to salt the flame, Part Five, Supernatural/Leverage, NC-17
Fandom: Leverage/Supernatural
Title: To Salt the Flame, Part Five ( Part One here & Part Two & Part Three & Part Five)
Pairing/Characters: Eliot Spencer/ Father John Winchester, Dean(Michael)/Eliot, OCs
Word Count: 5200
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.
He took the mail from his boy, absently patting his head in reward, surprised how easily he’d grown accustomed to having the guy there, how easy it was to forget him unless he was actively engaged in doing something for him.
“We’ll have company in a minute. Go into the bedroom and don’t come out unless I call you.”
“Yes, sir.”
The bedroom door closed and Dean dumped the bills and small box onto the coffee table, frowning a little at the box. He wasn’t expecting anything. He was about to pick it up to see what it was when there was a knock on the door.
Dean opened it and stepped aside, letting Carlos and his muscle into his apartment. “Carlos, right on time.”
“Time is money, Mikey, you got mine?”
Dean crossed to the counter where he had the envelope with about half what he owed Carlos, and the box with the rabbit’s foot. “I have half, and I have this.” He turned, holding out the box and the envelope.
Carlos took the envelope and handed it off to one of his guys before he lifted an eye at Dean and hesitantly took the box. “What is this, Mikey? You know I don’t take trade.” He opened the box and his expression hardened. “A fucking rabbit’s foot?”
“Hear me out.” Dean said. “This is a very special rabbit’s foot. It gives whoever has it incredible luck.”
“I don’t believe in that shit.” Carlos said, shoving the box back at him.
Dean held up his hands. “Okay, look. I don’t have the rest of the money, I’m still calling in a few markers. Take the rabbit’s foot. Put in your pocket and give me a week. If you haven’t made three times what I owe you in seven days, I’ll take the rabbit’s foot back and give you your money.”
Carlos still looked skeptical, but all Dean really needed was for him to touch it. Just pick it up.
“With interest.”
“Okay.”
Carlos pulled the foot out and looked at it. “Doesn’t look like much.”
Dean grinned, taking the box back. “Trust me, go across the street and buy some lottery tickets. You’ll thank me.” At least until he lost the foot and wound up dead.
“One week.” Carlos warned as they turned for the door.
“I’ll be here.” Dean followed them to the door, closing it behind him and breathing a sigh of relief. He threw the locks and let himself relax. He was free of that burden. Time to find the next thing to work on.
His eyes tracked to the table, to the small little box. He lifted it, tilting it to see that it didn’t have a return address, just his name and address written neatly on the brown paper that covered the box and a postmark in Lawrence, Kansas.
He frowned at the box. His name. His real name.
First his father showed up out of the blue and now this.
He could count on one hand the number of people who knew his real name. Until his father had shown up, he would have sworn that only one of them knew where he was.
He took the box into the bedroom, growling at the boy to move out of the way as he went to the closet. He opened the closet and moved the clothes out of the way, pressing in on the back wall. His work room was designed to hold the supernatural trinkets he was collecting or selling or using for a purpose and there was no point being stupid about opening something that could only be from someone who peddled in the supernatural.
He closed the hidded door to activate the sigils worked into the walls of the room, crossed the devil’s trap on the floor and took the box to his work bench, shoving aside the hex box he’d been planning to use to warehouse the rabbit’s foot to make room for the delivery.
He lifted a knife he kept handy and used it to cut through the tape that held the brown paper around the box. Slowly, Dean lifted the paper away, leaving a plain looking cardboard box.
There were no markings or symbols, nothing to give him a clue as to the contents or who had sent it. Dean huffed a little and murmured. “Fuck it,” before he opened the box, half expecting to be hit with some whammy or explosion.
Instead, the only thing that hit him was the distinctive smell of a fire, the heavy, thick smoke smell that triggered one of his earliest memories.
He recoiled almost physically before he tilted the box to look inside. All he found was the charred remains of a baby blanket, the singed head of a teddy bear and a note.
Dean fingered the blanket, closing his eyes to keep from looking at the bear’s head. He’d been four years old, his baby brother only an infant. Dean had put his bear in the crib to keep the baby company. The blanket had been his too, handed down to his brother.
He lifted the note, opening the folded paper. The picture on the page stared back at him and the name scribbled at the bottom made every lie Dean ever told meaningless in the face of the lie he didn’t think his father capable of.
Sam.
The boy in the picture was maybe twelve or thirteen, with messy brown hair falling in his eyes and a smile as wide as Texas.
Sam.
Dean dumped the box out onto the table, looking for more. For a clue of who had sent it or why.
Sam.
His memories of his brother were few, wrapped up in memories of his mother, of his family before the chaos, before the fire that had torn them apart.
His last memory of his brother was kissing him goodnight that night, held in his father’s arms so he could reach into the crib and kiss his forehead, settling the bear in the corner.
When the fire came, his father had whisked him out of the house, held him close while the house burned…and the fire department had told them that Sam and his mother were dead, burned beyond recognition in a fire that they blamed on bad circuitry.
That had been the beginning of the end. For three years, his father dragged him around, chasing some demon he claimed to have seen in the flames, some man with yellow eyes. Dean didn’t remember a lot about those years, other than the endless driving, and begging his father not to leave him with strangers.
Then came the night he left for good. Dean could still remember crying as he left, being held by Mrs. Hall, the long waiting and the realization that he wasn’t coming back. It was weeks before they found out he was still alive. Months before the letter arrived, giving the Halls custody of Dean.
Dean lifted the bear's head. If Sam was alive, he had to find him. Protect him from all the shit Dean knew first hand could happen to kids like them.
He put the head down and pulled the brown paper out from under the box and its contents.
The post mark was the only clue he had.
He took the paper with him and left his work room, grabbing the phone on his way into the kitchen. He dialed and waited impatiently. "Hey, where are you?" he asked in way of greeting. Eliot sounded sleepy when he responded that he was back in Dallas at the moment. "I maybe got a job for you, you interested?"
