Mockingbird [9/13]
So far, so good! Hope you all have a great Halloween, get smashed do age-appropriate activities and eat lots of candy. And remember, the Apocalypse is just around the corner.
Rating: R
Pairing: Sam/John
Word Count: ~4,000
Disclaimer: Lies, Theft and Deceit.
Warnings: Daddycest. AU beyond belief.
Spoilers: Devil's Trap and beyond. Slight (slight!) spoiler for 3x08.
Summary: Our boys finally get it on.
Part I
Part VIII
+++
Mockingbird
Chapter IX
+++
Hush little baby; Daddy's near,
To brush your hair and calm your fears.
To kiss your cheek and hold your hand,
'Till you drift off to sleepyland.
+++
John dreamt of Mary.
She was laughing, her hair golden in the sunlight as she twirled, spinning her dress. She paused, said something then twisted away, but he couldn’t hear anything except her laughter mixed in with his own. She turned away from him. She looked down, hair falling into her face, and rubbed a hand over her flat stomach, whispering something like she was sharing a secret with someone; a secret too special even for him to know.
Then she was gone and all he could feel through his dream-filled semi-awareness was something looming over him, large and threatening. He lashed out on instinct, too used to waking up alien environments not to be on his guard. The resulting yelp and hiss of pain were familiar, however, and he snapped his eyes open guiltily to find Sam leaning away from him, both hands covering his face.
“Sorry, sorry,” John said quickly, lifting his hands into the air to show he was harmless, or rather, not about to harm the boy.
Sam smiled wryly, sitting back on his haunches.
“Good morning, Dad. Sleep well?”
John couldn’t fight the rising blush; like some school boy, damnit!
“I’m - I’m just not used to company anymore.”
“Don’t worry about it, it’s cool.”
Sam was gently nursing his jaw, he noted as he sat up, scooting back against the headrest. Long fingers massaged his skin gently, long and slender like Mary’s and John looked away before he had to choke back a sob.
“What’s up?” he asked instead. A glance at the alarm clock by the bed informed him that it was 8:17AM, so not really any hurry there. Knowing Sam, the kid had probably been up for hours already; and the wry smile told him all he needed to know.
“Uh, nothing,” Sam mumbled. He draped his long legs off the bed, a faint blush rising in his cheeks.
“It’s just… Apparently our neighbors are morning people. Can’t sleep anymore.”
John cocked his head to listen and wasn’t sure how he could have missed it. The steady thump thump thump was easily recognized, and the occasional high pitched moan and gasped encouragement was enough to have even John Winchester avoiding his companion’s eyes.
He swung his legs off the bed and tilted his head back, stretched to get rid of the kinks in his back.
“I just hope you’re not going to make a habit of this,” he threw Sam’s way, “You’re too damn huge to share a bed with.”
He groaned quietly as he made his way into the bathroom, scratching his belly and missing the evil gleam that lit up in Sam’s eyes.
+++
The enthusiastic neighbors quieted down after a while, and Sam once again felt safe enough to look his father in the eye. Dad stopped being quite so skittish and returned to his usual CO demeanor, shoving a stack of books into his arms. Sam rolled his eyes but couldn’t say he minded. The lore was old, and even if it was slightly disconcerting to read about all the people in the past who had had visions and then usually suffered a slow and painful death, it was better than not knowing about it at all.
The hours crept by almost unnoticed. He hardly even registered Dad coming back inside from his morning routine, or that the man headed for the stove after his shower. It was the rattling of Dad’s cell phone that finally tore him out of the world of mind control and ritual sacrifices and he blinked at it, momentarily disoriented.
Dad glanced up from his frying pan.
“Get that, will you?” he asked absently.
Sam frowned - his father usually insisted that he be the only one to touch his cell - and reached for it. Roadhouse, the caller ID read.
“Yeah?” he asked.
“Who is this?” a sharp voice he recognized as Ellen’s demanded after a moment’s silence. Sam readjusted the phone against his ear.
“It’s, uh, it’s Sam.”
“John’s kid,” she said. Her next question sent the blood rushing furiously to his face and he cast a quick look at his father (who was pretending not to listen but his rigid back gave him away) before answering, “Yeah, I talk now.”
John thinly disguised his snort as a cough. He turned and offered Sam the spatula in exchange for the phone.
“Let me talk to Ellen, son,” he said with quirking lips.
He took the phone from Sam’s fingers, guiding him down on a chair in front of a plate heaped with eggs and bacon. Sam had almost forgotten that that had been his breakfast all the way through school. He eyed the food with distaste, but when it neither disintegrated nor sprouted legs and walked away, he picked up his fork with a sigh.
Dad leaned against the wall behind him, one hand on the back of Sam’s neck.
“Why are you calling?” he asked.
His knuckles absently stroked over Sam’s skin, taming wayward locks of hair. Sam couldn’t help the goose bumps breaking out all over his body.
“That’s where?”
The curious fingers wandered further, stroking up and down the side of his neck. John watched Sam lean into the touch, shudder away from it as if he had been electrocuted, and it was all he could do to not turn Sam around and kiss him. He trailed a finger along his son’s collar bone, committing the details Ellen was telling him about the case to memory.
