To Salt the Flame, Part Four, Leverage/SPN, NC-17
Fandom: Leverage/Supernatural
Title: To Salt the Flame, Part Four ( Part One here & Part Two & Part Three)
Pairing/Characters: Eliot Spencer/ Father John Winchester, Dean(Michael)/Eliot, OCs
Word Count: 7346
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Pre-Series for Leverage, AU pre-series for SPN. John Winchester lost everything, and surrendered all that was left into the church that saved him. He became a priest who served his God in the traditional ways, as well as a few less traditional ways. Eliot Spencer is a young man restless and on the move, trying to outrun his past and chasing a life of painful destruction toward his future. When the two collide, it leaves a mark...on both of them. Dean is a troubled young man fighting to make something of himself the only way he knows how. The three may not know it yet, but they are tied together on a journey that's going to get very ugly before it arrives at the final destination.
A/Ns & Warnings: Written for havenward who made me pretty banners. This is priest!kink, people. Vows are broken and faith is wrestled with. All of our boys have dark pasts and when they come together, demons of the figurative kind may not be the only thing they have to deal with. This incorporates some parts that have been posted in other formats, from comment fic to bingo card fills.
"You're in a foul mood." Eliot said it with a fair amount of amusement, but the glare he got from Michael told him he was more right than he'd thought. "Something wrong?"
"Wrong?" Michael wrapped a hand in the hair of the whore who'd been servicing him when Eliot arrived and shoved her toward the door. "What could possibly be wrong?"
"I can come back." Eliot leaned on the doorframe, watching Michael storm around the room.
"Did you get it?" Michael stopped by the counter that divided the kitchen from the living room, pouring whiskey into two glasses and lighting a cigarette before he came back into the living room, his pants still open. He handed Eliot one of the glasses and dropped onto the couch with his own.
"Yeah, I got it. Would I be here if I didn't?"
Michael made a face and shrugged. "All kinds of people giving me shit this week. I need this deal to go through."
"You can arrange a meet with Peski so I can hand it off?"
"You in a hurry?"
Eliot rolled his eyes and pushed away from the door. "I got another job lined up."
"Anything good?"
"Not your line of work. Some book. In a church."
Michael made a face. "Goddamn churches." He swallowed down half his whiskey. "I'm so fucking tired of churches."
"Then we won't talk about them." Eliot answered. He was itching to get this job over and get out of town, away from the damn priest that seemed to be the only thing he could think about. If the first time wasn't bad enough, he'd tried to say he was sorry for being all gruff and angry when they'd parted and they'd ended up in an alley, then another motel room…and now…well, now the priest was back up at his church, praying off his guilt and Eliot just wanted to forget him.
"You seem distracted." Michael put out his cigarette and drained his whiskey. "Let me call Peski's people and arrange a hook up, then maybe I can find something to keep your attention."
Eliot grinned as Michael disappeared into the bedroom. He relaxed and rolled his shoulders, took his jacket off. Michael was right. He needed to relax. He checked the pocket for the package for maybe the fifth time since leaving the priest. He was suddenly nervous about it.
John hadn't asked specifically about the package, though they’d talked about Houston because Eliot thought he might get some information about the church there, but John didn’t approve and somehow it had gotten under his skin. He just wanted to be rid of the damn thing. Michael came back, grinning. "We got about an hour to kill, Peski's got some business to deal."
Eliot nodded and dropped the jacket in the chair. "I think I know a way to kill an hour."
"I thought you might."
"Unless your little whore wore you out, of course."
Michael raised an eyebrow. "How long we known each other?"
Eliot frowned a little, thinking about it. "Over a year now."
"And, in all that time…" Michael crossed the room and grabbed his shirt. "Have you ever known me to let some whore wear me out?"
"Point." Eliot responded as Michael began tugging him toward the bedroom.
"Besides, you didn't give me time to finish…I'm getting blue balls over here."
"Can't have that." Eliot let him pull his shirt off before pushing him back onto the bed. He grabbed the belt loops of Michael's jeans and yanked them down, leaving them somewhere around his knees before Eliot was crawling up on the bed.
Michael's cock was hard and curled up toward his stomach. "Maybe I'll pick up where she left off…" Eliot said with a grin, leaning in to lick up Michael's dick. Michael shuddered and reached for him, but Eliot pulled out of reach. His own cock was starting to take an interest, despite having spent most of the night finding new and intriguing sins with John.
He closed his eyes and shoved the man out of his thoughts. The last thing he needed to be thinking about was another man. He opened his mouth and took Michael's cock into his mouth, laving his tongue over it as he sank down, sucking lightly as he pulled back up.
Michael groaned and shifted under him, already back to where he'd been when Eliot showed up. It wasn't going to take much. Eliot reached between his legs and rolled Michael's balls between his fingers, smirking around his cock as Michael cursed and dug his feet into the bed. Seconds later, Eliot pulled away as Michael came, laughing when Michael's groan shook the bed. "Shit, you'd think you hadn't come in a month."
Michael reached for his cock, cradling it, even as it finished spilling come onto his stomach. "Where do you think you're going?"
Eliot stood beside the bed, his hands on his belt. "Well I was going to take off my pants so you can return the favor."
Michael played with the nipple ring on his left nipple, his eyes raking over Eliot. He sat up slowly. "Go on then."
"You want me to put on a show?" Eliot smirked as he unbuckled his belt.
"Just want to see what new scars you've got."
Eliot rolled his eyes. "Nothing new. Though I saw the thing on your back earlier."
Michael waved it off. "As scars go, that's nothing."
Eliot dropped his jeans and stepped out of them, coming back to the bed with his cock half hard. He leaned in and licked around the nipple ring, then sucked it into his mouth. He let it go with a pop and laid down beside Michael, who lifted up on one elbow to look down at him.
At that moment, he suddenly looked young, his eyes soft and green, his hand splayed out on Eliot's chest. Eliot never had figured out how old Michael was. He was one of those guys who just seemed to have always existed, just like he was.
Michael shook his head and the moment passed, his hand moving south to circle around Eliot's cock and tug until it was full and hard. He wasted no time in leaning in, taking all of it into his mouth and sucking hard. He lifted up and licked across the tip, then down the sides, his hand holding Eliot's cock firmly in place.
"How long you think I could keep you like this?" Michael asked suddenly, turning his face to Eliot's, letting his short hair brush across the head of Eliot's cock.
"You said we had an hour." Eliot reminded him. Michael made a face.
"Spoiled sport." He went back to licking and sucking, pulling Eliot up to the edge, then pulling away to finish him with his hand. Eliot's come coated his hand and Michael laughed as he got up from the bed, waddling to the bathroom with his jeans around his ankles. He came back with a wet wash cloth that he threw at Eliot and a toothbrush dangling from his mouth.
Eliot wiped across his stomach to get whatever hadn't ended up in Michael's hand.
"So…you been playing rough with someone lately?" Michael asked before ducking into the bathroom to spit and rinse.
Eliot frowned up at him, then realized he meant the finger tip bruises on his hips. "You might say that. You know I like it that way."
"Maybe later I'll show what rough really looks like." Michael offered with a grin.
Eliot knew he could too. A part of him wanted to stay and find out. "Later, I'll be on my way to Houston. Maybe next time I'm in town."
Michael frowned at him, then turned away. "Whatever. I'm gonna shower."
Eliot sighed and rubbed a hand over his face. He just wanted to deliver his package, get his money and get the hell out of town.
Of course, Houston was its own set of problems. The book he needed to retrieve was ancient, worth a fortune, and hidden away inside a monastery's library where no one but monks and priests and seen it for decades.
He'd gotten the package to Peski, gotten out, and at least this job wasn't the kind that could get him killed. It was just a retrieval. Go in, get the book, get out. Simple.
There was the annoying tug of conscience currently derailing his concentration, something that probably wouldn't have bothered him before the whole thing with John. He sighed and shoved the man out of his thoughts again.
Damn him anyway. It was becoming a goddamn obsession. Something Eliot could not afford.
He tugged uncomfortably at the neck of the monk's robe he wore over his clothes, averting his eyes as he passed a priest who seemed to be looking at him strangely, like he knew Eliot didn't belong there.
He kept his head bowed and tried to keep his boots from sounding like boots as he made his way through the halls of the monastery. He turned a corner, expecting a door to a library and found himself staring down another long hallway instead.
"Damnit."
The place was a maze of hidden chambers, secret gardens and patios and chapels and he'd already been inside far longer than he had intended to be. This was meant to be easier than this. He exhaled and looked around himself to try to get his bearings and figure out where he'd made a wrong turn.
"Is everything all right, brother?"
