean.
Rating: Teen
Pairing: Sam/John
Word Count: ~3,300
Disclaimer: Lies, Theft and Deceit.
Warnings: Daddycest. AU beyond belief.
Spoilers: Devil's Trap and beyond
Summary: John cares for Sam when the boy is sick, and one of them is losing his mind.
Part I
Part VII
Mockingbird
Chapter VIII
+++
If that cart and bull fall down,
You'll still be the sweetest baby in town.
+++
Breakfast in a shabby little diner was a quiet affair. They sat, not quite looking at each other, keeping their hands to themselves even though Sam had made sure to press a quick kiss to John’s lips after he had stepped out of the shower.
“So,” John said, raising an eyebrow as he took a sip of his no-milk-or-sugar-ever coffee, “Any other self-therapeutic steps you want us to take?”
“I want Advil,” Sam groaned, hiding his eyes from the glaring fluorescent lights of the diner.
John looked at him, lips pressed into a flat line like always when he was worried and didn’t want to show it. His fingers trailed softly over Sam’s arm, raising goose bumps.
He met Sam’s gaze purposefully for a few seconds, then sighed and rose from his seat to pull a few crumpled bills from his pocket.
“Sam, go wait in the car,” he ordered. “Don’t move, don’t leave the truck.”
Sam felt the familiar stab of annoyance underneath the headache, but a stern look and a jolt of pain reminded him that obeying would be a really good idea right now.
He grabbed the keys that John pushed toward him across the table, crossed the diner and parking lot and climbed into the passenger seat. His head throbbed in time with his heartbeat, sharp bursts of pain, one after another after another after another.
Sam let his head drop against the cool glass of the window with a thud.
“Why me?” he asked dully.
Dean again, a jumbled mess of images, not just waiting but looking at him, an extended hand, half a smile. A muttered “Bitch,” so affectionate Sam wanted to tear his heart out of his chest.
He grabbed wildly for the handle, pushing the door open and dropping onto his knees on the rough pavement. He couldn’t open his eyes, not quite, not yet, not with the full vision still on the way.
The heavy hands on his shoulders caught him completely unaware.
“Sam!”
The voice cut into his mind, loud and sharp, like someone had suddenly cranked the volume in his head. Oh, right. Don’t move, don’t leave the truck.
“I didn’t-“ he defended himself, breaking off abruptly as someone twisted the knife in his brain.
“Shsh, Sammy, it’s okay. It’s okay, Sammy, just take it easy.”
Sam felt half-compelled to tell him that he wasn’t ‘Sammy’, damn it, but with another blinding flash of pain, the world slid out of focus.
Dean was closer now, staring right at him. Warm, inviting smile. He beckoned him closer, but Sam couldn’t move his legs, couldn’t follow. God, how he wanted to.
Dean’s smile didn’t falter as he turned away, walked away with his head held high and Sam just wanted to scream at him to stop-
“Sammy.”
“Dad,” he gasped. He found a sleeve and snagged it tightly. He couldn’t see couldn’t -
“Come on, Sammy, up.”
No, not up. Up was exhausting and painful and his eyes were watering. It was so much easier to give in to gravity, to slide down, to lay down and die a peaceful, pain-free death.
Not that saying so would have worked on his dad. Sam was dragged upright and over, still couldn’t quite open his eyes. Something was digging into his calves. He barely had time to register it as a bench before he was pushed down again, albeit more gently this time.
“Sit tight. Don’t move.”
There was a definite warning in his words this time. Sam nodded, well aware of what had happened the last time he hadn’t heeded that particular order. He’d never had a vision that included him before, he mused as he put his head in his hands, but then again his visions had always been about people dying. None of them had ever featured people who were already dead. And that was twice now.
God, this sucked.
He started as an icy rag materialized in front of him, along with a hand that, apparently, was connected to his father’s body. He stared a little.
“This should help,” came the gruff explanation.
John snagged his hand, pressing the rag into it and maneuvering the hand so it pressed against his temple. He noted dully that the stinging cold of the cloth actually seemed to help, that it distracted him from the throbbing. He would have to tell Dean -
Right.
“You okay, Sammy?” his father asked as he dropped down on the bench next to him.