“We’re on it,” he said when she had finished, slipping his fingers under the boy’s collar.
“Good,” she said. There was a pause, slightly longer than was comfortable, then she said, “So your boy’s back to normal now?”
He couldn’t help thinking about Sam’s soft lips, the hint of stubble on his cheeks scratching against his skin, and breathed a quiet sigh of relief that she couldn’t see him flush. Still, he sounded surprisingly undaunted when he replied, “Well, as normal as he ever is. We ever are.”
“So he does talk?” There was humor in her voice this time.
John barked out a surprised laugh. “Oh, he talks. Usually he doesn’t shut up.”
Sam half-turned in his seat to glare at him, and John placated him with a quick kiss to his forehead.
“I’ll check in when we’re done,” he said, flipping the phone shut and tossing it onto the pile with their waiting research.
Sam was still giving him the stink-eye.
“You’re hilarious, Dad,” he growled, teeth bared in the distorted mockery of a smile, and John couldn’t help it. He started to laugh, deep and relieved, tension bleeding from his shoulders. He rested a hand on the small of his son’s back as he sat down, but even after he had pulled his books towards him, he left his fingers where they were, idly toying with the hem of Sam’s shirt.
+++
They reached their next stop well after nightfall. Sam pulled the truck into the motel parking lot as gently as he could, but when he looked over, he could still see his father stir. Dad blinked, bleary eyes working hard to focus on the neon Vacancy sign. He stifled a yawn, rearranged his limbs and winced as his joints popped.
He fished for his wallet and tossed a credit card at Sam.
“Hey, Sammy, would you mind…? I’ma need a minute.”
Sam scoffed quietly, biting back a comment about getting old - surest way to get his ass kicked - and climbed out of the car. The bell above the door jingled as he pushed it open, and a few moments later, a bed-headed clerk in his late teens appeared. Sounds of gun shots and squealing tires in the back room told Sam that he was probably keeping him from something, so he handed the card over quickly.
“One room, please,” he said, “Two nights, for now.”
The clerk took down the information on the card with a wordless nod, then he looked up.
“King or two queens?” he asked, cracking his gum.
Sam shot a quick look over his shoulder at his father, sitting on the hood of the truck out of the clerk’s view. He looked haggard and half-asleep. Too tired to protest.
A plan already forming in his mind, Sam turned back to give the man his most blinding grin.
“King, please.”
With the key safely in his pocket, he returned to give his Dad a hand with the bags. John blinked at him.
“What’s up with the Cheshire Cat routine?” he asked, but Sam shook his head.
“Come on, let’s go,” he said, slinging a duffel over his shoulder, “I’m tired.”
+++
Dad really had to be tired - he didn’t notice the bed until he had set his load down, despite going through his usual safety routine.
He stared at it for a moment.
“Um, Sam,” he said.
Sam threw himself down on the bed, sprawling all over the covers.
“Yeah?”
His father gave him an uncertain look.
“I think the clerk mixed something up,” he said, his uncertain tone making it sound more like a question. Sam shrugged.
“Maybe? But I’m sure as hell too tired to get back there and set it right. You gonna do it?”
He closed his eyes and stretched, as far as he could. As calculated, his shirt rode up, exposing sharp hipbones, his rock-hard stomach.
He could almost feel his father stilling and when John’s breath caught in his throat, making a small choked noise, he knew he had him. He didn’t allow himself that triumphant grin that was just dying to escape, but he probably looked entirely too smug, anyway.
+++
A routing haunting, as much as anything was ever routine for them. Dad dug while Sammy held the flashlight and kept watch. Sam emptied the canister into the grave, Dad tossed in the lit matches and then Sam read the last rites just to be on the safe side.
They made it to the diner next to their motel just as the sun began to rise and had an early breakfast even though they smelled like smoke and their jeans were caked with mud halfway to their knees. By the time the news got around, they’d be long gone already.
That was the plan, anyway, but when Sam, tossing the motel key card onto the table, headed for his duffel, John found himself tightening his fingers in the back of the boy’s jacket. It was stupid (dangerous), could get them arrested (killed), but he dragged him back anyway and crushed their lips together. In a tangle of arms and legs, they somehow made their way over to the bed. John supported himself heavily on one arm, the fear of crushing his little boy still too strong not to. With the other hand, he fumbled open Sam’s zipper and slipped his fingers inside.
A part of him watched almost detachedly as Sam gasped into his shirt, his eyes glazed over with pleasure, as Sam’s blunt fingernails clawed marks into his shoulder, as Sam moaned and gasped and shuddered like the world was coming to an end. That part wanted to remind him that this was his son writhing underneath him, but it was only small.
+++
The newfound harmony lasted a grand total of a day, most of which Sam spent dozing. Then he finally gave up on the possibility of real sleep and got out his laptop to check on his friends. Dad had stretched out next to him with a newspaper, no doubt on the lookout for something-or-other, and Sam was halfway through the latest entry in Becky’s blog that she didn’t know he was reading when it all went straight to Hell.