Eliot hung up the phone and rolled over, but John was already pulling his clothes on. He sighed and slipped out of bed, aiming toward his own clothes. "So…" He left it hanging as he pulled on a pair of jeans.
"New job?" John asked, as if it wasn't a point of contention between them.
"Yeah." Eliot answered.
"Anything I should know about?"
"Honestly, I don't know. He didn't give me details." He finished dressing and shoved his feet into his boots.
"He who?" John asked, standing. He had the white insert of his collar in his hand as he looked at Eliot.
"No one you need to know about." Eliot responded, thinking that the last thing he wanted was to ever get this and that mixed up. Michael was…a whole other world. One Eliot didn't delve into often. And as kinky as it seemed to be fucking around with a priest, the things he and Michael did together went way, way beyond.
"I should probably get back to the rectory."
"Probably." Eliot knew John was fishing for a reason to stay. "So…see you around?"
He pocketed the key to the motel room door and headed for Michael's place. It was time to walk away from the priest, before he got in any deeper. Michael's jobs always sent him to the strangest of places, the perfect way to clear his head…find some hot little piece to fuck to put the priest behind him, maybe someone to share with Michael when he delivered whatever it was he was being sent to fetch.
He turned the corner and slammed into someone. Someone big. He stumbled back looking up.
"You should watch where you're walking."
Eliot knew better. He did. The guy wasn't alone, and by the look of it, he was one of Carlos' men. He should apologize and move on. "Maybe you should try taking up only half the sidewalk."
He ducked the first punch, then one from the other big guy, working on getting around them so he could run for the cover of the apartment building, but he didn't count on the third guy.
It was over fast at least, a few shots to his face, his stomach, and then they were tossing him into the alley. He waited a beat for them to move off, then stood, only to crack his head on the fire escape ladder above him.
Eliot shook his head, then regretted it instantly. Everything was blurry and his face was hot and wet and sticky. Heavy hands pushed him back down and John's face swam in front of his.
"Shit."
"What did you do?"
Eliot tried to follow the voices, but it was dark and he was bleeding and he wasn't sure what had happened exactly.
"I didn't do anything, Dean."
Dean? Eliot blinked up at John. Both Johns actually. "Who?"
"He needs a hospital." John's voice said, but Eliot couldn't make out whether his lips moved or not.
Someone else moved in close…someone…familiar…Eliot squinted. Michael. He'd been supposed to be meeting Michael, something about a job. He frowned and lifted a hand to his head. It was starting to pound. "Michael?"
Michael pushed John out of the way and squatted in front of him. "We can't take him to a hospital. He hates hospitals." Michael flashed a light in his eyes and Eliot tried to pull away. "He's obviously got a concussion though."
"Considering I found him out cold, yeah I'd say."
"Look, I can deal with this. Why don't you run back to your church or something?"
Church? Eliot wanted to shake his head again, but Michael was holding him still. "Michael?"
Michael's eyes softened a little and he smirked. "Got your clock cleaned pretty good, bitch."
"What happened?"
John was suddenly there again, which seemed wrong. John and Michael shouldn't be in the same place, but he couldn't make out why exactly. Just that it was wrong. Like his wife and his lover…only….he frowned up at them. No, exactly like that, except for how they were men…and John kept calling Michael, Dean.
"I…" He lifted his hand to check the wound on his head, but Michael pulled it away.
"Come on, I've got a place near here. We can take him there and get some ice on that knot."
"He belongs in an ER."
"Well, maybe if you hadn't been-Wait, what the hell were you doing here?" Michael had started to help Eliot up, but stopped and looked at John.
"I was…following Eliot."
"What?" Eliot looked up at John, still frowning, but now that the ringing was starting to lessen up he could at least think past the echoes in his head. He reached for John's arm and pulled himself upright. "You followed me?"
John paled under the scruff of his three day beard. "I didn't like the way you didn't answer my question and I knew you were…up to something. So I followed you." John grabbed Eliot's arm, glancing up at Michael and then back. "Last time I followed you, you were lucky I did."
"Wait, you two know each other?" Michael asked.
John paled even further, his eyes a little desperate. "You might say that."
Michael shook his head. "No. No. You don't get to come swooping back into my life and steal my friends and make nice and think it's going to change anything."
"Michael, that's really no way to talk to a priest." Eliot mumbled, reaching for him.
"A priest? He was my father long before he was yours."
Eliot squinted at him, not sure he followed.
"And his name isn't Michael. It's Dean." John added. "Dean Winchester."
"Win…" Eliot felt the little color left in his face draining and his vision was getting dark. "Can we…argue later…" Damn head wound was making it too hard to stay upright and talk, in fact, he wasn't even sure he was upright anymore, but they stopped talking, one on either side of him supporting him as they moved, which gave him time to try to remember what the hell had happened.
“Couch.” Dean said, kicking the door shut. He and his father supported Eliot over to the couch and eased him down. “I’ll get the first aid kit.” He didn’t like his father in his space, but he could tell from his posture that he wasn’t leaving, not until he was sure Eliot was going to be okay.
Dean didn’t like that either. That his father and Eliot somehow knew each other. It was wrong. It skewed everything. He stopped in the bedroom door, gesturing to his boy. “Get dressed. Take this down to the corner. We need gauze, and I’m guessing he’s going to want something for the headache. Got it?” He pressed the money into the boy’s hand.
“Yes, sir.”
“Good boy.” Dean could feel his father’s eyes on him, but ignored him, moving into the bathroom to get what was left of his first aid kit after he’d patched up Desi after her pimp tossed her.
“Eliot. Open your eyes.” John’s voice was concerned as Dean came back into the living room.
Eliot’s eyes rolled open, but it was clear he was having trouble focusing. John’s hands framed his face and Eliot’s eyes narrowed. “John. Wait.” He looked from John to Dean and back again. Dean could see it on his face when he remembered the alley. He reached up to rub at the bloody knot at his hairline, but John caught his hand.