Eliot turned, that same priest was standing close enough that he was going to see past the hood of the robe and notice that Eliot was not a monk. He opened his mouth to respond, then remembered that the monks here were under vows of silence and nodded instead, offering a smile before bowing his head and stepping away.
A hand stopped him, hard on his shoulder. "I don't think I know you. Perhaps you should come to my office."
Eliot was beginning to think he was going to have to hit the priest…which, to be honest, wouldn't be his first time, but still, he didn't want to think about the added karma that would earn him. His fists clenched under the long sleeves of the robe and he drew a breath.
"Ah, Brother Bartholomew. There you are."
Eliot froze in place, the familiar voice both welcome in his current predicament and unwanted for who the voice belonged to.
"Father Solomon, right? I'm Father Winchester. The good brother and I are visiting from St. Andrews."
"Ah, that would be why he is unfamiliar."
Eliot glowered at John, but turned away as the other priest turned to look at him. No point in blowing the cover John just gave him. John shifted his small duffle bag from one hand to the other. "Yes, we came to use your library, but Bartholomew here has a terrible sense of direction, and got himself all turned around." John's empty hand came to rest on Eliot's shoulder, his fingers digging in just a little.
"Well, Father, you are not far from your destination, you probably took a wrong turn back by the garden. Down this hall, turn left at the chapel of the Blessed Virgin. The library is on the right."
"Thank you Father, very kind of you." John's voice was pleasant, but Eliot could hear his annoyance anyway.
John's hand slipped down to Eliot's back, pressing inward to get him moving. "Of all the half-baked, god-damn stupid ideas." John's voice whispered in his ear.
They got around the corner and John pulled him into the chapel, shoving him into the wall after closing the door. They both glanced around the room to ensure it was empty, then back at each other.
"What the hell were you thinking?"
"Relax." Eliot said, shrugging John's hands off him and pulling the hood back. "They're priests and monks…I can handle them."
John shook his head. "What is so goddamn important in that library?"
"A book." Eliot deadpanned, looking him in the eye. They had talked about it before Eliot left him. Maybe Eliot meant it to shock the man, to make him realize that Eliot was not a good man, not the person John wanted.
"Funny. I'm serious. I'm not letting you steal from this place without a really good reason."
"Letting me?" Eliot scoffed, pushing off the wall, only to have John shove him back into it. "Last I recall, you wanted nothing to do with me and my life of crime." He smirked and reached a hand between them, grabbing John's cock through his pants. "Or has temptation gotten the better of you again, Father?" If he couldn't convince him one way, he'd just try another.
John's eyes closed as his cock hardened in Eliot's hand…then his hand caught Eliot's wrist. "Not here."
"Wouldn't be the first time." Eliot countered, leaning in to kiss him. John breathed into him, a vague whimper at the back of his throat. Eliot continued to stroke his cock, despite John's hand holding his wrist. "So easy." Eliot whispered over John's lips as John came.
John opened his eyes, pinning Eliot in place with more than a look, his hands shoving Eliot back into the wall again. His eyes were dark, glittering. "Let's go find this book of yours so that I can teach you a lesson about temptation."
He stepped back and adjusted himself, cracked his neck and headed for the door. Eliot followed him into the hall and into the library. Books were never really his thing.
"Where?" John asked.
Eliot looked around them and pointed. "In the back." Eliot took the lead, around large bookshelves and up to the display of ancient books.
"Seriously?" John asked in a hushed whisper. "You expect me to just let you walk out of here with one of those?"
"That one." Eliot whispered back, pointing at the illustrated bible he'd been sent after. "It belongs to my client's family. Was stolen more than a century ago and filtered through a few hands before it ended up with the church. They've tried to recover it, but the church won't hear of it. So they hired me." He wasn't even sure how much of the story he believed, but at the moment all that mattered was convincing John.
"And did you have a plan for getting it out of here?"
Eliot smirked at him, then set about getting the display open. It wasn't secured, because the church was so confident that no one would get in. He slipped the book out and squatted, lifting the hem of his borrowed robe, getting his shirt open and tucking the book into the special pouch he'd strapped to his chest.
As long as no one touched him, no one would know there was a book there. He stood and smoothed the robe back down.
"Now, I figure we've got about another ten minutes before Father Solomon gets off the phone with St. Andrews and realizes that there is no Brother Bartholomew there." John said. "So I hope you've got a good exit strategy."
"We're just going to walk out the front door." Eliot said. "But if you mean ten minutes, we better move."
They set out for the doors, hurrying but trying hard not to look like they were hurrying. Eliot's boots scuffed far too loudly on the floor, and his heart pounded against the weight of the book. He was ready to run if he had to, but they cleared the front door and down the steps of the complex.
As they reached the sidewalk, John fisted a hand in the robe, hauling him away, toward the main road. "Not a word." John said when Eliot opened his mouth.
He hailed a cab as the got to the corner, shoving Eliot into it and getting in behind him. "Take us downtown." John growled to the driver.
"Anywhere in particular, Father?"
"Just go. I need to think."
John was pissed, Eliot could see that. "Come on, you didn't find that the least bit fun?" Eliot asked, sitting up on his side of the seat.
"No. Eliot. Damn it." John wiped his face and looked behind him. "You're lucky we aren't sitting in some jail cell."
Eliot shook his head. "Trust me, they aren't going to call the cops. Driver, take us to the Lucky 8 motel on Ashton."
"We're not going to a motel." John growled, his eyes glancing up at the mirror.
"I am, I need to get my shit. Then I'm heading to El Paso to deliver this and get paid. You do what you want."
"Right."
The cab pulled up to the motel and John paid him, getting out of the car behind Eliot. "I'm in nine." Eliot said, leading the way. Once in the room he pulled off the monk's robe and tossed it on the bed. He started unbuttoning his shirt and John reached out a hand to stop him.
"What are you doing?"
"If you think I'm driving all the way to El Paso with this thing strapped to my chest, you're crazy."
John pulled his hand away looking a little sheepish and nodding. He paced to the other side of the room, dropping his bag on the bed and stopped to stare in the mirror over the dresser.
"You gonna tell me why you're here?"
John sighed and shook his head. He didn't answer, not right away and when he did speak, that wasn't really an answer either. "I woke up this morning stiff and sore and feeling like a complete ass." He pulled a hand through his hair. "I prayed all day yesterday. I…" His eyes searched for something in the mirror and then lifted to Eliot when they didn't find whatever it was. "I couldn't…" He shook his head again. "It was a mistake."
He pushed back from the dresser and went for his bag. "I shouldn't have come."
The way he was brushing at the wet spot on his pants, Eliot wasn't really sure if he meant to Houston or in the chapel. Either way, John pulled clean pants from his bag and turned his back to Eliot. For his part, Eliot turned away, putting the stolen bible on the table and throwing the last of his things in his own bag.
He knew from mistakes. Like letting the priest seduce him. Eliot snorted and shook his head. It wasn't like he resisted all that much. That too was part of his mistake. The right thing to do would be to walk away now. Take the bible and get to El Paso. Leave John here.
Thing was, Eliot never had been very good at doing the right thing. John sighed and Eliot turned to look at him. He was pitiful looking, sullen and closing in on despondent. Eliot shook his head. "So, you coming or what?"
They were still another sixty miles away from El Paso when John realized they were stopping. Eliot pulled them off the road and into the parking area in front of a beat down roadside motel. It was closing in on two in the morning and Eliot yawned as he put the car in park. "Need sleep."
John didn't respond, but he followed as Eliot rolled out of the car and headed for the office. The place was desolate, no cars but theirs in the lot, the pool empty but for a couple inches of stagnant water and dried leaves.
The desk clerk was a tired old man with gaps in his teeth who barely looked up at them when he handed over the room key. John followed Eliot out of the office and down to their room, feeling like something had dragged a part of him off and left him half empty and falling apart.
In the room, Eliot collapsed on the first bed, kicking off his shoes and groaning. John headed for the bathroom, blinking in the weak light and rubbing a hand over his face. The reflection staring back at him was haggard and tired looking, facial hair that reminded him he hadn’t shaved since leaving Chicago and dark bags under his eyes that was evidence he hadn’t slept well in at least as long.
He blinked at the collar he’d forgotten he was wearing, his fingers running over it with reverence. He didn’t deserve to wear it. Not now. The light flickered and he nodded to himself, but didn’t take it off.
Instead, he washed his hands, his face and he opened his bag, taking out his rosary, his worn bible and a bottle of holy water. He needed to pray, to seek forgiveness and direction. He turned off the bathroom light and went to the empty bed, kneeling slowly beside it.
He opened the bottle of holy water, wetting his fingers with it and crossing himself before closing it and leaving it on the bed. He fingered the rosary, finding his way to the beginning before closing his eyes and beginning his prayers. His mouth moved with the words, familiar as his own name, offering him a tender peace, centering him.