Momentarily distracted from the text by the warm body next to him, Sam let his fingers trail over Dad’s thigh and the man jerked away.
“Don’t,” he said, sharp and stressed.
Sam looked up, frowning, but his father had already shut down whatever he might have been able to read on his face.
“Why not?” he asked. He sounded annoyed, he knew that. The smarter part of his brain told him to just let it be, to give Dad the space he needed and be content with what he could get, but Sam had gotten quite good at ignoring it over the years.
“Because,” John shot back. He raised the newspaper between them like a shield. It crumpled easily when Sam pushed it aside, having discarded the laptop to get in his father’s face.
“Because you said so?” he snapped and shoved his hand into John’s boxers.
His father pushed him away, hard, and Sam ground his teeth. The rejection stung, even if his dad’s voice was not nearly as certain as his movements.
“Sammy, we can’t…“
Sam jerked back as if he had been slapped. He was off the bed and halfway into his clothes in a flash, gathering his coat and shoes into his arms. No way could he stay here, in this motel room, and not strangle the man. The man who was currently watching him with a mix of panic and bewilderment and called a strangled “Sam…!” after him as he slammed the door shut.
He crouched down next to the stairs leading up to their door - where his father wouldn’t be able to see him if he actually chose to follow - to pull on his shoes. He looked around as he did the laces, keeping a wary eye out for strangers. But even the last stragglers seemed to have found their way to bed by now. Parking lot and street were deserted, lights turned off, curtains drawn.
With strides as fast as he could make them without running, he took off into the darkness, following the road into the fields beyond the motel. Wet grass and weeds brushed against his calves as he walked, and he couldn’t help going through the creatures that lived in open fields. He was almost glad when he reached the small grove of trees that swallowed the glaring lights of the motel in the distance. The silence that engulfed him was soothing and he wandered aimlessly, slowing his pace to an even trot.
Monsters lived in the forest. He knew that. He’d known almost all his life, ever since that day he’d finally pushed too hard, and he’d never been able to forget. And now, apparently, he was a monster himself. That didn’t stop the hairs on the back of his neck from rising uneasily. Wind swept through the trees, twigs cracked, wood creaked. He was uncomfortable, and suddenly cold. It felt like there were eyes watching him from the darkness, tracking him, following his every move. He couldn’t help feeling he was being hunted.
“Please don’t do that,” he said, loud enough to be heard over the softly whispering trees.
There was a moment’s silence, then Dad emerged from the darkness between the trees, not quite where Sam had expected.
“Don’t let your guard down, Sammy,” he rumbled, dark and quiet. Maybe it had been the distance when he had been at Stanford, or maybe he had simply grown up, but Sam now understood it for the praise it was and not kindly worded criticism.
“Stop hunting me,” he said in return.
“I can’t do that,” his father shot back. “I can never do that.”
Sam rolled his eyes. “Great.”
A small, out of place smile quirked Dad’s lips. He stepped closer, hands raised as if he were approaching something dangerous and skittish.
“You’re unprotected,” he said, censure heavy in his tone.
Sam held his ground. “Yeah, well.”
His tone spoke volumes. Dad bobbed his head in acknowledgement, but he still reached behind his back and offered Sam his - Sam’s - gun with a frown that brooked no defiance.
“Jesus Christ, you’re paranoid,” Sam muttered, rolling his eyes, but he slipped the weapon into the back of his jeans anyway. He couldn’t deny feeling a little safer after he had done so, but if it was because of the gun or because of his father, he wasn’t sure.
+++
The trek back to the hotel was silent and longer than Sam remembered. By the time they finally reached the mercifully even concrete road, Sam was cold, damp and tired and around the time Dad unlocked the motel room door, his stomach decided to fervently remind him that he had skipped lunch and dinner that day. Despite that, Dad called him back from the waiting shower with a horrifying “We need to talk.”
Sam sighed. He flung his damp jacket over the back of a chair and spread his arms invitingly.
“You want to talk? Fine. Let’s talk about how this is the day when you finally decide to obey social norms.”
John opened his mouth to reply, but Sam didn’t let him. He was picking up speed.
“You know, you’ve never given a damn about what we can and can’t do. Never. And now, when I actually want that, you go and tell me that you suddenly can’t cross that line anymore?”
He threw up his hands in exasperation.
“Whatever. If you don’t want this, if you can look at me and tell me you don’t want this, fine, but don’t you dare tell me we can’t.”
His father shoved his hands into his pockets.
“Sam…”
Sam ignored the telltale signs of impatience and threw up a hand.
“And you know what, that’d be fine. It’s not like I always need to get what I want, anyway. In fact, I’m pretty good at doing without. I’ll manage, trust me.”
He glowered at his father’s frown.
“Just stop with that whole ‘can’t’ thing, okay? Because we can, got that? But if you don’t want me-“
“I do want you, Sammy-”
“Yeah, sure seems-“
The words died as Dad grabbed his hair and yanked him forward, lips crashing together painfully. Their necks were bent at awkward angles, teeth against sticky lips and beard stubble against tender skin, but Dad held tight before he let him draw back a few inches, hand still gripping the back of his neck. Sam could feel hot breath on his face as his father gave him a patented John Winchester stare.