“Let us clean it up.” John said, his voice soft. He held out his hand without looking at Dean.
Dean put a damp washcloth in the hand and watched as his father leaned in, gently wiping the blood from Eliot’s face, easing his way up to the actual wound. Eliot winced and John whispered apologies.
“Can you tell us what happened?” John asked, turning Eliot’s face toward Dean to get a better angle on the wound.
“Three guys, then a fire escape.” Eliot said, making a face. “I’m fine.”
He tried for sitting up, but John kept him laying down with a hand on his shoulder. Dean felt a twinge of something like jealousy, a vague memory of being sick and his father sitting beside him bubbling up. He sighed in exasperation and moved closer with the antibiotic ointment, handing it to his father.
“I’ve got my-Riley-going for supplies. He’ll be back in a minute.”
His father looked up at him, all softness gone from his face. “I still say he needs a hospital.”
“No hospital.” Eliot argued, trying again to sit up and partially succeeding. “I’ve had worse.”
The door opened and the boy handed Dean a bag, looking to him for instructions. Dean inclined his head toward the bedroom and Riley disappeared into it. Dean ignored his father’s glare and opened the bag.
“He doesn’t want the hospital. And, I really can handle this.”
John snorted and shook his head. “I’m staying.”
“No, you’re not.” Dean countered. “My apartment.”
“Your apartment? You’re seventeen. You should be-“
“Don’t.” Dean snarled. “Don’t you dare come in here and start judging me. You have no right.”
“Dean-“
Dean grabbed his father by the shirt, his fingers tightening into fists as he pulled his father away from Eliot. “Get out.”
He shoved his father toward the door and turned his back on him, kneeling beside the couch to work on bandaging up Eliot’s wound.
“Dean, I-“
“Get the fuck out of my apartment.”
Eliot’s eyes darted between them while Dean seethed. He didn’t move until he heard the door close, then he exhaled and pulled a gauze pad out of the box.
“Wait, you’re seventeen?” Eliot asked, his face confused.
“Shut it and let me work.” Dean responded, not really wanting to answer the question.
Eliot was quiet for the moment, but Dean knew there would be more questions. He stalled by bandaging his head, and giving him some Tylenol. “You probably shouldn’t sleep for a bit. Movie?”
He got up and went to turn on the TV, dropping into the chair with the remote to start flipping channels until he found something. Anything to keep from having to actually discuss his father. Or how Eliot knew him.
The church was quiet. Empty. Cold. He shivered as he knelt and crossed himself. It has been a long, long time since he had felt so alone in a sacred space.
It weighed on him, heavier than any physical burden, the things he'd seen and done since coming here to this city. The image of Eliot passes through his mind and John closes his eyes, savoring the guilt that wells with the image, the pleasure of his name, his smell, his touch…the anguish of knowing that everything between them is wrong, and it was all his fault.
If that were all of it, if all he had done was engage in drunken sex with a boy young enough to be his son, he might find forgiveness easy, might let himself believe that redemption was as easy as prayer and a willing heart. He was, after all, only mortal, only a man that had the same needs and desires as others. Even a priest can sin.
He could blame no one for the breaking of his vows but himself.
He knelt there, in the second pew, crossed himself again and looked up at the altar. His vows have always been sacred to him. Always.
Whether they were given to his wife or his god.
Until Eliot Spencer walked into his life. Until he saw Dean, and realized his failure.
Suddenly, nothing seemed quite as real as it did before, not even his faith.
He bowed his head and mouthed the words in Latin that once brought him comfort. He was a long way from friends he would trust to take his confession, so that left him this, his only therapy, to bare his soul before God and seek forgiveness for his sins, for his doubt.
But the words fell hollow from his lips and his heart could not seem to reach out past the burning ache inside him.
He closed his eyes, letting the sight of his son fill his mind. Dean, no longer the child John left behind…no longer the innocent little boy begging his daddy not to leave him, his skin marked by a life John couldn’t fathom. The tattoos did little to hide the scars and the physical ones could be no match for the emotional ones.
At the time it had seemed the only right thing, to give his son a chance at living a normal life, to save him from the darkness that was already so much a part of John. He had let himself be convinced by those who saved him, let them seduce him into leaving his boy alone in the world.
And the darkness had found Dean anyway. He had put together pieces of Dean’s story, knew about the foster homes and the orphanage, the arrests for prostitution and selling stolen goods. He had failed to save anyone, including himself.
Tears burned in the corners of his eyes and he tried again, pulling the rosary from his pocket. The beads were warm and familiar, like an old friend, trusted to take him through the ritual that will absolve him. The words came slowly, but they came, though there was little comfort in them.
He murmured his prayers, breathing the words over clasped fingers, his eyes closed against the tears of regret and repentance. Each time Dean or Eliot intruded in his thoughts he would begin again.
Just as he was pondering a more intense method of focus, he heard footsteps.
“Father John?”
He blinked and looked up at the young priest who had taken him without question when he had turned up unannounced. “Father Joseph, is everything okay?”
“I was going to ask you the same thing. You seem troubled.”
John eased off his knees and back onto the pew behind him. “I am. And prayer does not seem to be helping.”
“Perhaps this will ease your heart?” He held out a small box. John’s name is neatly written on a plain brown label. “This came while you were gone.”
John took it hesitantly. No one knew where he was, aside from his immediate superior at the diocese, plus Dean and Eliot. John knew better than to think that Dean would send him anything, and he’d been with Eliot. “Thank you.”
“I should leave you to your prayers then. Will I see you for dinner?”
John offered him a small smile. “I will try.”
The younger man laid a hand on his shoulder. “I’m here, you know…if you want someone to talk to.”
“Thank you, Father.”
John waited while his footsteps receded into the far corner of the sanctuary before he let his eyes fall to the package. He didn’t recognize the handwriting, and there was no return address, only his name and the address of the church and a post mark.