Twice through the beads, John turned his prayers to the more personal, less structured, searching through himself for the emotional catalyst to his latest sins. His hand tightened around the beads as he offered his heart up in supplication, the anguish of seeing Dean, of seeing what had become of his sweet boy and knowing that he was to blame.
Tears burned his face and he pulled a pillow to him to muffle the sound of his sobs.
And there was Eliot, not much older than Dean, his story etched in his skin where John should never have seen it. It had been tthose scars, and the stories they told that drew him…Eliot had been sent to him to protect and instead, John had seduced him, a temptation that even now he couldn’t shake himself free from.
His fingers hurt he was holding the rosary so tight, but he just squeezed harder, hoping the pain would help him focus. Only, instead of purity or prayers, John could only see Eliot’s skin, pulled tight over hard muscle, each scar marking a transgression, and John’s lips all the redemption the boy had ever known.
“John.”
He opened his eyes. Eliot looked at him a hand out. John wanted to say no. He wanted to stay on his knees, praying.
Somehow he ended up on the bed, Eliot spooned up behind him, the rosary still in his hand. Sleep claimed him before he could think too much about it, dragging him into dreams of demons come to claim his blood.
Eliot parked the car behind the building where his client had an office. John didn't even look up, his fingers working over the beads of his rosary, his eyes closed. "So, um. There's a church about three blocks east. I'm gonna be at least an hour."
John's fingers stopped moving, his lips pressing closed. Still, he said nothing.
"And…the bus station is just north of there. If…I mean…I don't know where I'm headed after this…so if you wanted to…" Eliot shook his head and opened his door. "I'd understand."
John was still sitting with his eyes closed, still in the collar, still silent when Eliot walked away.
He'd dreamed about Emily again the night before. He could hear her scream, could see the night sky burning, smell the ash and sulfur in the air. It had pulled him out of bed early, leaving John to his own troubled dreams and locking himself in the bathroom to shower off the memory.
John had his own nightmares and when Eliot emerged from the bathroom, John sat on the edge of the bed, his head in his hands. They’d hardly spoken and now…well, now Eliot expected to get back to the car and find the priest gone.
He hefted the book and climbed the stairs to the office of his client, smiling at his receptionist. A quick hand off and then he was taking some down time. Maybe head to the mountains. Get his head clear.
Then maybe he’d take that job in Thailand, get out of the country for a while.
“Mr. Arquez will see you.” Eliot nodded to her and opened the door to the office.
Arquez stood, buttoning his suit jacket. “Ah, Mr. Spencer. That was quick work.”
“As I promised when I took the job, Mr. Arquez. You have my payment?”
He held up an envelope. Eliot opened the bag and pulled the book out. They traded and Eliot shoved the envelope into a pocket. “Pleasure.” He headed for the door, thinking he’d hit the branch of the bank he had one of his accounts in before he headed back to the car.
“Before you go.”
Eliot tensed and turned, ready to fight to keep his money. Arquez smiled.
“I have another job, if you’re interested.”
Eliot made a face and relaxed. “What?”
“There is a package I would like delivered to an associate in Dallas.” He held up a small box. “It is-“
Eliot held up both hands. “It’s better I don’t know. What are you offering?”
“The same.”
Eliot weighed the options. He could at least give John a lift back to Dallas that way, and it was extra money. On the other hand, it put him back in Dallas. “In advance, I ain’t coming back here.”
Arquez went to his desk and opened a drawer, pulling out a similar envelope. “Instructions are in the envelope.” He brought it to Eliot. “It is time sensitive.”
“I’ll get it there.” He took the envelope and the box. “Call you when it’s done?”
“No need. I’ll know when it arrives.”
Eliot nodded and headed out, across the street to the bank. It only took him a few minutes to make the deposit and stop into the convenience store for fresh road supplies.
He headed back for the car, wondering if he should wait out the hour to see if John would come back or-He stopped as he rounded the building. John was leaning against the car. The collar and the rosary were gone and in their place was a simple t-shirt and jeans.
He looked up, smiling at Eliot a little. “Everything all right?”
“Expected to find you gone.”
John nodded. “I can be if you want me to be.”
There eyes met, and for a long moment neither of them moved, then Eliot nodded and put the bag of food in the back seat. “So, funny thing. We’re headed back to Dallas.”
There was a slight hesitation then, as if that was the last thing John wanted to do, then he nodded too. “Okay.”
They climbed into the car and Eliot started the engine, then looked at John. “What changed?”
“I asked for guidance.” John said simply.
Eliot waited for more and it didn’t come, he backed out of the parking spot and headed for the freeway. “Just…going to go where I take you?”
John smiled and it was that look Eliot could never understand…the bliss of belief that Eliot had never found. He shook his head. It probably meant he wasn’t getting laid any time soon.
He slammed into the apartment, the boy behind him. To be fair, he was probably older than Dean was, but that’s what he was. His boy. Payment for a debt that Dean had called in to help him out of a bind.
He needed the goddamn money, not some whore. He was cutting it close in paying it back and he didn’t think the bastard he owed was going to take a broken boy slut in payment.
Dean shook his head and turned to look him over. He was dirty with more than just the grime of kneeling in the alley. His hair was matted and what he had in the way of clothes hung off him. He averted his eyes, but blushed under the dirt at the feeling of Dean’s eyes.
Dean sighed and poured himself a drink. Well, at least he’d finally have a maid. “Okay so. Different people call me by different names. You will call me Sir.”
The boy nodded once, tight, his eyes still on the ground.
“Good. Now, obviously I’ll have you servicing me sexually.” There was only a tiny flinch which told Dean he’d been prepared for that. “And your daily chores will include cleaning the apartment and fetching my mail.”
“Yes, sir.” His voice was scratchy and his tone uncertain.
“Right. Let’s start with you. Bathroom is through there. I don’t want to see you again until you’re clean and ready to spit shine my dick.” For a long moment, the boy didn’t move, then he shuffled away, leaving Dean alone in his small apartment.
At least he had the money from the deal with Peski. Eliot always came through for him. It didn’t help that he’d handed his father that wad of cash. He could kick himself for it now, but he’d wanted to make the point.
His father.
Lot of fucking nerve the bastard had to show up at his door like that. Dean fumed and slammed down the whiskey in his glass. It had been days and he was still fuming over it.
He went to sit on the couch, pushing crap off the coffee table until he found a small box. So far he’d put off doing anything with it. In the wrong hands the damn thing was a death sentence. That he was even considering offering it to Carlos was insane.
He opened the box and lit a cigarette, staring down at the harmless looking little rabbit’s foot. He’d been planning on dumping it into a hex box and storing it with the other valuable trinkets that sometimes fell into his lap, the kind that shouldn’t be allowed out on the market, but kept very secret for very selective buyers.
But, trading it to Carlos for his marker would get him out from under in more ways than one. His slate would be clean, and in a few days or weeks, however long Carlos managed to hold onto the slippery little evil thing, Carlos would be dead.
He exhaled a lung full of smoke and sat back, considering. There was a time when he wouldn’t have considered a trade like this for anything, a time when he wasn’t the person he was becoming. But that time was so far in the past, Dean couldn't see it for all of the shit he'd had to fight through to get where he was.
His whole life had been built on lies, ever since he could remember. The early lies kept him from seeing just how deep in the shit he already was; the lie that they would be okay, that his father would come home soon, that he'd come home at all.
Later lies masked the growing fear that he was already lost; the lie that the orphanage would be okay, that he'd make friends, that he could survive.
And they got darker too; the lie that he wasn't hurt, that the bruises didn't hurt, that the older boys didn't force him into dark closets to do things to him he didn't dare speak about.
He had it figured it out by the time he was twelve. He was good with words, with telling the lies so as no one could see through them. No ma'am I didn't see it. No sir, I don't know anything about your wallet. Please donate to this worthy charity. He found his way out of the orphanage with at least part of his dignity intact.
But that hadn't lasted long and when he got picked up he told himself new lies to keep himself from going crazy; he told himself that the next foster home would be better, that the next old man wouldn't beat him, the next older boy wouldn't fuck him over or just fuck him into the dark.
It served him well when he got away again, out on his own. Kept him out of trouble more than a few times. Yes, my father is just in the store. No, officer, I'm with my mom and brother. I'm sixteen. I'm seventeen. I'm nineteen.
He hid behind fake names, fake identities. At first it was just self-preservation. He kept moving, used different names in different towns until sometimes he didn’t even remember what name he was using anymore.