“I said I want you, Sam. Now will you shut up?”
Sam nodded mutely, mouth hanging slightly open.
“Good.” Dad’s voice was clipped. He left Sam standing in the middle of the room, sat down on the bed with short, fanciless movements that always spoke volumes about his mood. “Now. I’m sorry if you’re upset, but you’re just gonna have to deal with the fact that I’m gonna have trouble getting used to this.”
Scoffing, Sam spread his arms in disbelief.
“What, you think this isn’t weird for me?”
His father responded with a frustrated growl.
“Sure as hell doesn’t seem like it.”
Sam giggled to himself, and even without the measuring gaze his father treated him to, he knew he was verging on hysteria.
“What? You think I don’t think having my father give me handjobs is odd?”
He bit his lip to keep another bout of laughter at bay.
“This is fucked up, even for us,” he said, impressed at how level his voice was. “I’m just saying: In the grand scheme of things that are happening to me right now, it’s still pretty tame.”
His father frowned, pinching the bridge of his nose with his thumb and index finger. The clock on the wall ticked almost a full minute away while they were silent, Sam staring at Dad who was watching the carpeting. Sam shifted on his feet and wiped the palms of his hands on his jeans.
“Can I, can I kiss you now?”
His father looked up, a surprised smile curling his lips upwards. He nodded and gestured him closer, saying, “Come here, Sammy.”
Sammy came, standing awkwardly between his father’s knees. He felt several feet too tall, but the tilted chin was all the invitation he needed to bend down and kiss him, full on the lips. John’s hands slipped under his t-shirt, pushing it upwards. Sam stepped back and pulled the shirt over his head. John leaned back on the bed and Sam climbed onto him, straddling his father’s thighs with his own.
Time had dulled the memory of what it was like, the slide of mouth against mouth with someone who mattered. The memory of a gently pushing tongue against closed lips. The memory of surrendering. Of opening up.
Sam’s fingers found the buttons of the other man’s shirt, unlocking his defenses one by one. He pushed it back, finding the expected next layer underneath. He set to work on the belt buckle, but his father tilted him sideways, hands on his hip and neck, and Sam found himself being laid on the mattress, spread out for the taking, callused fingers curling in his hair.
After that, it was like a key sliding into the lock. Losing their clothes was, despite long, tangled bodies, surprisingly quick and painless. Sam lost himself to the sensations, to the white hot fever and cool sweat until John was the only constant in his life, hard and dark and safe, until they stopped moving and it was the room around them that rocked.
A growl had him opening his eyes, looking into his father’s predator features.
“Does that feel like I want you?” he snarled and Sam nodded, blinking. He let the hunter take over and, with a harsh breath, lost control. He didn’t see the dark gleam in John’s eyes, the possessiveness. Didn’t see the fear. Didn’t hear his father growling under his breath that Sam was his now. All his. Only his.
+++
John lay in the semi-darkness of the early morning, listlessly watching the ceiling. The rush had faded, leaving only a dull emptiness. He felt old, and hungry, but he didn’t know for what. Sam rested hot and still against his side, curled away from him, stark landscape of his spine pressing against John’s ribs. His chest lay draped across John’s right arm. John had stopped feeling it a long time ago, now there was only the uncomfortable tingling sensation in his fingertips. He didn’t have the heart or the strength to move. He couldn’t push Sam away anymore, not now when they had gotten so deeply past the other’s defenses that separating would be tearing each other wide open.
Sam’s back was mapped with scars; thin, bulging, some faded, others still new, still tender. Horror stories etched into his skin, marking every one of John’s failures. He reached up to gently stroke one of the oldest, at the back of his neck, up high where the silky curls hid it almost completely. It had been one of the first, back when a single scar had still meant a difference.
John let his rough fingertips trail over the thin, white line and couldn’t help but wonder if Jessica had known about it. Sam had never paraded his scars. Of course, John had advised both his boys to cover up as much as possible in school or with friends, anywhere where people might start asking all the wrong things. Where people cared. But Dean had quickly realized that an impressive looking cut and a cock-and-bull story about a jealous husband and a hasty retreat over a fence worked wonders with girls out for a little fun.
Whereas Sam… The dress code was the only thing Sam had never questioned him about. He’d taken to long sleeves as soon as he realized that fresh cuts and faded wounds brought up questions, hiding their life under layers and hair. All the other scars, Jessica had probably discovered sooner or later - it was hard not to, they were everywhere. But this one, had she ever felt it when her hand grazed through his hair? Ever parted the strands to inspect it, to kiss it better, like John had when Sammy had been eleven and sobbing in his lap?
He let his fingers run over Sam’s shoulders, tense even in sleep, and felt a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. It was crazy and it was nauseating, and if he stopped to think for even a second, he would probably lose his mind. But somehow, somehow, he couldn’t help thinking that maybe they could make it through.