He stopped then, staring at the postmark, at the words “Lawrence” and “Kansas” on that postmark.
His hands trembled as he lifted it and tore the paper on one side. The box was plain, brown, no bigger than a coffee mug and light enough to be empty. It opened easily and his hands fumbled a bit as he reached in, coming back with a folded piece of paper and a torn bit of cloth.
The box fell to the floor as John opened the paper and a hauntingly familiar face looked up at him from the center of it. John turned his eyes to the scrap of cloth in his hand…dark brown with old, dried blood. He stood, looking around as if the person responsible for sending him this could be seen if he only looked hard enough.
Mary.
He couldn’t breathe, staring at her picture. His hand closed around the scrap of cloth. The air around him filled with memories, of watching her die, of the long nights without her.
It had been the beginning of the end, the first step on the journey that had brought him to where he stood. And if she was alive, the whole journey had been a lie. His vows were invalid, made under the false belief that he was free to make them, to give himself to another, because his wife was dead and gone.
He looked up at the crucifix hung above the altar, thinking of the hours he had spent offering Mass and hearing confession and serving…because he had felt a genuine calling, had been led by those who had saved him.
He blinked, thinking back to those first days and weeks for the first time in many years. He had trailed the yellow eyed man and found him, cornered him. Much of the confrontation was a black blur as the demon tried to get inside him, but when it was over, John had been close to dead, nearly blinded and he had crawled until he passed out on the steps of a church.
He remembered the man who found him, the gentle hands, the smile…but he remembered something else as well, the whispers, the voices, the surety with which they told him he was being called to a greater good than he could ever accomplish as a mere hunter and father.
He shoved the cloth into a pocket and ran from the church, not sure where he was going, only knowing he couldn’t stay there.
Not now.
Mary was alive.
Which meant he was never a priest to begin with.
Lawrence, Kansas.
It had been a long, long time. Thirteen years.
Thirteen years to the day.
John Winchester stood beside a gravestone marking the place where he had buried some of his wife’s clothes and other personal things. There was a small marker to the right for his son as well.
It was cold, the wind brisk against his tear-soaked face.
He had hitched his way from Dallas. Alone. He needed the time to think, to process what he knew. What he thought he knew. What he believed.
It was insane, of course.
Just because the postmark on the box had been from Lawrence, it didn’t mean this was where Mary was. But it was a place to begin. The place where his life ended and dropped him into limbo.
He knew that wasn't a fair assessment. The church had always been good to him. If not for the priests that took him in, he would have died. And Dean would still have been alone.
"John Winchester?"
He turned at the voice, his eyes sweeping over the thin, vaguely familiar figure approaching with flowers. His mind dug through his memory, finally coming up with a name as the man stopped beside him.
"Jim Murphy, right?"
The man smiled and held out a hand. "Yes, yes. I'm surprised you remembered. It's been a long time."
John nodded, trying to remember the last time he'd seen the man. "Long time."
"I heard you joined the church."
He inhaled and rubbed his hand over his face. "Yeah, something like that." His hand fell to where his collar usually was, then fell to his side. "What brings you here?"
Jim smiled softly and held up the flowers. "I come every year." He settled the flowers between the two grave stones. "Mary never really had a lot of use for church aside from the wedding and baptisms, but I knew her parents. I told them I'd keep an eye on her. I guess I still feel obligated."
"I haven't been back in a while." John confessed. He was uncomfortable standing at his wife's grave, talking as though she were dead when he knew that she wasn't.
Jim put a hand on his shoulder. "It is hard to lose someone so young." He looked away, then back at John. "You have somewhere to stay while you're in town?"
"Actually…I…" John rubbed at the place where his collar was missing again. "No…I'm sort of taking a sabbatical…I came here on a whim."
Jim nodded knowingly, then put an arm around his shoulder. "Why don't you come with me. I have an extra room, and while it isn't a catholic church, it is quiet and will give you space for reflection. Besides…I have something to share with you."
John let Jim pull him along, not sure what the minister could possibly have to show him after thirteen years away, but willing to find out. It might even bring him closer to finding Mary.
Lawrence, Kansas.
Dean's last stop in town had been almost three years before. He'd been on the run from the last foster home, got on the first bus out of town and woke up here. He left Eliot in a motel room on the cheap side of town and drove until he was at the graveyard where they had buried his mother and brother.
He got out of the car and inhaled the crisp fall air. It was late afternoon, the sun starting to set as he crossed the cemetery and came to a stop beside the marker. There were fresh flowers there as Dean squatted, one hand brushing over the etchings marking his mother's name.
He had stood beside his father while some preacher ran his mouth about goodness and purity and shit that Dean figures was meant to make them feel better, but he hadn't understood. All he knew was that his mother was never coming home and his Sam was gone.
"Winchester."
Dean stood, turning and nodding.
"You must have some friends in high places to get me here."
Dean grinned. "Lets just say that certain mutual acquaintances might prefer enlisting your help to get me what I want to losing their currant comfortable lifestyle."
"Ah, good old fashioned black mail. I can respect that."
Dean looked the guy over, weighing him against the job. He was middle aged, middle class in appearance, though he knew for himself how deceiving that could be. "What I'm asking ain't easy." He pulled the box and it's paper out of his bag. "Got this in the mail a week ago. Postmark is Lawrence, but there isn't much else to go by. There's a copy of the picture that came in it there. I need to find that boy. His name is Samuel Winchester."
The man looked it over, then looked up at Dean. "It'll cost you. This is not going to be something I do in a day or so."
"I'm prepared. You find him, I'll make sure you get paid."
"Got a way I can get a hold of you when I do?"
Dean pulled a business card from his pocket. "Hotel we're at. Room number is on the back."
"Okay. I'll be in touch."
Dean watched him walk away, then turned back to the grave markers. He squatted down and put his hand on Sam's. "I'm going to find you Sammy. I'm going to make this right. And then, I'm gonna kill whoever took you away from me."