Sam grunted in reply, hoping he sounded vaguely affirmative.
“Sam?”
A little sharper in tone, expecting an answer. Sam flattened the cloth against his forehead.
“Don’t feel so good,” he mumbled against a wave of nausea, tilting against his father’s side almost without noticing, and when had the weather fairy cranked up the heat anyway?
+++
Sam seemed barely lucid on the way back to the motel, muttering and tripping, tilting heavily to one side. John managed to deposit him on the bed with a little difficulty, using his military training to navigate around the endless limbs, and went to fill a plastic cup with tab water from the bathroom before returning to his son’s side.
Sam blinked slowly, eyes glazed and almost feverish, but he let John guide him up, pillow his back against the headboard and press the cup into his hands.
“Drink this,” he ordered, taking care to keep his voice kind but firm, “small sips.”
“Yes, sir,” Sammy rasped, pressing the heel of his hand against his eye, the other clasped around his drink.
John had to catch the cup when Sam suddenly swayed, mumbling into the cushions John lowered him into one minute and out cold the next.
+++
A few hours later found John at the small rickety table the room held, several ancient tomes and brightly colored new-age books stacked sky-high. All books had been acquired when he had left Sam, despite every one of his instincts screaming against it, alone for half an hour to borrow every book on visions from the local library that he could find.
He had been holding his breath when he unlocked the motel room door, books left in the car for a moment, but Sammy had been fast asleep, only shifting and muttering slightly when John sprinkled him with holy water. John had felt the same rush of relief he always did when he came home to find his sons (son) alive and well and buried the sudden urge to cry deep underneath the stacks of library books.
Research was slow in coming. A large number of books were mainly about self-help yoga crap enlightenment visions, power animals and inner caves, and apparently no one had ever thought to write about demonic visions. Death omens, yes; long tunnels and floaty angels, yes; demons, no.
He hardly noticed the feeling at first, the uncomfortable nagging at the back of his neck that usually meant he was being watched. He cursed his inadvertency when he finally became aware of the wispy hairs on his skin rising, but when he turned he could see only Sam, watching the ceiling with hooded eyes.
It was time to take a break, anyway.
John dropped his pen and rose, rubbing tired eyes, crouching down next to the bed.
“Hey, Sammy,” he said softly, “You need anything? Help with something?”
The boy shifted his long legs, making John keenly aware that Sam was wearing nothing but a dark shirt and boxers, stark contrast against his pale skin. His sick kid. God, he was a pervert.
Sam arched his back, his chest rising off the bed. Legs straightened all the way to his toes, he rolled over, fixing a surprisingly clear, dark gaze on John. Soft lips curled into a smile.
“Oh, it’s not about what I need - more about what I want. Though I doubt you would be willing to help me with that.”
His haughty tone sent shivers down John’s spine. Sam’s eyes were dark, yes, but not that dark…
Nonetheless, he whispered, “Christo.” Sam laughed.
“Oh Daddy, don’t be like that. Is that really what you think of your only son?”
John felt unbidden tears burning in his eyes. As if his kid didn’t know how much that memory still stung, would always sting. If this was his kid, anyway.
He leaned closer, aware that he was pleading.
“Sammy, son, snap out of it, please.”
Sam grinned lazily. He rose onto his elbows with a grace that John’s son had never quite mastered and cast him a wink.
“Don’t worry, Daddy,” he drawled, slow, provocative, sex-on-legs, “begging usually does the trick.”
He flicked John’s nose with two fingers and turned away, cushioning his head on his elbow. John couldn’t bring himself to move as he listened to the boy’s breathing evening out; growing slow and tranquil as he slipped from his father’s grasp.
+++
Sam burned up a little while later, tossing and muttering through fever-induced nightmares. John found himself reaching for the pills on the bedside table with shaking fingers - Please, Mary, don’t let this happen to our boy, I’m begging you, please - and barely calmed down enough to wake him with a soft brush over his cheek. He nearly dropped the medicine when Sam opened fever-hazy eyes and blinked at him in confusion. John held him upright with some difficulty for a drink of water, lowered him back down slowly.
“Don’t, Sammy,” he whispered, “Don’t go where I can’t follow.”
“I won’t,” Sam promised, all little boy amazement, “You know I won’t.”