He was forced to sell himself to make a living. By then he was used to using his body to keep himself from getting hurt, to keep himself out of trouble, but by fifteen he was using it to eat. He wasn't going to be out hustling under his own name. He whored himself on the streets a while using different ones, before he found him a sweet sugar daddy who liked taking it up the ass and was willing to pay pretty money to keep Dean for himself.
At sixteen, that got him off the street and into a place not unlike the one he was in now. Kept by a drug distributor who would sometimes deal Dean in on a buy, let Dean make a little extra money. Until he went and get himself killed and Dean was back out on the streets.
Then he moved to different lies. Ones that kept him alive while he hustled a whole other game. He knew enough about the supernatural world his father had tried to shield him from to know what a few trinkets were worth to the right buyers. Add to that the fact that he knew his way around the streets, around whores and junkies and dealers, he'd managed to find himself a place where he was mostly comfortable, with a reputation of being able to get almost anything for the right price.
Except for the marker that he owed Carlos for bailing him out a few months back when a deal with some British bitch went all wrong and Dean found himself on the short end with some very bad men, worse than five of Carlos put together.
Which brought him back to his current predicament, still twelve thousand short. But the rabbit's foot was worth at least that, probably more. Just in the luck it could bring Carlos for the short time he had it.
All Dean had to do was convince him.
It was early yet and if they pushed, they would probably make Dallas before midnight, but as they rolled into Abilene, John sighed and something in the sound made Eliot decide to pull over for the night.
They hadn't really said much, but John seemed to get more restless the closer they got to their destination. "Want me to drive?" John asked as Eliot pulled them into a diner parking lot.
"I was thinking we could stop for the night. I'm not in a huge hurry…and you don't seem to be ready to get back there."
John smiled softly. "I'm just following you. Whatever you want."
Eliot tried not to grin as the idea passed through his head that what he really wanted was to get John to shove him into a wall and fuck him senseless. "Let's eat and get a room then. You can teach me how to ask forgiveness."
John rolled his eyes at him as they got out of the car. "You don't want me to teach you how to ask for forgiveness, you want me to give you a reason to have to ask."
"Details." Eliot clapped a hand on his shoulder as they reached the doors. "I'm sure we'll figure it out."
"You're incorrigible."
Eliot grinned. "And you love it."
"So, you going to tell me what's taking us back to Dallas?" John asked once they were seated and had ordered.
Eliot stretched out on the opposite side of the booth, one arm along the back, the other idly playing with the napkin on the table. "Delivery."
"Of what?" John's eyes were on his fingers and Eliot got the distinct impression that he was talking to keep himself distracted from other things. Eliot lifted a foot under the table and put it on the bench beside John, his ankle touching John's thigh.
"Didn't ask." Eliot answered, watching the fire light in his eyes. “You going to tell me why you don’t want to go back to Dallas?”
John looked up at him as he settled his other foot on John’s other side, pressing his legs in against John’s. “Didn’t say I don’t.” John responded.
They both smiled as the waitress put down their drinks.
“Don’t have to say it.” Eliot lifted his water and sipped at it. He rubbed his inside leg up and down John’s, watching him stiffen then relax, then sigh.
“Dallas is…hard.”
Eliot smirked at his choice of words. He moved his foot to press in on John’s groin, not surprised that his dick responded. “Eliot.” John’s voice was dark with warning, but he didn’t move to push the foot away.
“John.” Eliot answered, grinning as John flushed red as the waitress set down their plates.
“Anything else, boys?”
Eliot didn’t look up at her, just pushed his foot a little harder into John’s crotch. John cleared his throat and shook his head. “No. We’re fine.”
Eliot left his foot where it was and started eating, ignoring John until he started shifting in his seat, rubbing his ever-harder cock on Eliot’s foot. “You okay over there, John?”
John froze for a second, putting down his fork. “No, actually. I’m not. Could you possibly remove your foot from my crotch?”
“What fun would that be?” Eliot asked, moving his foot.
John leaned across the table. “I’m assuming that the real reason we’re stopping for the night is that you’re hoping to get lucky, but if you keep that up I’m going leave you beating it in the shower and spend the night praying for your sinful soul.”
Eliot pulled his foot back and glared at John who smiled. “Now, eat your dinner.”
Eliot collapsed to the bed, shaking and sweaty, panting as he rolled onto his back. John was still half hard despite the last hour they’d spent building up to the incredible orgasm they had just shared, hard and guilt ridden and knowing that this had to stop.
“Don’t even tell me that wasn’t enough.” Eliot said as he got up. He tugged John close, licking his lips open. “You gotta let me catch my breath.” His hand circled John’s cock, but John caught his wrist, pulling his hand away.
“Don’t.” John growled, his eyes closing.
Eliot brought his other hand in, but John caught that wrist too. “I said, don’t.” His hands squeezed Eliot’s wrists, pulling his arms away, both of them still breathing heavy. Eliot twisted in an effort to get loose, but John just held him harder, walking him back into the wall.
His prayer had led him to complacency, to trusting that his faith was enough, that he could follow his heart, but it was his body that seemed to keep winning the battle to lead and John knew from experience not to trust his own lust.
John panted through clenched teeth, leaning in against Eliot, Latin whispering over his tongue as he fought his own desire to let go, to just let Eliot take him where they both wanted to go. He was still whispering, though he wasn’t sure any more what he was saying, his prayers giving way to pleading. His thumbs found two matching scars, one on each of Eliot’s wrists, thin and hardly noticeable compared to the rest of the marks on his skin until now.
Eliot froze, his face turned away, his skin gone cold. Eliot suddenly jerked free and pushed past him, headed for the bathroom.
“Eliot?” The dark tone was gone from John’s voice, replaced by concern, but Eliot brushed him off, closing the bathroom door.
John paced from the bed to the door and back, not sure what he’d said or done to set Eliot off. The shower came on and John sighed. Whatever it was, it was enough.
He pulled boxers on and sighed again, digging his rosary out and moving to kneel by the bed. He made the sign of the cross, bowed his head and began to pray, though he was beginning to wonder if he was wasting his time, if his willful sin hadn’t pulled him so far from the grace of his Father that he couldn’t be redeemed.
He was on his second round through the beads when the bathroom door opened and Eliot emerged, wrapped in a towel. He didn’t look at John as he crossed to the dresser and his bag, but after a minute, he turned vaguely in John’s direction. “I’m sorry.”
John pushed up off the floor to sit on the bed. “No need to apologize.” John said softly, but it made Eliot stiffen.
“I don’t talk about it.”
“I understand.” He didn’t, actually, but he was priest enough to see a man with a past who needed some space to think about it.
Eliot pulled his wet hair back in a ponytail at the nape of his neck and pulled clean underwear from his bag, dropping his towel and pulling them on. They were silent as they went about getting ready for bed. John turned down the comforter and climbed in while Eliot turned off the lights. He slid in next to John and they laid side by side, not touching.
The night stretched out and John honestly thought Eliot had fallen asleep. He was well on his way to sleep too, when Eliot sighed and turned onto his back. John opened his eyes to find Eliot staring at the ceiling.
"I was thirteen." Eliot said, his voice so soft John almost couldn't hear him. "On my own." His eyes closed. "There was this rundown old church. Sometimes we would crash there. It always felt safe."
John heard the "until" that Eliot didn't say. "He was…he wore a collar. Older than you, but…he was…strong…" Eliot swallowed noisily. "One night I was alone, and he showed up. He surprised me. Held me down."
Eliot sat up suddenly, his back to John, his head bowed forward. "I ain't never felt nothing like that. Didn't know…" He stood, walking toward the window. "Went on a long time. When he couldn't…he used stuff he found laying around."
John sat up, moving slowly so that he wouldn't spook him.
"He never meant for me to…" Eliot held up his hands, looking at his wrists. He pulled in a deep breath and looked toward John without looking at him. "He left me to die. I crawled out, bleeding into a storm. Rain washed the evidence away. No one believed me."
John stood and moved toward him hesitantly.
"They spent hours pulling bits of stained glass out of my wrists, my knees…and when they were done, I got put in seventy two hour lock down on suicide watch."
"Eliot…" He turned away again, dropping his hands to his side.
"He wasn't even the first." Eliot said, his voice even smaller. "Just…the worst."
John touched his shoulder and when he didn't pull away, John caressed over it, then down, around to his chest to pull him back into an embrace. His kiss was light, on the skin of Eliot's neck. "I'm sorry."
Eliot stiffened with the apology, pulling away. "Don't be, it wasn't you." He padded back toward the bed and John followed. "I don't know why I told you." He dropped into bed, punching the pillow into submission.
John stood awkwardly beside him for a minute, then circled to his side of the bed.
"Get some sleep." Eliot mumbled, his eyes closed far too hard to be trying to sleep himself. John laid down beside him, wondering if either of them would be sleeping now.