They were Winchesters. They survived whether they wanted to or not.
+++
Chapter X
Feedback is appreciated.
Rating: R
Pairing: Sam/John
Word Count: ~4,000
Disclaimer: Lies, Theft and Deceit.
Warnings: Daddycest. AU beyond belief.
Spoilers: Devil's Trap and beyond. Slight (slight!) spoiler for 3x08.
Summary: Our boys finally get it on.
Part I
Part VIII
+++
Mockingbird
Chapter IX
+++
Hush little baby; Daddy's near,
To brush your hair and calm your fears.
To kiss your cheek and hold your hand,
'Till you drift off to sleepyland.
+++
John dreamt of Mary.
She was laughing, her hair golden in the sunlight as she twirled, spinning her dress. She paused, said something then twisted away, but he couldn’t hear anything except her laughter mixed in with his own. She turned away from him. She looked down, hair falling into her face, and rubbed a hand over her flat stomach, whispering something like she was sharing a secret with someone; a secret too special even for him to know.
Then she was gone and all he could feel through his dream-filled semi-awareness was something looming over him, large and threatening. He lashed out on instinct, too used to waking up alien environments not to be on his guard. The resulting yelp and hiss of pain were familiar, however, and he snapped his eyes open guiltily to find Sam leaning away from him, both hands covering his face.
“Sorry, sorry,” John said quickly, lifting his hands into the air to show he was harmless, or rather, not about to harm the boy.
Sam smiled wryly, sitting back on his haunches.
“Good morning, Dad. Sleep well?”
John couldn’t fight the rising blush; like some school boy, damnit!
“I’m - I’m just not used to company anymore.”
“Don’t worry about it, it’s cool.”
Sam was gently nursing his jaw, he noted as he sat up, scooting back against the headrest. Long fingers massaged his skin gently, long and slender like Mary’s and John looked away before he had to choke back a sob.
“What’s up?” he asked instead. A glance at the alarm clock by the bed informed him that it was 8:17AM, so not really any hurry there. Knowing Sam, the kid had probably been up for hours already; and the wry smile told him all he needed to know.
“Uh, nothing,” Sam mumbled. He draped his long legs off the bed, a faint blush rising in his cheeks.
“It’s just… Apparently our neighbors are morning people. Can’t sleep anymore.”
John cocked his head to listen and wasn’t sure how he could have missed it. The steady thump thump thump was easily recognized, and the occasional high pitched moan and gasped encouragement was enough to have even John Winchester avoiding his companion’s eyes.
He swung his legs off the bed and tilted his head back, stretched to get rid of the kinks in his back.
“I just hope you’re not going to make a habit of this,” he threw Sam’s way, “You’re too damn huge to share a bed with.”
He groaned quietly as he made his way into the bathroom, scratching his belly and missing the evil gleam that lit up in Sam’s eyes.
+++
The enthusiastic neighbors quieted down after a while, and Sam once again felt safe enough to look his father in the eye. Dad stopped being quite so skittish and returned to his usual CO demeanor, shoving a stack of books into his arms. Sam rolled his eyes but couldn’t say he minded. The lore was old, and even if it was slightly disconcerting to read about all the people in the past who had had visions and then usually suffered a slow and painful death, it was better than not knowing about it at all.
The hours crept by almost unnoticed. He hardly even registered Dad coming back inside from his morning routine, or that the man headed for the stove after his shower. It was the rattling of Dad’s cell phone that finally tore him out of the world of mind control and ritual sacrifices and he blinked at it, momentarily disoriented.
Dad glanced up from his frying pan.
“Get that, will you?” he asked absently.
Sam frowned - his father usually insisted that he be the only one to touch his cell - and reached for it. Roadhouse, the caller ID read.
“Yeah?” he asked.
“Who is this?” a sharp voice he recognized as Ellen’s demanded after a moment’s silence. Sam readjusted the phone against his ear.
“It’s, uh, it’s Sam.”
“John’s kid,” she said. Her next question sent the blood rushing furiously to his face and he cast a quick look at his father (who was pretending not to listen but his rigid back gave him away) before answering, “Yeah, I talk now.”
John thinly disguised his snort as a cough. He turned and offered Sam the spatula in exchange for the phone.
“Let me talk to Ellen, son,” he said with quirking lips.
He took the phone from Sam’s fingers, guiding him down on a chair in front of a plate heaped with eggs and bacon. Sam had almost forgotten that that had been his breakfast all the way through school. He eyed the food with distaste, but when it neither disintegrated nor sprouted legs and walked away, he picked up his fork with a sigh.
Dad leaned against the wall behind him, one hand on the back of Sam’s neck.
“Why are you calling?” he asked.
His knuckles absently stroked over Sam’s skin, taming wayward locks of hair. Sam couldn’t help the goose bumps breaking out all over his body.
“That’s where?”
The curious fingers wandered further, stroking up and down the side of his neck. John watched Sam lean into the touch, shudder away from it as if he had been electrocuted, and it was all he could do to not turn Sam around and kiss him. He trailed a finger along his son’s collar bone, committing the details Ellen was telling him about the case to memory.