John nodded like he believed it even though his insides were icy cold. Sam fell asleep again with both hands clutching John’s tightly, curled into a ball and asking for Dean.
+++
He woke again some time later, before John had even had time to extricate himself from Sam’s grasp, even if he had wanted to.
“Dean’s here,” he whispered, lips cracked and bleeding in places, “Dean’s waiting for me, Dad.”
“That’s just the fever talking,” John soothed, “Try to sleep, Sammy.”
His son nodded, too exhausted to argue.
John stroked his hair and face until he had fallen asleep and couldn’t help shuddering at how cool Sam’s forehead felt to the touch.
+++
The next morning brought clouds and lifting spirits. Sam reveled in being able to sit up in bed without feeling like he was about to die. Dad didn’t make him eat, but he let him have decaf and stopped hovering long enough to take a shower and shave. Sam hadn’t wanted to say anything, but it was really getting kind of urgent.
He sat, pillows propped behind his back, and relished in the quiet clarity of the room. No fever-induced pictures, jumbled images from visions and dreams and who knew what else. He could see his dad moving, the bathroom door slightly ajar so he could see the man expertly run the sharp blade over his skin. He had to think of Stanford suddenly, of Jess in the bathroom; the door open enough so he could see movement, but never quite figure out exactly what she was doing.
“Dad?”
There was something in his voice that had his father put down the razor and stick his head out of the bathroom.
“Yeah, Sammy?”
Sam picked at a loose thread on the covers, not quite able to meet his eyes.
“Why didn’t you ever let me know when you came to check on me at Stanford?”
And just like that, his father picked up the razor again, raising his chin as he ran the blade over his skin.
“Because you would have felt like I was controlling you.”
Sam opened his mouth to object and snapped it shut again as his face quickly began to resemble a badly sun burnt tomato.
“Well, you kinda were,” he muttered to his pillow.
“What was that?”
John’s face was in the doorway again, but he didn’t look angry. Probably hadn’t heard.
“How long to you plan on staying here?” Sam asked instead, cursing his suddenly evaporated bravado.
“Until you’re better.”
Dad softened the harsh tone down with a short smile.
“And just for the record, Sam - I was not controlling you. I was doing what every parent everywhere does and making sure you were okay.”
Sam swallowed and looked away. He was tempted to call bullshit, because that would have been just about the only time John did what any parent anywhere else did, but for some reason that he couldn’t quite fathom, he kept his mouth shut.
+++
A thick layer of salt and cats’ eye shells circled the bed when he woke up the next morning, along with some kind of brown powder he’d never seen before. His father sat at the small table, cleaning weapons, even though Sam could tell most of the man’s attention was on him.
“Dad?’
His father put down the knife he had been working on and turned his head Sam’s way, body rigid with tension.
“Could you come over here, please, Sam?”
“Dad.”
Sam fought down an inappropriate chuckle, but his father’s “Sam. Now,” booked no resistance and he swung his legs out of bed, setting his feet down on the plush carpet.
“Dad-“
“For God’s sake, Sam,” his father interrupted, turning in his seat to face him fully, “Will you just cut the crap and get over here already?”
With John finally willing to meet his eyes, Sam could see the anxiety in his gaze, the raw nerves. He swallowed thickly and pushed off the mattress. He swayed when the blood rushed from his head but, under the watchful gaze of his father, made it across the salt line and to the table without incident. He plopped down in the unoccupied chair and covered his quiet panic with a smile.
“Can I at least have some coffee now?”
John rose to comply, still watching him out of the corner of his eyes like he wasn’t sure Sam not being possessed was a good thing or a bad thing.
Sam shuddered but accepted the offered cup graciously. The dark liquid was only lukewarm, making him wonder exactly how long his father had been at it already, but bitter in his throat. He swallowed gratefully and kept one hand wrapped around the mug while he picked up a newspaper cutout with the other.
He read the highlighted parts slowly, tired eyes protesting, and frowned.
“’Colleagues were puzzled by the, as they say, completely atypical behavior of the man,’” he quoted, “’They were especially baffled by the apparent resistance to pain.’”
He pursed his lips.
“What do you think? Demon or shapeshifter?”
“Demon,” Dad grunted without looking up, “No recurring pattern.”