Title: To Salt the Flame, Part Four ( Part One here & Part Two & Part Three)
Pairing/Characters: Eliot Spencer/ Father John Winchester, Dean(Michael)/Eliot, OCs
Word Count: 7346
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Pre-Series for Leverage, AU pre-series for SPN. John Winchester lost everything, and surrendered all that was left into the church that saved him. He became a priest who served his God in the traditional ways, as well as a few less traditional ways. Eliot Spencer is a young man restless and on the move, trying to outrun his past and chasing a life of painful destruction toward his future. When the two collide, it leaves a mark...on both of them. Dean is a troubled young man fighting to make something of himself the only way he knows how. The three may not know it yet, but they are tied together on a journey that's going to get very ugly before it arrives at the final destination.
A/Ns & Warnings: Written for havenward who made me pretty banners. This is priest!kink, people. Vows are broken and faith is wrestled with. All of our boys have dark pasts and when they come together, demons of the figurative kind may not be the only thing they have to deal with. This incorporates some parts that have been posted in other formats, from comment fic to bingo card fills.
"You're in a foul mood." Eliot said it with a fair amount of amusement, but the glare he got from Michael told him he was more right than he'd thought. "Something wrong?"
"Wrong?" Michael wrapped a hand in the hair of the whore who'd been servicing him when Eliot arrived and shoved her toward the door. "What could possibly be wrong?"
"I can come back." Eliot leaned on the doorframe, watching Michael storm around the room.
"Did you get it?" Michael stopped by the counter that divided the kitchen from the living room, pouring whiskey into two glasses and lighting a cigarette before he came back into the living room, his pants still open. He handed Eliot one of the glasses and dropped onto the couch with his own.
"Yeah, I got it. Would I be here if I didn't?"
Michael made a face and shrugged. "All kinds of people giving me shit this week. I need this deal to go through."
"You can arrange a meet with Peski so I can hand it off?"
"You in a hurry?"
Eliot rolled his eyes and pushed away from the door. "I got another job lined up."
"Anything good?"
"Not your line of work. Some book. In a church."
Michael made a face. "Goddamn churches." He swallowed down half his whiskey. "I'm so fucking tired of churches."
"Then we won't talk about them." Eliot answered. He was itching to get this job over and get out of town, away from the damn priest that seemed to be the only thing he could think about. If the first time wasn't bad enough, he'd tried to say he was sorry for being all gruff and angry when they'd parted and they'd ended up in an alley, then another motel room…and now…well, now the priest was back up at his church, praying off his guilt and Eliot just wanted to forget him.
"You seem distracted." Michael put out his cigarette and drained his whiskey. "Let me call Peski's people and arrange a hook up, then maybe I can find something to keep your attention."
Eliot grinned as Michael disappeared into the bedroom. He relaxed and rolled his shoulders, took his jacket off. Michael was right. He needed to relax. He checked the pocket for the package for maybe the fifth time since leaving the priest. He was suddenly nervous about it.
John hadn't asked specifically about the package, though they’d talked about Houston because Eliot thought he might get some information about the church there, but John didn’t approve and somehow it had gotten under his skin. He just wanted to be rid of the damn thing. Michael came back, grinning. "We got about an hour to kill, Peski's got some business to deal."
Eliot nodded and dropped the jacket in the chair. "I think I know a way to kill an hour."
"I thought you might."
"Unless your little whore wore you out, of course."
Michael raised an eyebrow. "How long we known each other?"
Eliot frowned a little, thinking about it. "Over a year now."
"And, in all that time…" Michael crossed the room and grabbed his shirt. "Have you ever known me to let some whore wear me out?"
"Point." Eliot responded as Michael began tugging him toward the bedroom.
"Besides, you didn't give me time to finish…I'm getting blue balls over here."
"Can't have that." Eliot let him pull his shirt off before pushing him back onto the bed. He grabbed the belt loops of Michael's jeans and yanked them down, leaving them somewhere around his knees before Eliot was crawling up on the bed.
Michael's cock was hard and curled up toward his stomach. "Maybe I'll pick up where she left off…" Eliot said with a grin, leaning in to lick up Michael's dick. Michael shuddered and reached for him, but Eliot pulled out of reach. His own cock was starting to take an interest, despite having spent most of the night finding new and intriguing sins with John.
He closed his eyes and shoved the man out of his thoughts. The last thing he needed to be thinking about was another man. He opened his mouth and took Michael's cock into his mouth, laving his tongue over it as he sank down, sucking lightly as he pulled back up.
Michael groaned and shifted under him, already back to where he'd been when Eliot showed up. It wasn't going to take much. Eliot reached between his legs and rolled Michael's balls between his fingers, smirking around his cock as Michael cursed and dug his feet into the bed. Seconds later, Eliot pulled away as Michael came, laughing when Michael's groan shook the bed. "Shit, you'd think you hadn't come in a month."
Michael reached for his cock, cradling it, even as it finished spilling come onto his stomach. "Where do you think you're going?"
Eliot stood beside the bed, his hands on his belt. "Well I was going to take off my pants so you can return the favor."
Michael played with the nipple ring on his left nipple, his eyes raking over Eliot. He sat up slowly. "Go on then."
"You want me to put on a show?" Eliot smirked as he unbuckled his belt.
"Just want to see what new scars you've got."
Eliot rolled his eyes. "Nothing new. Though I saw the thing on your back earlier."
Michael waved it off. "As scars go, that's nothing."
Eliot dropped his jeans and stepped out of them, coming back to the bed with his cock half hard. He leaned in and licked around the nipple ring, then sucked it into his mouth. He let it go with a pop and laid down beside Michael, who lifted up on one elbow to look down at him.
At that moment, he suddenly looked young, his eyes soft and green, his hand splayed out on Eliot's chest. Eliot never had figured out how old Michael was. He was one of those guys who just seemed to have always existed, just like he was.
Michael shook his head and the moment passed, his hand moving south to circle around Eliot's cock and tug until it was full and hard. He wasted no time in leaning in, taking all of it into his mouth and sucking hard. He lifted up and licked across the tip, then down the sides, his hand holding Eliot's cock firmly in place.
"How long you think I could keep you like this?" Michael asked suddenly, turning his face to Eliot's, letting his short hair brush across the head of Eliot's cock.
"You said we had an hour." Eliot reminded him. Michael made a face.
"Spoiled sport." He went back to licking and sucking, pulling Eliot up to the edge, then pulling away to finish him with his hand. Eliot's come coated his hand and Michael laughed as he got up from the bed, waddling to the bathroom with his jeans around his ankles. He came back with a wet wash cloth that he threw at Eliot and a toothbrush dangling from his mouth.
Eliot wiped across his stomach to get whatever hadn't ended up in Michael's hand.
"So…you been playing rough with someone lately?" Michael asked before ducking into the bathroom to spit and rinse.
Eliot frowned up at him, then realized he meant the finger tip bruises on his hips. "You might say that. You know I like it that way."
"Maybe later I'll show what rough really looks like." Michael offered with a grin.
Eliot knew he could too. A part of him wanted to stay and find out. "Later, I'll be on my way to Houston. Maybe next time I'm in town."
Michael frowned at him, then turned away. "Whatever. I'm gonna shower."
Eliot sighed and rubbed a hand over his face. He just wanted to deliver his package, get his money and get the hell out of town.
Of course, Houston was its own set of problems. The book he needed to retrieve was ancient, worth a fortune, and hidden away inside a monastery's library where no one but monks and priests and seen it for decades.
He'd gotten the package to Peski, gotten out, and at least this job wasn't the kind that could get him killed. It was just a retrieval. Go in, get the book, get out. Simple.
There was the annoying tug of conscience currently derailing his concentration, something that probably wouldn't have bothered him before the whole thing with John. He sighed and shoved the man out of his thoughts again.
Damn him anyway. It was becoming a goddamn obsession. Something Eliot could not afford.
He tugged uncomfortably at the neck of the monk's robe he wore over his clothes, averting his eyes as he passed a priest who seemed to be looking at him strangely, like he knew Eliot didn't belong there.
He kept his head bowed and tried to keep his boots from sounding like boots as he made his way through the halls of the monastery. He turned a corner, expecting a door to a library and found himself staring down another long hallway instead.
"Damnit."
The place was a maze of hidden chambers, secret gardens and patios and chapels and he'd already been inside far longer than he had intended to be. This was meant to be easier than this. He exhaled and looked around himself to try to get his bearings and figure out where he'd made a wrong turn.
"Is everything all right, brother?"