Title: To Salt the Flame, Part Five ( Part One here & Part Two & Part Three & Part Five)
Pairing/Characters: Eliot Spencer/ Father John Winchester, Dean(Michael)/Eliot, OCs
Word Count: 5200
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.
He took the mail from his boy, absently patting his head in reward, surprised how easily he’d grown accustomed to having the guy there, how easy it was to forget him unless he was actively engaged in doing something for him.
“We’ll have company in a minute. Go into the bedroom and don’t come out unless I call you.”
“Yes, sir.”
The bedroom door closed and Dean dumped the bills and small box onto the coffee table, frowning a little at the box. He wasn’t expecting anything. He was about to pick it up to see what it was when there was a knock on the door.
Dean opened it and stepped aside, letting Carlos and his muscle into his apartment. “Carlos, right on time.”
“Time is money, Mikey, you got mine?”
Dean crossed to the counter where he had the envelope with about half what he owed Carlos, and the box with the rabbit’s foot. “I have half, and I have this.” He turned, holding out the box and the envelope.
Carlos took the envelope and handed it off to one of his guys before he lifted an eye at Dean and hesitantly took the box. “What is this, Mikey? You know I don’t take trade.” He opened the box and his expression hardened. “A fucking rabbit’s foot?”
“Hear me out.” Dean said. “This is a very special rabbit’s foot. It gives whoever has it incredible luck.”
“I don’t believe in that shit.” Carlos said, shoving the box back at him.
Dean held up his hands. “Okay, look. I don’t have the rest of the money, I’m still calling in a few markers. Take the rabbit’s foot. Put in your pocket and give me a week. If you haven’t made three times what I owe you in seven days, I’ll take the rabbit’s foot back and give you your money.”
Carlos still looked skeptical, but all Dean really needed was for him to touch it. Just pick it up.
“With interest.”
“Okay.”
Carlos pulled the foot out and looked at it. “Doesn’t look like much.”
Dean grinned, taking the box back. “Trust me, go across the street and buy some lottery tickets. You’ll thank me.” At least until he lost the foot and wound up dead.
“One week.” Carlos warned as they turned for the door.
“I’ll be here.” Dean followed them to the door, closing it behind him and breathing a sigh of relief. He threw the locks and let himself relax. He was free of that burden. Time to find the next thing to work on.
His eyes tracked to the table, to the small little box. He lifted it, tilting it to see that it didn’t have a return address, just his name and address written neatly on the brown paper that covered the box and a postmark in Lawrence, Kansas.
He frowned at the box. His name. His real name.
First his father showed up out of the blue and now this.
He could count on one hand the number of people who knew his real name. Until his father had shown up, he would have sworn that only one of them knew where he was.
He took the box into the bedroom, growling at the boy to move out of the way as he went to the closet. He opened the closet and moved the clothes out of the way, pressing in on the back wall. His work room was designed to hold the supernatural trinkets he was collecting or selling or using for a purpose and there was no point being stupid about opening something that could only be from someone who peddled in the supernatural.
He closed the hidded door to activate the sigils worked into the walls of the room, crossed the devil’s trap on the floor and took the box to his work bench, shoving aside the hex box he’d been planning to use to warehouse the rabbit’s foot to make room for the delivery.
He lifted a knife he kept handy and used it to cut through the tape that held the brown paper around the box. Slowly, Dean lifted the paper away, leaving a plain looking cardboard box.
There were no markings or symbols, nothing to give him a clue as to the contents or who had sent it. Dean huffed a little and murmured. “Fuck it,” before he opened the box, half expecting to be hit with some whammy or explosion.
Instead, the only thing that hit him was the distinctive smell of a fire, the heavy, thick smoke smell that triggered one of his earliest memories.
He recoiled almost physically before he tilted the box to look inside. All he found was the charred remains of a baby blanket, the singed head of a teddy bear and a note.
Dean fingered the blanket, closing his eyes to keep from looking at the bear’s head. He’d been four years old, his baby brother only an infant. Dean had put his bear in the crib to keep the baby company. The blanket had been his too, handed down to his brother.
He lifted the note, opening the folded paper. The picture on the page stared back at him and the name scribbled at the bottom made every lie Dean ever told meaningless in the face of the lie he didn’t think his father capable of.
Sam.
The boy in the picture was maybe twelve or thirteen, with messy brown hair falling in his eyes and a smile as wide as Texas.
Sam.
Dean dumped the box out onto the table, looking for more. For a clue of who had sent it or why.
Sam.
His memories of his brother were few, wrapped up in memories of his mother, of his family before the chaos, before the fire that had torn them apart.
His last memory of his brother was kissing him goodnight that night, held in his father’s arms so he could reach into the crib and kiss his forehead, settling the bear in the corner.
When the fire came, his father had whisked him out of the house, held him close while the house burned…and the fire department had told them that Sam and his mother were dead, burned beyond recognition in a fire that they blamed on bad circuitry.
That had been the beginning of the end. For three years, his father dragged him around, chasing some demon he claimed to have seen in the flames, some man with yellow eyes. Dean didn’t remember a lot about those years, other than the endless driving, and begging his father not to leave him with strangers.
Then came the night he left for good. Dean could still remember crying as he left, being held by Mrs. Hall, the long waiting and the realization that he wasn’t coming back. It was weeks before they found out he was still alive. Months before the letter arrived, giving the Halls custody of Dean.
Dean lifted the bear's head. If Sam was alive, he had to find him. Protect him from all the shit Dean knew first hand could happen to kids like them.
He put the head down and pulled the brown paper out from under the box and its contents.
The post mark was the only clue he had.
He took the paper with him and left his work room, grabbing the phone on his way into the kitchen. He dialed and waited impatiently. "Hey, where are you?" he asked in way of greeting. Eliot sounded sleepy when he responded that he was back in Dallas at the moment. "I maybe got a job for you, you interested?"