“Well then.” Sam drained the last of his coffee and threw the page down, “This is in Nevada. If we pack it up now, we can make it there in…”
He looked around for a clock, but John interrupted his eager calculations with a gruff, “We’re not going.”
Sam stopped mid-movement, a steep frown appearing between his eyes.
“Uh… Why?”
“I gave the hunt to Bobby.”
“Because?”
“Because you’re not well yet.”
His father’s voice had taken on a definite edgy tone, but Sam couldn’t help rolling his eyes.
“Oh, come on. You used to drag me out with a temperature. You took me hunting with a broken arm once, for God’s sake. Why not now?”
His father hissed in annoyance, but he wouldn’t quite look at him.
“Things are different now.”
“Different how?” Sam carefully edged his cup away so he wouldn’t end up breaking it in a fit of rage. “Different as in I’m bigger, stronger, more experienced? Or different as in ‘I don’t take your word as God’s law anymore’?”
John snorted as if to say, ‘Like you ever did that,’ but when he finally raised his head, his eyes were dark and angry.
“For the last time: I’m not discussing this with you.”
Sam growled, the mug now ending up on the floor anyway as he swept it aside. It cluttered away, thankfully in once piece, but Sam didn’t even spare it a glance.
“Oh, obviously, things have really changed.”
He flinched when John slammed his hands down on the table, half rising out of his seat to tower of him.
“Sam.”
With a calm that impressed even him, Sam rose to mirror his father’s pose, corner of his mouth drawing upwards in an unpleasant smile.
“Dad.”
His father glared at him.
“Sam, drop it.”
“I’ll drop it as soon as you tell me why we’re not going on this hunt.”
“Because we’re not going anywhere until I figure out what’s wrong with you, damnit!” his father exploded.
In the silence that followed his outburst, Sam sat down heavily, blinking a few times.
“Wrong with me?” Even to his own ears, he sounded scared and small, seeking reassurance in his father’s guilty face. “What do you mean, ‘what’s wrong with me’? What’s wrong? Did I do something?’
Dad sighed. He reached out to gently pat his arm. Sam tolerated it, even though the contact burned like John’s skin was scalding hot.
“That, for one. You can’t remember things. Conversations,” he clarified at Sam’s enquiring frown, “And when we have them, you’re… different.”
“Different?” Sam echoed, “Different how?”
With a sharp headshake, last warning to let the matter drop, John rose, picked up his jacket, and left Sam to fend with his white-hot panic for himself.
+++
It was dark when the sounds of the door opening and closing woke Sam from a restless doze. He could see his father’s silhouette move across the room. The door to the bathroom was shut completely before the light came on, visible in the small strip under the door. Running water, some rustling, then light off again and the door slowly opening.
He turned as his father began to strip, rustling the sheets so the man would know he was awake. He paused for a moment - Sam could feel the hard gaze - and then slid under the covers, quietly waiting for him to speak.
Sam took a deep breath.
“You know, that year that you were missing? I swore to myself so often that I would never fight with you again.”
John chuckled. “Kinda ambitious, don’t you think?”
Sam nodded in the darkness. He was silent for a long time after that, working up the nerve to what was coming next.
“Dad?”
He could hear the rustling of sheets as John turned to face him in the dark.
“Yeah, Sammy?”
“Can I - Can I sleep in your bed tonight?”
For one long, godawful moment that seemed to stretch into forever, Dad didn’t reply. Then he coughed, spluttering slightly.
“Um,” he mumbled, “Okay, I guess?”
Sam let out a rush of air he had been holding and nearly tripped over his feet as he scrambled over before the man could change his mind. He slid under the covers and stopped, half-rigid, because his plan had only been developed to the point of ‘get into the bed’. He lowered himself onto his half of the pillow slowly, not quite daring to breathe, let alone move, lest he touch his father.
He didn’t realize the man wasn’t moving either until a soft rustling startled him out of his near-panic and a large, warm hand settled on his stomach.
“Sam.”
His father tightened his hand a little, pulling him tightly against his chest, other arm coming up to rest on the pillow. Sam smiled to himself as he settled into the space, warm and hard and inviting like he belonged there, and allowed himself to relax.
+++
Chapter IX
Feed me!