Eliot turned, that same priest was standing close enough that he was going to see past the hood of the robe and notice that Eliot was not a monk. He opened his mouth to respond, then remembered that the monks here were under vows of silence and nodded instead, offering a smile before bowing his head and stepping away.
A hand stopped him, hard on his shoulder. "I don't think I know you. Perhaps you should come to my office."
Eliot was beginning to think he was going to have to hit the priest…which, to be honest, wouldn't be his first time, but still, he didn't want to think about the added karma that would earn him. His fists clenched under the long sleeves of the robe and he drew a breath.
"Ah, Brother Bartholomew. There you are."
Eliot froze in place, the familiar voice both welcome in his current predicament and unwanted for who the voice belonged to.
"Father Solomon, right? I'm Father Winchester. The good brother and I are visiting from St. Andrews."
"Ah, that would be why he is unfamiliar."
Eliot glowered at John, but turned away as the other priest turned to look at him. No point in blowing the cover John just gave him. John shifted his small duffle bag from one hand to the other. "Yes, we came to use your library, but Bartholomew here has a terrible sense of direction, and got himself all turned around." John's empty hand came to rest on Eliot's shoulder, his fingers digging in just a little.
"Well, Father, you are not far from your destination, you probably took a wrong turn back by the garden. Down this hall, turn left at the chapel of the Blessed Virgin. The library is on the right."
"Thank you Father, very kind of you." John's voice was pleasant, but Eliot could hear his annoyance anyway.
John's hand slipped down to Eliot's back, pressing inward to get him moving. "Of all the half-baked, god-damn stupid ideas." John's voice whispered in his ear.
They got around the corner and John pulled him into the chapel, shoving him into the wall after closing the door. They both glanced around the room to ensure it was empty, then back at each other.
"What the hell were you thinking?"
"Relax." Eliot said, shrugging John's hands off him and pulling the hood back. "They're priests and monks…I can handle them."
John shook his head. "What is so goddamn important in that library?"
"A book." Eliot deadpanned, looking him in the eye. They had talked about it before Eliot left him. Maybe Eliot meant it to shock the man, to make him realize that Eliot was not a good man, not the person John wanted.
"Funny. I'm serious. I'm not letting you steal from this place without a really good reason."
"Letting me?" Eliot scoffed, pushing off the wall, only to have John shove him back into it. "Last I recall, you wanted nothing to do with me and my life of crime." He smirked and reached a hand between them, grabbing John's cock through his pants. "Or has temptation gotten the better of you again, Father?" If he couldn't convince him one way, he'd just try another.
John's eyes closed as his cock hardened in Eliot's hand…then his hand caught Eliot's wrist. "Not here."
"Wouldn't be the first time." Eliot countered, leaning in to kiss him. John breathed into him, a vague whimper at the back of his throat. Eliot continued to stroke his cock, despite John's hand holding his wrist. "So easy." Eliot whispered over John's lips as John came.
John opened his eyes, pinning Eliot in place with more than a look, his hands shoving Eliot back into the wall again. His eyes were dark, glittering. "Let's go find this book of yours so that I can teach you a lesson about temptation."
He stepped back and adjusted himself, cracked his neck and headed for the door. Eliot followed him into the hall and into the library. Books were never really his thing.
"Where?" John asked.
Eliot looked around them and pointed. "In the back." Eliot took the lead, around large bookshelves and up to the display of ancient books.
"Seriously?" John asked in a hushed whisper. "You expect me to just let you walk out of here with one of those?"
"That one." Eliot whispered back, pointing at the illustrated bible he'd been sent after. "It belongs to my client's family. Was stolen more than a century ago and filtered through a few hands before it ended up with the church. They've tried to recover it, but the church won't hear of it. So they hired me." He wasn't even sure how much of the story he believed, but at the moment all that mattered was convincing John.
"And did you have a plan for getting it out of here?"
Eliot smirked at him, then set about getting the display open. It wasn't secured, because the church was so confident that no one would get in. He slipped the book out and squatted, lifting the hem of his borrowed robe, getting his shirt open and tucking the book into the special pouch he'd strapped to his chest.
As long as no one touched him, no one would know there was a book there. He stood and smoothed the robe back down.
"Now, I figure we've got about another ten minutes before Father Solomon gets off the phone with St. Andrews and realizes that there is no Brother Bartholomew there." John said. "So I hope you've got a good exit strategy."
"We're just going to walk out the front door." Eliot said. "But if you mean ten minutes, we better move."
They set out for the doors, hurrying but trying hard not to look like they were hurrying. Eliot's boots scuffed far too loudly on the floor, and his heart pounded against the weight of the book. He was ready to run if he had to, but they cleared the front door and down the steps of the complex.
As they reached the sidewalk, John fisted a hand in the robe, hauling him away, toward the main road. "Not a word." John said when Eliot opened his mouth.
He hailed a cab as the got to the corner, shoving Eliot into it and getting in behind him. "Take us downtown." John growled to the driver.
"Anywhere in particular, Father?"
"Just go. I need to think."
John was pissed, Eliot could see that. "Come on, you didn't find that the least bit fun?" Eliot asked, sitting up on his side of the seat.
"No. Eliot. Damn it." John wiped his face and looked behind him. "You're lucky we aren't sitting in some jail cell."
Eliot shook his head. "Trust me, they aren't going to call the cops. Driver, take us to the Lucky 8 motel on Ashton."
"We're not going to a motel." John growled, his eyes glancing up at the mirror.
"I am, I need to get my shit. Then I'm heading to El Paso to deliver this and get paid. You do what you want."
"Right."
The cab pulled up to the motel and John paid him, getting out of the car behind Eliot. "I'm in nine." Eliot said, leading the way. Once in the room he pulled off the monk's robe and tossed it on the bed. He started unbuttoning his shirt and John reached out a hand to stop him.
"What are you doing?"
"If you think I'm driving all the way to El Paso with this thing strapped to my chest, you're crazy."
John pulled his hand away looking a little sheepish and nodding. He paced to the other side of the room, dropping his bag on the bed and stopped to stare in the mirror over the dresser.
"You gonna tell me why you're here?"
John sighed and shook his head. He didn't answer, not right away and when he did speak, that wasn't really an answer either. "I woke up this morning stiff and sore and feeling like a complete ass." He pulled a hand through his hair. "I prayed all day yesterday. I…" His eyes searched for something in the mirror and then lifted to Eliot when they didn't find whatever it was. "I couldn't…" He shook his head again. "It was a mistake."
He pushed back from the dresser and went for his bag. "I shouldn't have come."
The way he was brushing at the wet spot on his pants, Eliot wasn't really sure if he meant to Houston or in the chapel. Either way, John pulled clean pants from his bag and turned his back to Eliot. For his part, Eliot turned away, putting the stolen bible on the table and throwing the last of his things in his own bag.
He knew from mistakes. Like letting the priest seduce him. Eliot snorted and shook his head. It wasn't like he resisted all that much. That too was part of his mistake. The right thing to do would be to walk away now. Take the bible and get to El Paso. Leave John here.
Thing was, Eliot never had been very good at doing the right thing. John sighed and Eliot turned to look at him. He was pitiful looking, sullen and closing in on despondent. Eliot shook his head. "So, you coming or what?"
They were still another sixty miles away from El Paso when John realized they were stopping. Eliot pulled them off the road and into the parking area in front of a beat down roadside motel. It was closing in on two in the morning and Eliot yawned as he put the car in park. "Need sleep."
John didn't respond, but he followed as Eliot rolled out of the car and headed for the office. The place was desolate, no cars but theirs in the lot, the pool empty but for a couple inches of stagnant water and dried leaves.
The desk clerk was a tired old man with gaps in his teeth who barely looked up at them when he handed over the room key. John followed Eliot out of the office and down to their room, feeling like something had dragged a part of him off and left him half empty and falling apart.
In the room, Eliot collapsed on the first bed, kicking off his shoes and groaning. John headed for the bathroom, blinking in the weak light and rubbing a hand over his face. The reflection staring back at him was haggard and tired looking, facial hair that reminded him he hadn’t shaved since leaving Chicago and dark bags under his eyes that was evidence he hadn’t slept well in at least as long.
He blinked at the collar he’d forgotten he was wearing, his fingers running over it with reverence. He didn’t deserve to wear it. Not now. The light flickered and he nodded to himself, but didn’t take it off.
Instead, he washed his hands, his face and he opened his bag, taking out his rosary, his worn bible and a bottle of holy water. He needed to pray, to seek forgiveness and direction. He turned off the bathroom light and went to the empty bed, kneeling slowly beside it.
He opened the bottle of holy water, wetting his fingers with it and crossing himself before closing it and leaving it on the bed. He fingered the rosary, finding his way to the beginning before closing his eyes and beginning his prayers. His mouth moved with the words, familiar as his own name, offering him a tender peace, centering him.