Eliot hung up the phone and rolled over, but John was already pulling his clothes on. He sighed and slipped out of bed, aiming toward his own clothes. "So…" He left it hanging as he pulled on a pair of jeans.
"New job?" John asked, as if it wasn't a point of contention between them.
"Yeah." Eliot answered.
"Anything I should know about?"
"Honestly, I don't know. He didn't give me details." He finished dressing and shoved his feet into his boots.
"He who?" John asked, standing. He had the white insert of his collar in his hand as he looked at Eliot.
"No one you need to know about." Eliot responded, thinking that the last thing he wanted was to ever get this and that mixed up. Michael was…a whole other world. One Eliot didn't delve into often. And as kinky as it seemed to be fucking around with a priest, the things he and Michael did together went way, way beyond.
"I should probably get back to the rectory."
"Probably." Eliot knew John was fishing for a reason to stay. "So…see you around?"
He pocketed the key to the motel room door and headed for Michael's place. It was time to walk away from the priest, before he got in any deeper. Michael's jobs always sent him to the strangest of places, the perfect way to clear his head…find some hot little piece to fuck to put the priest behind him, maybe someone to share with Michael when he delivered whatever it was he was being sent to fetch.
He turned the corner and slammed into someone. Someone big. He stumbled back looking up.
"You should watch where you're walking."
Eliot knew better. He did. The guy wasn't alone, and by the look of it, he was one of Carlos' men. He should apologize and move on. "Maybe you should try taking up only half the sidewalk."
He ducked the first punch, then one from the other big guy, working on getting around them so he could run for the cover of the apartment building, but he didn't count on the third guy.
It was over fast at least, a few shots to his face, his stomach, and then they were tossing him into the alley. He waited a beat for them to move off, then stood, only to crack his head on the fire escape ladder above him.
Eliot shook his head, then regretted it instantly. Everything was blurry and his face was hot and wet and sticky. Heavy hands pushed him back down and John's face swam in front of his.
"Shit."
"What did you do?"
Eliot tried to follow the voices, but it was dark and he was bleeding and he wasn't sure what had happened exactly.
"I didn't do anything, Dean."
Dean? Eliot blinked up at John. Both Johns actually. "Who?"
"He needs a hospital." John's voice said, but Eliot couldn't make out whether his lips moved or not.
Someone else moved in close…someone…familiar…Eliot squinted. Michael. He'd been supposed to be meeting Michael, something about a job. He frowned and lifted a hand to his head. It was starting to pound. "Michael?"
Michael pushed John out of the way and squatted in front of him. "We can't take him to a hospital. He hates hospitals." Michael flashed a light in his eyes and Eliot tried to pull away. "He's obviously got a concussion though."
"Considering I found him out cold, yeah I'd say."
"Look, I can deal with this. Why don't you run back to your church or something?"
Church? Eliot wanted to shake his head again, but Michael was holding him still. "Michael?"
Michael's eyes softened a little and he smirked. "Got your clock cleaned pretty good, bitch."
"What happened?"
John was suddenly there again, which seemed wrong. John and Michael shouldn't be in the same place, but he couldn't make out why exactly. Just that it was wrong. Like his wife and his lover…only….he frowned up at them. No, exactly like that, except for how they were men…and John kept calling Michael, Dean.
"I…" He lifted his hand to check the wound on his head, but Michael pulled it away.
"Come on, I've got a place near here. We can take him there and get some ice on that knot."
"He belongs in an ER."
"Well, maybe if you hadn't been-Wait, what the hell were you doing here?" Michael had started to help Eliot up, but stopped and looked at John.
"I was…following Eliot."
"What?" Eliot looked up at John, still frowning, but now that the ringing was starting to lessen up he could at least think past the echoes in his head. He reached for John's arm and pulled himself upright. "You followed me?"
John paled under the scruff of his three day beard. "I didn't like the way you didn't answer my question and I knew you were…up to something. So I followed you." John grabbed Eliot's arm, glancing up at Michael and then back. "Last time I followed you, you were lucky I did."
"Wait, you two know each other?" Michael asked.
John paled even further, his eyes a little desperate. "You might say that."
Michael shook his head. "No. No. You don't get to come swooping back into my life and steal my friends and make nice and think it's going to change anything."
"Michael, that's really no way to talk to a priest." Eliot mumbled, reaching for him.
"A priest? He was my father long before he was yours."
Eliot squinted at him, not sure he followed.
"And his name isn't Michael. It's Dean." John added. "Dean Winchester."
"Win…" Eliot felt the little color left in his face draining and his vision was getting dark. "Can we…argue later…" Damn head wound was making it too hard to stay upright and talk, in fact, he wasn't even sure he was upright anymore, but they stopped talking, one on either side of him supporting him as they moved, which gave him time to try to remember what the hell had happened.
“Couch.” Dean said, kicking the door shut. He and his father supported Eliot over to the couch and eased him down. “I’ll get the first aid kit.” He didn’t like his father in his space, but he could tell from his posture that he wasn’t leaving, not until he was sure Eliot was going to be okay.
Dean didn’t like that either. That his father and Eliot somehow knew each other. It was wrong. It skewed everything. He stopped in the bedroom door, gesturing to his boy. “Get dressed. Take this down to the corner. We need gauze, and I’m guessing he’s going to want something for the headache. Got it?” He pressed the money into the boy’s hand.
“Yes, sir.”
“Good boy.” Dean could feel his father’s eyes on him, but ignored him, moving into the bathroom to get what was left of his first aid kit after he’d patched up Desi after her pimp tossed her.
“Eliot. Open your eyes.” John’s voice was concerned as Dean came back into the living room.
Eliot’s eyes rolled open, but it was clear he was having trouble focusing. John’s hands framed his face and Eliot’s eyes narrowed. “John. Wait.” He looked from John to Dean and back again. Dean could see it on his face when he remembered the alley. He reached up to rub at the bloody knot at his hairline, but John caught his hand.