“We’re on it,” he said when she had finished, slipping his fingers under the boy’s collar.
“Good,” she said. There was a pause, slightly longer than was comfortable, then she said, “So your boy’s back to normal now?”
He couldn’t help thinking about Sam’s soft lips, the hint of stubble on his cheeks scratching against his skin, and breathed a quiet sigh of relief that she couldn’t see him flush. Still, he sounded surprisingly undaunted when he replied, “Well, as normal as he ever is. We ever are.”
“So he does talk?” There was humor in her voice this time.
John barked out a surprised laugh. “Oh, he talks. Usually he doesn’t shut up.”
Sam half-turned in his seat to glare at him, and John placated him with a quick kiss to his forehead.
“I’ll check in when we’re done,” he said, flipping the phone shut and tossing it onto the pile with their waiting research.
Sam was still giving him the stink-eye.
“You’re hilarious, Dad,” he growled, teeth bared in the distorted mockery of a smile, and John couldn’t help it. He started to laugh, deep and relieved, tension bleeding from his shoulders. He rested a hand on the small of his son’s back as he sat down, but even after he had pulled his books towards him, he left his fingers where they were, idly toying with the hem of Sam’s shirt.
+++
They reached their next stop well after nightfall. Sam pulled the truck into the motel parking lot as gently as he could, but when he looked over, he could still see his father stir. Dad blinked, bleary eyes working hard to focus on the neon Vacancy sign. He stifled a yawn, rearranged his limbs and winced as his joints popped.
He fished for his wallet and tossed a credit card at Sam.
“Hey, Sammy, would you mind…? I’ma need a minute.”
Sam scoffed quietly, biting back a comment about getting old - surest way to get his ass kicked - and climbed out of the car. The bell above the door jingled as he pushed it open, and a few moments later, a bed-headed clerk in his late teens appeared. Sounds of gun shots and squealing tires in the back room told Sam that he was probably keeping him from something, so he handed the card over quickly.
“One room, please,” he said, “Two nights, for now.”
The clerk took down the information on the card with a wordless nod, then he looked up.
“King or two queens?” he asked, cracking his gum.
Sam shot a quick look over his shoulder at his father, sitting on the hood of the truck out of the clerk’s view. He looked haggard and half-asleep. Too tired to protest.
A plan already forming in his mind, Sam turned back to give the man his most blinding grin.
“King, please.”
With the key safely in his pocket, he returned to give his Dad a hand with the bags. John blinked at him.
“What’s up with the Cheshire Cat routine?” he asked, but Sam shook his head.
“Come on, let’s go,” he said, slinging a duffel over his shoulder, “I’m tired.”
+++
Dad really had to be tired - he didn’t notice the bed until he had set his load down, despite going through his usual safety routine.
He stared at it for a moment.
“Um, Sam,” he said.
Sam threw himself down on the bed, sprawling all over the covers.
“Yeah?”
His father gave him an uncertain look.
“I think the clerk mixed something up,” he said, his uncertain tone making it sound more like a question. Sam shrugged.
“Maybe? But I’m sure as hell too tired to get back there and set it right. You gonna do it?”
He closed his eyes and stretched, as far as he could. As calculated, his shirt rode up, exposing sharp hipbones, his rock-hard stomach.
He could almost feel his father stilling and when John’s breath caught in his throat, making a small choked noise, he knew he had him. He didn’t allow himself that triumphant grin that was just dying to escape, but he probably looked entirely too smug, anyway.
+++
A routing haunting, as much as anything was ever routine for them. Dad dug while Sammy held the flashlight and kept watch. Sam emptied the canister into the grave, Dad tossed in the lit matches and then Sam read the last rites just to be on the safe side.
They made it to the diner next to their motel just as the sun began to rise and had an early breakfast even though they smelled like smoke and their jeans were caked with mud halfway to their knees. By the time the news got around, they’d be long gone already.
That was the plan, anyway, but when Sam, tossing the motel key card onto the table, headed for his duffel, John found himself tightening his fingers in the back of the boy’s jacket. It was stupid (dangerous), could get them arrested (killed), but he dragged him back anyway and crushed their lips together. In a tangle of arms and legs, they somehow made their way over to the bed. John supported himself heavily on one arm, the fear of crushing his little boy still too strong not to. With the other hand, he fumbled open Sam’s zipper and slipped his fingers inside.
A part of him watched almost detachedly as Sam gasped into his shirt, his eyes glazed over with pleasure, as Sam’s blunt fingernails clawed marks into his shoulder, as Sam moaned and gasped and shuddered like the world was coming to an end. That part wanted to remind him that this was his son writhing underneath him, but it was only small.
+++
The newfound harmony lasted a grand total of a day, most of which Sam spent dozing. Then he finally gave up on the possibility of real sleep and got out his laptop to check on his friends. Dad had stretched out next to him with a newspaper, no doubt on the lookout for something-or-other, and Sam was halfway through the latest entry in Becky’s blog that she didn’t know he was reading when it all went straight to Hell.