Twice through the beads, John turned his prayers to the more personal, less structured, searching through himself for the emotional catalyst to his latest sins. His hand tightened around the beads as he offered his heart up in supplication, the anguish of seeing Dean, of seeing what had become of his sweet boy and knowing that he was to blame.
Tears burned his face and he pulled a pillow to him to muffle the sound of his sobs.
And there was Eliot, not much older than Dean, his story etched in his skin where John should never have seen it. It had been tthose scars, and the stories they told that drew him…Eliot had been sent to him to protect and instead, John had seduced him, a temptation that even now he couldn’t shake himself free from.
His fingers hurt he was holding the rosary so tight, but he just squeezed harder, hoping the pain would help him focus. Only, instead of purity or prayers, John could only see Eliot’s skin, pulled tight over hard muscle, each scar marking a transgression, and John’s lips all the redemption the boy had ever known.
“John.”
He opened his eyes. Eliot looked at him a hand out. John wanted to say no. He wanted to stay on his knees, praying.
Somehow he ended up on the bed, Eliot spooned up behind him, the rosary still in his hand. Sleep claimed him before he could think too much about it, dragging him into dreams of demons come to claim his blood.
Eliot parked the car behind the building where his client had an office. John didn't even look up, his fingers working over the beads of his rosary, his eyes closed. "So, um. There's a church about three blocks east. I'm gonna be at least an hour."
John's fingers stopped moving, his lips pressing closed. Still, he said nothing.
"And…the bus station is just north of there. If…I mean…I don't know where I'm headed after this…so if you wanted to…" Eliot shook his head and opened his door. "I'd understand."
John was still sitting with his eyes closed, still in the collar, still silent when Eliot walked away.
He'd dreamed about Emily again the night before. He could hear her scream, could see the night sky burning, smell the ash and sulfur in the air. It had pulled him out of bed early, leaving John to his own troubled dreams and locking himself in the bathroom to shower off the memory.
John had his own nightmares and when Eliot emerged from the bathroom, John sat on the edge of the bed, his head in his hands. They’d hardly spoken and now…well, now Eliot expected to get back to the car and find the priest gone.
He hefted the book and climbed the stairs to the office of his client, smiling at his receptionist. A quick hand off and then he was taking some down time. Maybe head to the mountains. Get his head clear.
Then maybe he’d take that job in Thailand, get out of the country for a while.
“Mr. Arquez will see you.” Eliot nodded to her and opened the door to the office.
Arquez stood, buttoning his suit jacket. “Ah, Mr. Spencer. That was quick work.”
“As I promised when I took the job, Mr. Arquez. You have my payment?”
He held up an envelope. Eliot opened the bag and pulled the book out. They traded and Eliot shoved the envelope into a pocket. “Pleasure.” He headed for the door, thinking he’d hit the branch of the bank he had one of his accounts in before he headed back to the car.
“Before you go.”
Eliot tensed and turned, ready to fight to keep his money. Arquez smiled.
“I have another job, if you’re interested.”
Eliot made a face and relaxed. “What?”
“There is a package I would like delivered to an associate in Dallas.” He held up a small box. “It is-“
Eliot held up both hands. “It’s better I don’t know. What are you offering?”
“The same.”
Eliot weighed the options. He could at least give John a lift back to Dallas that way, and it was extra money. On the other hand, it put him back in Dallas. “In advance, I ain’t coming back here.”
Arquez went to his desk and opened a drawer, pulling out a similar envelope. “Instructions are in the envelope.” He brought it to Eliot. “It is time sensitive.”
“I’ll get it there.” He took the envelope and the box. “Call you when it’s done?”
“No need. I’ll know when it arrives.”
Eliot nodded and headed out, across the street to the bank. It only took him a few minutes to make the deposit and stop into the convenience store for fresh road supplies.
He headed back for the car, wondering if he should wait out the hour to see if John would come back or-He stopped as he rounded the building. John was leaning against the car. The collar and the rosary were gone and in their place was a simple t-shirt and jeans.
He looked up, smiling at Eliot a little. “Everything all right?”
“Expected to find you gone.”
John nodded. “I can be if you want me to be.”
There eyes met, and for a long moment neither of them moved, then Eliot nodded and put the bag of food in the back seat. “So, funny thing. We’re headed back to Dallas.”
There was a slight hesitation then, as if that was the last thing John wanted to do, then he nodded too. “Okay.”
They climbed into the car and Eliot started the engine, then looked at John. “What changed?”
“I asked for guidance.” John said simply.
Eliot waited for more and it didn’t come, he backed out of the parking spot and headed for the freeway. “Just…going to go where I take you?”
John smiled and it was that look Eliot could never understand…the bliss of belief that Eliot had never found. He shook his head. It probably meant he wasn’t getting laid any time soon.
He slammed into the apartment, the boy behind him. To be fair, he was probably older than Dean was, but that’s what he was. His boy. Payment for a debt that Dean had called in to help him out of a bind.
He needed the goddamn money, not some whore. He was cutting it close in paying it back and he didn’t think the bastard he owed was going to take a broken boy slut in payment.
Dean shook his head and turned to look him over. He was dirty with more than just the grime of kneeling in the alley. His hair was matted and what he had in the way of clothes hung off him. He averted his eyes, but blushed under the dirt at the feeling of Dean’s eyes.
Dean sighed and poured himself a drink. Well, at least he’d finally have a maid. “Okay so. Different people call me by different names. You will call me Sir.”
The boy nodded once, tight, his eyes still on the ground.
“Good. Now, obviously I’ll have you servicing me sexually.” There was only a tiny flinch which told Dean he’d been prepared for that. “And your daily chores will include cleaning the apartment and fetching my mail.”
“Yes, sir.” His voice was scratchy and his tone uncertain.
“Right. Let’s start with you. Bathroom is through there. I don’t want to see you again until you’re clean and ready to spit shine my dick.” For a long moment, the boy didn’t move, then he shuffled away, leaving Dean alone in his small apartment.
At least he had the money from the deal with Peski. Eliot always came through for him. It didn’t help that he’d handed his father that wad of cash. He could kick himself for it now, but he’d wanted to make the point.
His father.
Lot of fucking nerve the bastard had to show up at his door like that. Dean fumed and slammed down the whiskey in his glass. It had been days and he was still fuming over it.
He went to sit on the couch, pushing crap off the coffee table until he found a small box. So far he’d put off doing anything with it. In the wrong hands the damn thing was a death sentence. That he was even considering offering it to Carlos was insane.
He opened the box and lit a cigarette, staring down at the harmless looking little rabbit’s foot. He’d been planning on dumping it into a hex box and storing it with the other valuable trinkets that sometimes fell into his lap, the kind that shouldn’t be allowed out on the market, but kept very secret for very selective buyers.
But, trading it to Carlos for his marker would get him out from under in more ways than one. His slate would be clean, and in a few days or weeks, however long Carlos managed to hold onto the slippery little evil thing, Carlos would be dead.
He exhaled a lung full of smoke and sat back, considering. There was a time when he wouldn’t have considered a trade like this for anything, a time when he wasn’t the person he was becoming. But that time was so far in the past, Dean couldn't see it for all of the shit he'd had to fight through to get where he was.
His whole life had been built on lies, ever since he could remember. The early lies kept him from seeing just how deep in the shit he already was; the lie that they would be okay, that his father would come home soon, that he'd come home at all.
Later lies masked the growing fear that he was already lost; the lie that the orphanage would be okay, that he'd make friends, that he could survive.
And they got darker too; the lie that he wasn't hurt, that the bruises didn't hurt, that the older boys didn't force him into dark closets to do things to him he didn't dare speak about.
He had it figured it out by the time he was twelve. He was good with words, with telling the lies so as no one could see through them. No ma'am I didn't see it. No sir, I don't know anything about your wallet. Please donate to this worthy charity. He found his way out of the orphanage with at least part of his dignity intact.
But that hadn't lasted long and when he got picked up he told himself new lies to keep himself from going crazy; he told himself that the next foster home would be better, that the next old man wouldn't beat him, the next older boy wouldn't fuck him over or just fuck him into the dark.
It served him well when he got away again, out on his own. Kept him out of trouble more than a few times. Yes, my father is just in the store. No, officer, I'm with my mom and brother. I'm sixteen. I'm seventeen. I'm nineteen.
He hid behind fake names, fake identities. At first it was just self-preservation. He kept moving, used different names in different towns until sometimes he didn’t even remember what name he was using anymore.