“Let us clean it up.” John said, his voice soft. He held out his hand without looking at Dean.
Dean put a damp washcloth in the hand and watched as his father leaned in, gently wiping the blood from Eliot’s face, easing his way up to the actual wound. Eliot winced and John whispered apologies.
“Can you tell us what happened?” John asked, turning Eliot’s face toward Dean to get a better angle on the wound.
“Three guys, then a fire escape.” Eliot said, making a face. “I’m fine.”
He tried for sitting up, but John kept him laying down with a hand on his shoulder. Dean felt a twinge of something like jealousy, a vague memory of being sick and his father sitting beside him bubbling up. He sighed in exasperation and moved closer with the antibiotic ointment, handing it to his father.
“I’ve got my-Riley-going for supplies. He’ll be back in a minute.”
His father looked up at him, all softness gone from his face. “I still say he needs a hospital.”
“No hospital.” Eliot argued, trying again to sit up and partially succeeding. “I’ve had worse.”
The door opened and the boy handed Dean a bag, looking to him for instructions. Dean inclined his head toward the bedroom and Riley disappeared into it. Dean ignored his father’s glare and opened the bag.
“He doesn’t want the hospital. And, I really can handle this.”
John snorted and shook his head. “I’m staying.”
“No, you’re not.” Dean countered. “My apartment.”
“Your apartment? You’re seventeen. You should be-“
“Don’t.” Dean snarled. “Don’t you dare come in here and start judging me. You have no right.”
“Dean-“
Dean grabbed his father by the shirt, his fingers tightening into fists as he pulled his father away from Eliot. “Get out.”
He shoved his father toward the door and turned his back on him, kneeling beside the couch to work on bandaging up Eliot’s wound.
“Dean, I-“
“Get the fuck out of my apartment.”
Eliot’s eyes darted between them while Dean seethed. He didn’t move until he heard the door close, then he exhaled and pulled a gauze pad out of the box.
“Wait, you’re seventeen?” Eliot asked, his face confused.
“Shut it and let me work.” Dean responded, not really wanting to answer the question.
Eliot was quiet for the moment, but Dean knew there would be more questions. He stalled by bandaging his head, and giving him some Tylenol. “You probably shouldn’t sleep for a bit. Movie?”
He got up and went to turn on the TV, dropping into the chair with the remote to start flipping channels until he found something. Anything to keep from having to actually discuss his father. Or how Eliot knew him.
The church was quiet. Empty. Cold. He shivered as he knelt and crossed himself. It has been a long, long time since he had felt so alone in a sacred space.
It weighed on him, heavier than any physical burden, the things he'd seen and done since coming here to this city. The image of Eliot passes through his mind and John closes his eyes, savoring the guilt that wells with the image, the pleasure of his name, his smell, his touch…the anguish of knowing that everything between them is wrong, and it was all his fault.
If that were all of it, if all he had done was engage in drunken sex with a boy young enough to be his son, he might find forgiveness easy, might let himself believe that redemption was as easy as prayer and a willing heart. He was, after all, only mortal, only a man that had the same needs and desires as others. Even a priest can sin.
He could blame no one for the breaking of his vows but himself.
He knelt there, in the second pew, crossed himself again and looked up at the altar. His vows have always been sacred to him. Always.
Whether they were given to his wife or his god.
Until Eliot Spencer walked into his life. Until he saw Dean, and realized his failure.
Suddenly, nothing seemed quite as real as it did before, not even his faith.
He bowed his head and mouthed the words in Latin that once brought him comfort. He was a long way from friends he would trust to take his confession, so that left him this, his only therapy, to bare his soul before God and seek forgiveness for his sins, for his doubt.
But the words fell hollow from his lips and his heart could not seem to reach out past the burning ache inside him.
He closed his eyes, letting the sight of his son fill his mind. Dean, no longer the child John left behind…no longer the innocent little boy begging his daddy not to leave him, his skin marked by a life John couldn’t fathom. The tattoos did little to hide the scars and the physical ones could be no match for the emotional ones.
At the time it had seemed the only right thing, to give his son a chance at living a normal life, to save him from the darkness that was already so much a part of John. He had let himself be convinced by those who saved him, let them seduce him into leaving his boy alone in the world.
And the darkness had found Dean anyway. He had put together pieces of Dean’s story, knew about the foster homes and the orphanage, the arrests for prostitution and selling stolen goods. He had failed to save anyone, including himself.
Tears burned in the corners of his eyes and he tried again, pulling the rosary from his pocket. The beads were warm and familiar, like an old friend, trusted to take him through the ritual that will absolve him. The words came slowly, but they came, though there was little comfort in them.
He murmured his prayers, breathing the words over clasped fingers, his eyes closed against the tears of regret and repentance. Each time Dean or Eliot intruded in his thoughts he would begin again.
Just as he was pondering a more intense method of focus, he heard footsteps.
“Father John?”
He blinked and looked up at the young priest who had taken him without question when he had turned up unannounced. “Father Joseph, is everything okay?”
“I was going to ask you the same thing. You seem troubled.”
John eased off his knees and back onto the pew behind him. “I am. And prayer does not seem to be helping.”
“Perhaps this will ease your heart?” He held out a small box. John’s name is neatly written on a plain brown label. “This came while you were gone.”
John took it hesitantly. No one knew where he was, aside from his immediate superior at the diocese, plus Dean and Eliot. John knew better than to think that Dean would send him anything, and he’d been with Eliot. “Thank you.”
“I should leave you to your prayers then. Will I see you for dinner?”
John offered him a small smile. “I will try.”
The younger man laid a hand on his shoulder. “I’m here, you know…if you want someone to talk to.”
“Thank you, Father.”
John waited while his footsteps receded into the far corner of the sanctuary before he let his eyes fall to the package. He didn’t recognize the handwriting, and there was no return address, only his name and the address of the church and a post mark.