Momentarily distracted from the text by the warm body next to him, Sam let his fingers trail over Dad’s thigh and the man jerked away.
“Don’t,” he said, sharp and stressed.
Sam looked up, frowning, but his father had already shut down whatever he might have been able to read on his face.
“Why not?” he asked. He sounded annoyed, he knew that. The smarter part of his brain told him to just let it be, to give Dad the space he needed and be content with what he could get, but Sam had gotten quite good at ignoring it over the years.
“Because,” John shot back. He raised the newspaper between them like a shield. It crumpled easily when Sam pushed it aside, having discarded the laptop to get in his father’s face.
“Because you said so?” he snapped and shoved his hand into John’s boxers.
His father pushed him away, hard, and Sam ground his teeth. The rejection stung, even if his dad’s voice was not nearly as certain as his movements.
“Sammy, we can’t…“
Sam jerked back as if he had been slapped. He was off the bed and halfway into his clothes in a flash, gathering his coat and shoes into his arms. No way could he stay here, in this motel room, and not strangle the man. The man who was currently watching him with a mix of panic and bewilderment and called a strangled “Sam…!” after him as he slammed the door shut.
He crouched down next to the stairs leading up to their door - where his father wouldn’t be able to see him if he actually chose to follow - to pull on his shoes. He looked around as he did the laces, keeping a wary eye out for strangers. But even the last stragglers seemed to have found their way to bed by now. Parking lot and street were deserted, lights turned off, curtains drawn.
With strides as fast as he could make them without running, he took off into the darkness, following the road into the fields beyond the motel. Wet grass and weeds brushed against his calves as he walked, and he couldn’t help going through the creatures that lived in open fields. He was almost glad when he reached the small grove of trees that swallowed the glaring lights of the motel in the distance. The silence that engulfed him was soothing and he wandered aimlessly, slowing his pace to an even trot.
Monsters lived in the forest. He knew that. He’d known almost all his life, ever since that day he’d finally pushed too hard, and he’d never been able to forget. And now, apparently, he was a monster himself. That didn’t stop the hairs on the back of his neck from rising uneasily. Wind swept through the trees, twigs cracked, wood creaked. He was uncomfortable, and suddenly cold. It felt like there were eyes watching him from the darkness, tracking him, following his every move. He couldn’t help feeling he was being hunted.
“Please don’t do that,” he said, loud enough to be heard over the softly whispering trees.
There was a moment’s silence, then Dad emerged from the darkness between the trees, not quite where Sam had expected.
“Don’t let your guard down, Sammy,” he rumbled, dark and quiet. Maybe it had been the distance when he had been at Stanford, or maybe he had simply grown up, but Sam now understood it for the praise it was and not kindly worded criticism.
“Stop hunting me,” he said in return.
“I can’t do that,” his father shot back. “I can never do that.”
Sam rolled his eyes. “Great.”
A small, out of place smile quirked Dad’s lips. He stepped closer, hands raised as if he were approaching something dangerous and skittish.
“You’re unprotected,” he said, censure heavy in his tone.
Sam held his ground. “Yeah, well.”
His tone spoke volumes. Dad bobbed his head in acknowledgement, but he still reached behind his back and offered Sam his - Sam’s - gun with a frown that brooked no defiance.
“Jesus Christ, you’re paranoid,” Sam muttered, rolling his eyes, but he slipped the weapon into the back of his jeans anyway. He couldn’t deny feeling a little safer after he had done so, but if it was because of the gun or because of his father, he wasn’t sure.
+++
The trek back to the hotel was silent and longer than Sam remembered. By the time they finally reached the mercifully even concrete road, Sam was cold, damp and tired and around the time Dad unlocked the motel room door, his stomach decided to fervently remind him that he had skipped lunch and dinner that day. Despite that, Dad called him back from the waiting shower with a horrifying “We need to talk.”
Sam sighed. He flung his damp jacket over the back of a chair and spread his arms invitingly.
“You want to talk? Fine. Let’s talk about how this is the day when you finally decide to obey social norms.”
John opened his mouth to reply, but Sam didn’t let him. He was picking up speed.
“You know, you’ve never given a damn about what we can and can’t do. Never. And now, when I actually want that, you go and tell me that you suddenly can’t cross that line anymore?”
He threw up his hands in exasperation.
“Whatever. If you don’t want this, if you can look at me and tell me you don’t want this, fine, but don’t you dare tell me we can’t.”
His father shoved his hands into his pockets.
“Sam…”
Sam ignored the telltale signs of impatience and threw up a hand.
“And you know what, that’d be fine. It’s not like I always need to get what I want, anyway. In fact, I’m pretty good at doing without. I’ll manage, trust me.”
He glowered at his father’s frown.
“Just stop with that whole ‘can’t’ thing, okay? Because we can, got that? But if you don’t want me-“
“I do want you, Sammy-”
“Yeah, sure seems-“
The words died as Dad grabbed his hair and yanked him forward, lips crashing together painfully. Their necks were bent at awkward angles, teeth against sticky lips and beard stubble against tender skin, but Dad held tight before he let him draw back a few inches, hand still gripping the back of his neck. Sam could feel hot breath on his face as his father gave him a patented John Winchester stare.