He was forced to sell himself to make a living. By then he was used to using his body to keep himself from getting hurt, to keep himself out of trouble, but by fifteen he was using it to eat. He wasn't going to be out hustling under his own name. He whored himself on the streets a while using different ones, before he found him a sweet sugar daddy who liked taking it up the ass and was willing to pay pretty money to keep Dean for himself.
At sixteen, that got him off the street and into a place not unlike the one he was in now. Kept by a drug distributor who would sometimes deal Dean in on a buy, let Dean make a little extra money. Until he went and get himself killed and Dean was back out on the streets.
Then he moved to different lies. Ones that kept him alive while he hustled a whole other game. He knew enough about the supernatural world his father had tried to shield him from to know what a few trinkets were worth to the right buyers. Add to that the fact that he knew his way around the streets, around whores and junkies and dealers, he'd managed to find himself a place where he was mostly comfortable, with a reputation of being able to get almost anything for the right price.
Except for the marker that he owed Carlos for bailing him out a few months back when a deal with some British bitch went all wrong and Dean found himself on the short end with some very bad men, worse than five of Carlos put together.
Which brought him back to his current predicament, still twelve thousand short. But the rabbit's foot was worth at least that, probably more. Just in the luck it could bring Carlos for the short time he had it.
All Dean had to do was convince him.
It was early yet and if they pushed, they would probably make Dallas before midnight, but as they rolled into Abilene, John sighed and something in the sound made Eliot decide to pull over for the night.
They hadn't really said much, but John seemed to get more restless the closer they got to their destination. "Want me to drive?" John asked as Eliot pulled them into a diner parking lot.
"I was thinking we could stop for the night. I'm not in a huge hurry…and you don't seem to be ready to get back there."
John smiled softly. "I'm just following you. Whatever you want."
Eliot tried not to grin as the idea passed through his head that what he really wanted was to get John to shove him into a wall and fuck him senseless. "Let's eat and get a room then. You can teach me how to ask forgiveness."
John rolled his eyes at him as they got out of the car. "You don't want me to teach you how to ask for forgiveness, you want me to give you a reason to have to ask."
"Details." Eliot clapped a hand on his shoulder as they reached the doors. "I'm sure we'll figure it out."
"You're incorrigible."
Eliot grinned. "And you love it."
"So, you going to tell me what's taking us back to Dallas?" John asked once they were seated and had ordered.
Eliot stretched out on the opposite side of the booth, one arm along the back, the other idly playing with the napkin on the table. "Delivery."
"Of what?" John's eyes were on his fingers and Eliot got the distinct impression that he was talking to keep himself distracted from other things. Eliot lifted a foot under the table and put it on the bench beside John, his ankle touching John's thigh.
"Didn't ask." Eliot answered, watching the fire light in his eyes. “You going to tell me why you don’t want to go back to Dallas?”
John looked up at him as he settled his other foot on John’s other side, pressing his legs in against John’s. “Didn’t say I don’t.” John responded.
They both smiled as the waitress put down their drinks.
“Don’t have to say it.” Eliot lifted his water and sipped at it. He rubbed his inside leg up and down John’s, watching him stiffen then relax, then sigh.
“Dallas is…hard.”
Eliot smirked at his choice of words. He moved his foot to press in on John’s groin, not surprised that his dick responded. “Eliot.” John’s voice was dark with warning, but he didn’t move to push the foot away.
“John.” Eliot answered, grinning as John flushed red as the waitress set down their plates.
“Anything else, boys?”
Eliot didn’t look up at her, just pushed his foot a little harder into John’s crotch. John cleared his throat and shook his head. “No. We’re fine.”
Eliot left his foot where it was and started eating, ignoring John until he started shifting in his seat, rubbing his ever-harder cock on Eliot’s foot. “You okay over there, John?”
John froze for a second, putting down his fork. “No, actually. I’m not. Could you possibly remove your foot from my crotch?”
“What fun would that be?” Eliot asked, moving his foot.
John leaned across the table. “I’m assuming that the real reason we’re stopping for the night is that you’re hoping to get lucky, but if you keep that up I’m going leave you beating it in the shower and spend the night praying for your sinful soul.”
Eliot pulled his foot back and glared at John who smiled. “Now, eat your dinner.”
Eliot collapsed to the bed, shaking and sweaty, panting as he rolled onto his back. John was still half hard despite the last hour they’d spent building up to the incredible orgasm they had just shared, hard and guilt ridden and knowing that this had to stop.
“Don’t even tell me that wasn’t enough.” Eliot said as he got up. He tugged John close, licking his lips open. “You gotta let me catch my breath.” His hand circled John’s cock, but John caught his wrist, pulling his hand away.
“Don’t.” John growled, his eyes closing.
Eliot brought his other hand in, but John caught that wrist too. “I said, don’t.” His hands squeezed Eliot’s wrists, pulling his arms away, both of them still breathing heavy. Eliot twisted in an effort to get loose, but John just held him harder, walking him back into the wall.
His prayer had led him to complacency, to trusting that his faith was enough, that he could follow his heart, but it was his body that seemed to keep winning the battle to lead and John knew from experience not to trust his own lust.
John panted through clenched teeth, leaning in against Eliot, Latin whispering over his tongue as he fought his own desire to let go, to just let Eliot take him where they both wanted to go. He was still whispering, though he wasn’t sure any more what he was saying, his prayers giving way to pleading. His thumbs found two matching scars, one on each of Eliot’s wrists, thin and hardly noticeable compared to the rest of the marks on his skin until now.
Eliot froze, his face turned away, his skin gone cold. Eliot suddenly jerked free and pushed past him, headed for the bathroom.
“Eliot?” The dark tone was gone from John’s voice, replaced by concern, but Eliot brushed him off, closing the bathroom door.
John paced from the bed to the door and back, not sure what he’d said or done to set Eliot off. The shower came on and John sighed. Whatever it was, it was enough.
He pulled boxers on and sighed again, digging his rosary out and moving to kneel by the bed. He made the sign of the cross, bowed his head and began to pray, though he was beginning to wonder if he was wasting his time, if his willful sin hadn’t pulled him so far from the grace of his Father that he couldn’t be redeemed.
He was on his second round through the beads when the bathroom door opened and Eliot emerged, wrapped in a towel. He didn’t look at John as he crossed to the dresser and his bag, but after a minute, he turned vaguely in John’s direction. “I’m sorry.”
John pushed up off the floor to sit on the bed. “No need to apologize.” John said softly, but it made Eliot stiffen.
“I don’t talk about it.”
“I understand.” He didn’t, actually, but he was priest enough to see a man with a past who needed some space to think about it.
Eliot pulled his wet hair back in a ponytail at the nape of his neck and pulled clean underwear from his bag, dropping his towel and pulling them on. They were silent as they went about getting ready for bed. John turned down the comforter and climbed in while Eliot turned off the lights. He slid in next to John and they laid side by side, not touching.
The night stretched out and John honestly thought Eliot had fallen asleep. He was well on his way to sleep too, when Eliot sighed and turned onto his back. John opened his eyes to find Eliot staring at the ceiling.
"I was thirteen." Eliot said, his voice so soft John almost couldn't hear him. "On my own." His eyes closed. "There was this rundown old church. Sometimes we would crash there. It always felt safe."
John heard the "until" that Eliot didn't say. "He was…he wore a collar. Older than you, but…he was…strong…" Eliot swallowed noisily. "One night I was alone, and he showed up. He surprised me. Held me down."
Eliot sat up suddenly, his back to John, his head bowed forward. "I ain't never felt nothing like that. Didn't know…" He stood, walking toward the window. "Went on a long time. When he couldn't…he used stuff he found laying around."
John sat up, moving slowly so that he wouldn't spook him.
"He never meant for me to…" Eliot held up his hands, looking at his wrists. He pulled in a deep breath and looked toward John without looking at him. "He left me to die. I crawled out, bleeding into a storm. Rain washed the evidence away. No one believed me."
John stood and moved toward him hesitantly.
"They spent hours pulling bits of stained glass out of my wrists, my knees…and when they were done, I got put in seventy two hour lock down on suicide watch."
"Eliot…" He turned away again, dropping his hands to his side.
"He wasn't even the first." Eliot said, his voice even smaller. "Just…the worst."
John touched his shoulder and when he didn't pull away, John caressed over it, then down, around to his chest to pull him back into an embrace. His kiss was light, on the skin of Eliot's neck. "I'm sorry."
Eliot stiffened with the apology, pulling away. "Don't be, it wasn't you." He padded back toward the bed and John followed. "I don't know why I told you." He dropped into bed, punching the pillow into submission.
John stood awkwardly beside him for a minute, then circled to his side of the bed.
"Get some sleep." Eliot mumbled, his eyes closed far too hard to be trying to sleep himself. John laid down beside him, wondering if either of them would be sleeping now.