He stopped then, staring at the postmark, at the words “Lawrence” and “Kansas” on that postmark.
His hands trembled as he lifted it and tore the paper on one side. The box was plain, brown, no bigger than a coffee mug and light enough to be empty. It opened easily and his hands fumbled a bit as he reached in, coming back with a folded piece of paper and a torn bit of cloth.
The box fell to the floor as John opened the paper and a hauntingly familiar face looked up at him from the center of it. John turned his eyes to the scrap of cloth in his hand…dark brown with old, dried blood. He stood, looking around as if the person responsible for sending him this could be seen if he only looked hard enough.
Mary.
He couldn’t breathe, staring at her picture. His hand closed around the scrap of cloth. The air around him filled with memories, of watching her die, of the long nights without her.
It had been the beginning of the end, the first step on the journey that had brought him to where he stood. And if she was alive, the whole journey had been a lie. His vows were invalid, made under the false belief that he was free to make them, to give himself to another, because his wife was dead and gone.
He looked up at the crucifix hung above the altar, thinking of the hours he had spent offering Mass and hearing confession and serving…because he had felt a genuine calling, had been led by those who had saved him.
He blinked, thinking back to those first days and weeks for the first time in many years. He had trailed the yellow eyed man and found him, cornered him. Much of the confrontation was a black blur as the demon tried to get inside him, but when it was over, John had been close to dead, nearly blinded and he had crawled until he passed out on the steps of a church.
He remembered the man who found him, the gentle hands, the smile…but he remembered something else as well, the whispers, the voices, the surety with which they told him he was being called to a greater good than he could ever accomplish as a mere hunter and father.
He shoved the cloth into a pocket and ran from the church, not sure where he was going, only knowing he couldn’t stay there.
Not now.
Mary was alive.
Which meant he was never a priest to begin with.
Lawrence, Kansas.
It had been a long, long time. Thirteen years.
Thirteen years to the day.
John Winchester stood beside a gravestone marking the place where he had buried some of his wife’s clothes and other personal things. There was a small marker to the right for his son as well.
It was cold, the wind brisk against his tear-soaked face.
He had hitched his way from Dallas. Alone. He needed the time to think, to process what he knew. What he thought he knew. What he believed.
It was insane, of course.
Just because the postmark on the box had been from Lawrence, it didn’t mean this was where Mary was. But it was a place to begin. The place where his life ended and dropped him into limbo.
He knew that wasn't a fair assessment. The church had always been good to him. If not for the priests that took him in, he would have died. And Dean would still have been alone.
"John Winchester?"
He turned at the voice, his eyes sweeping over the thin, vaguely familiar figure approaching with flowers. His mind dug through his memory, finally coming up with a name as the man stopped beside him.
"Jim Murphy, right?"
The man smiled and held out a hand. "Yes, yes. I'm surprised you remembered. It's been a long time."
John nodded, trying to remember the last time he'd seen the man. "Long time."
"I heard you joined the church."
He inhaled and rubbed his hand over his face. "Yeah, something like that." His hand fell to where his collar usually was, then fell to his side. "What brings you here?"
Jim smiled softly and held up the flowers. "I come every year." He settled the flowers between the two grave stones. "Mary never really had a lot of use for church aside from the wedding and baptisms, but I knew her parents. I told them I'd keep an eye on her. I guess I still feel obligated."
"I haven't been back in a while." John confessed. He was uncomfortable standing at his wife's grave, talking as though she were dead when he knew that she wasn't.
Jim put a hand on his shoulder. "It is hard to lose someone so young." He looked away, then back at John. "You have somewhere to stay while you're in town?"
"Actually…I…" John rubbed at the place where his collar was missing again. "No…I'm sort of taking a sabbatical…I came here on a whim."
Jim nodded knowingly, then put an arm around his shoulder. "Why don't you come with me. I have an extra room, and while it isn't a catholic church, it is quiet and will give you space for reflection. Besides…I have something to share with you."
John let Jim pull him along, not sure what the minister could possibly have to show him after thirteen years away, but willing to find out. It might even bring him closer to finding Mary.
Lawrence, Kansas.
Dean's last stop in town had been almost three years before. He'd been on the run from the last foster home, got on the first bus out of town and woke up here. He left Eliot in a motel room on the cheap side of town and drove until he was at the graveyard where they had buried his mother and brother.
He got out of the car and inhaled the crisp fall air. It was late afternoon, the sun starting to set as he crossed the cemetery and came to a stop beside the marker. There were fresh flowers there as Dean squatted, one hand brushing over the etchings marking his mother's name.
He had stood beside his father while some preacher ran his mouth about goodness and purity and shit that Dean figures was meant to make them feel better, but he hadn't understood. All he knew was that his mother was never coming home and his Sam was gone.
"Winchester."
Dean stood, turning and nodding.
"You must have some friends in high places to get me here."
Dean grinned. "Lets just say that certain mutual acquaintances might prefer enlisting your help to get me what I want to losing their currant comfortable lifestyle."
"Ah, good old fashioned black mail. I can respect that."
Dean looked the guy over, weighing him against the job. He was middle aged, middle class in appearance, though he knew for himself how deceiving that could be. "What I'm asking ain't easy." He pulled the box and it's paper out of his bag. "Got this in the mail a week ago. Postmark is Lawrence, but there isn't much else to go by. There's a copy of the picture that came in it there. I need to find that boy. His name is Samuel Winchester."
The man looked it over, then looked up at Dean. "It'll cost you. This is not going to be something I do in a day or so."
"I'm prepared. You find him, I'll make sure you get paid."
"Got a way I can get a hold of you when I do?"
Dean pulled a business card from his pocket. "Hotel we're at. Room number is on the back."
"Okay. I'll be in touch."
Dean watched him walk away, then turned back to the grave markers. He squatted down and put his hand on Sam's. "I'm going to find you Sammy. I'm going to make this right. And then, I'm gonna kill whoever took you away from me."