“I said I want you, Sam. Now will you shut up?”
Sam nodded mutely, mouth hanging slightly open.
“Good.” Dad’s voice was clipped. He left Sam standing in the middle of the room, sat down on the bed with short, fanciless movements that always spoke volumes about his mood. “Now. I’m sorry if you’re upset, but you’re just gonna have to deal with the fact that I’m gonna have trouble getting used to this.”
Scoffing, Sam spread his arms in disbelief.
“What, you think this isn’t weird for me?”
His father responded with a frustrated growl.
“Sure as hell doesn’t seem like it.”
Sam giggled to himself, and even without the measuring gaze his father treated him to, he knew he was verging on hysteria.
“What? You think I don’t think having my father give me handjobs is odd?”
He bit his lip to keep another bout of laughter at bay.
“This is fucked up, even for us,” he said, impressed at how level his voice was. “I’m just saying: In the grand scheme of things that are happening to me right now, it’s still pretty tame.”
His father frowned, pinching the bridge of his nose with his thumb and index finger. The clock on the wall ticked almost a full minute away while they were silent, Sam staring at Dad who was watching the carpeting. Sam shifted on his feet and wiped the palms of his hands on his jeans.
“Can I, can I kiss you now?”
His father looked up, a surprised smile curling his lips upwards. He nodded and gestured him closer, saying, “Come here, Sammy.”
Sammy came, standing awkwardly between his father’s knees. He felt several feet too tall, but the tilted chin was all the invitation he needed to bend down and kiss him, full on the lips. John’s hands slipped under his t-shirt, pushing it upwards. Sam stepped back and pulled the shirt over his head. John leaned back on the bed and Sam climbed onto him, straddling his father’s thighs with his own.
Time had dulled the memory of what it was like, the slide of mouth against mouth with someone who mattered. The memory of a gently pushing tongue against closed lips. The memory of surrendering. Of opening up.
Sam’s fingers found the buttons of the other man’s shirt, unlocking his defenses one by one. He pushed it back, finding the expected next layer underneath. He set to work on the belt buckle, but his father tilted him sideways, hands on his hip and neck, and Sam found himself being laid on the mattress, spread out for the taking, callused fingers curling in his hair.
After that, it was like a key sliding into the lock. Losing their clothes was, despite long, tangled bodies, surprisingly quick and painless. Sam lost himself to the sensations, to the white hot fever and cool sweat until John was the only constant in his life, hard and dark and safe, until they stopped moving and it was the room around them that rocked.
A growl had him opening his eyes, looking into his father’s predator features.
“Does that feel like I want you?” he snarled and Sam nodded, blinking. He let the hunter take over and, with a harsh breath, lost control. He didn’t see the dark gleam in John’s eyes, the possessiveness. Didn’t see the fear. Didn’t hear his father growling under his breath that Sam was his now. All his. Only his.
+++
John lay in the semi-darkness of the early morning, listlessly watching the ceiling. The rush had faded, leaving only a dull emptiness. He felt old, and hungry, but he didn’t know for what. Sam rested hot and still against his side, curled away from him, stark landscape of his spine pressing against John’s ribs. His chest lay draped across John’s right arm. John had stopped feeling it a long time ago, now there was only the uncomfortable tingling sensation in his fingertips. He didn’t have the heart or the strength to move. He couldn’t push Sam away anymore, not now when they had gotten so deeply past the other’s defenses that separating would be tearing each other wide open.
Sam’s back was mapped with scars; thin, bulging, some faded, others still new, still tender. Horror stories etched into his skin, marking every one of John’s failures. He reached up to gently stroke one of the oldest, at the back of his neck, up high where the silky curls hid it almost completely. It had been one of the first, back when a single scar had still meant a difference.
John let his rough fingertips trail over the thin, white line and couldn’t help but wonder if Jessica had known about it. Sam had never paraded his scars. Of course, John had advised both his boys to cover up as much as possible in school or with friends, anywhere where people might start asking all the wrong things. Where people cared. But Dean had quickly realized that an impressive looking cut and a cock-and-bull story about a jealous husband and a hasty retreat over a fence worked wonders with girls out for a little fun.
Whereas Sam… The dress code was the only thing Sam had never questioned him about. He’d taken to long sleeves as soon as he realized that fresh cuts and faded wounds brought up questions, hiding their life under layers and hair. All the other scars, Jessica had probably discovered sooner or later - it was hard not to, they were everywhere. But this one, had she ever felt it when her hand grazed through his hair? Ever parted the strands to inspect it, to kiss it better, like John had when Sammy had been eleven and sobbing in his lap?
He let his fingers run over Sam’s shoulders, tense even in sleep, and felt a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. It was crazy and it was nauseating, and if he stopped to think for even a second, he would probably lose his mind. But somehow, somehow, he couldn’t help thinking that maybe they could make it through.
They were Winchesters. They survived whether they wanted to or not.
+++
Chapter X
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