Under the Bridge | 6/8
Part Five
--
John putters around town, decides to do some maintenance on the Impala and drives by the nearest auto parts store before going back to the motel, picking up a few cartons of Chinese on the way. He sits and eats in front of the television, watching some of the newest crime-drama sitcoms to hit the airwaves, and by the time he finally rouses himself out of the daze they put him in, it’s too dark outside to work.
He huffs, stands up and goes to wash his hands; once that’s done, he figures he needs something to keep him occupied or he’ll sit here and lose brain cells. John looks thoughtfully at the clock, even more thoughtfully at the television, then grabs his coat and keys.
--
Pastor Visser’s church is on the other side of town, but John still makes it to the evening service with two minutes to spare. He slides in to the back pew, glances through the order of service and the bulletin, and shrugs off his jacket, putting it onto the pew next to him. Someone sits down and John looks up to apologise; he stops mid-breath when he sees amused black eyes looking back at him.
“Relax,” the old man says, leaning back into the pew, letting out a relieved sigh as his bones crack and pop. “It’s just me. Granted, I haven’t been in a man for a few hosts, so this feels a little strange, not to mention that he’s a little older than the hosts I usually go for.”
The man trails off as the acolytes come out of the vestry to light the candles and John doesn’t put the clues together until halfway through the confession of sins. John leans over as Alan’s speaking the absolution, and asks, “Eisheth?”
“I have the feeling I’m being too obvious,” the man whispers back, though he blinks and John can read amusement in rheumy blue eyes. “But yes. Now, pray and seek what you came here to find. I’ll make sure no one else bothers you.”
John’s not Lutheran but he’s been in enough churches to feel comfortable with what’s happening at any given time; the only thing that surprises him in the service leading up to the Sacrament of Holy Communion is the prayer that Alan recites after the Creed.
“We call on You, O Lord, during these troubled days, and ask You to give us an increase of faith and hope, that, in the end, we might come to our everlasting inheritance in You; through Jesus Christ, our Lord. Amen.” It’s a traditional prayer, yes, but one used in times of adversity, in times of war. There’s nothing to suggest that anyone else knows why Alan might be using that, but John looks up and sees the man looking back at him. John smiles, inclines his head, and Alan returns the nod, somehow somber and grave in his vestments.
John goes up for Communion, stepping over Eisheth as the people in their pew get called forward, and he pauses, raises an eyebrow at the demon.
“I might not react to Holy Water or the Name, but that doesn’t mean I’m about to ingest the Eucharist,” Eisheth murmurs, rolling his eyes as if John should have known that already.
Alan’s waiting at the bottom of the aisle, near the altar, holding the wafer in one hand. John follows a couple other people, ends up in the middle of the group of eight, and bows in sync with the other seven before dropping to his knees in front of the altar. He accepts the Host, murmurs the appropriate words in the appropriate places, and drinks deeply of the wine when one of the laypeople holds the cup up to his mouth.
John doesn’t believe, not the way that Bobby does or the way that any of the pastors and priests he’s come into contact with do, but the wine washes down his throat and John can feel it clean something deep inside of him, the way that renewing his baptism does, as if hunting demons, being near them, is enough to taint him. He stands on steady feet, bows again, and returns to his seat, a new resolve firming itself in the back of his mind.
Eisheth scoots away when John sits down, as if she can feel the difference, even outside of John and trapped in a different body.
--
“I can’t say I was expecting to see you tonight,” Alan says, once the service is done, most of the congregation has gone home, and John’s on the step, shaking the pastor’s hand. “Ben likes to come to the early services when he can, or he goes to Mass when he doesn’t have much time.” Alan pauses, just long enough for John to guess at what the man’s going to say.
“He has lessons,” John explains. He’s not expecting much, maybe some chiding, maybe something about taking care of Ben, which is why Alan’s reaction, the way the man turns pale, tightens one hand around the cross hanging from his neck, clutches the railing, has him frowning, off-balance. “What is it?”
Alan doesn’t say anything, not until he sees the old man come out of the church, stand at John’s elbow. “Which one are you?” Alan asks, voice shaking.
“It’s Eisheth,” John says, glancing at the demon, seeing the old man’s face echo the look on Alan’s. “What is it? What aren’t you two telling me?”
The pastor looks up to the sky, as if seeking answers or some form of assistance; when he looks back at John, his eyes look old, deep, and his shoulders burdened down. “Ben’s lessons are with a demon, one of the few who the others fear, all of them without fail, save the seraphs,” Alan finally says. “They aren’t.”
He stops, and Eisheth finishes the sentence with, “Pleasant. They aren’t pleasant.”
John looks between the two, finally asks, hesitating just a little, “What’s that supposed to mean? They’re lessons with a demon, of course they won’t be pleasant.”
Eisheth sighs, says, “I’ll explain, Pastor. You have other things to take care of.”
Alan nods, leaves John with a murmured apology, and looks beat down, worn, as he goes back into the church. The door booms shut behind him, and John can hear the lock being turned, keeping him and Eisheth out.
“What’s going on?” John asks, turning to the demon, impatient for an answer now. He wants to know what has them so worried, what might explain the look in Arioch’s eyes this morning, what exactly is sending chills of fear down his back. “Eisheth, you better tell me or swear to God I’ll.”
Eisheth cuts him off, a raised hand and a quiet, “Not here,” eyes flicking around. John follows the demon’s gaze, sees a couple across the street turn and watch them, eyes glinting black for a split-second between blinks.
“Then where?” John asks, now almost desperate for an answer.
“Somewhere safe,” Eisheth replies. “Do you remember how to get to my apartment?” At John’s nod, she says, “Meet me there in an hour.”
The old man sits down on a bench, leans back, then looks up at the sky and opens his mouth. Eisheth, cloud of black smoke, rushes out from between false teeth and disappears into the sky. The man coughs, sighs, and says to himself, “I slept through church again, dagnabbit.”
John doesn’t have the heart to tell him otherwise.
--
He’s at Eisheth’s apartment an hour later and knocks on the door. The woman that answers it is bone-shatteringly beautiful, with high, defined cheekbones and a patrician profile, full lips and perfect skin; she smiles when she sees him but very clearly doesn’t recognise him.
“I’m looking for Eisheth,” John says, gruff, because the woman’s giving him some sort of look that he equates with hungry piranhas. He hears another woman’s voice in the apartment, can’t see her yet, but she’s telling the woman at the door to let John in. He’s not sure it’s safe, exactly, but Eisheth has answers and told him to be here.
“John,” the other woman says, coming out of the kitchen, sleeves rolled up past her elbows, a smudge of flour high on one cheekbone. “I’m sorry. This is my sister, Lilith.”
Lilith looks at John, raises an eyebrow and scans his body. It isn’t a look that John’s entirely comfortable with. “John Winchester, in the flesh,” she says, and her voice is sibilant, almost drawing out the ‘s’ sounds into hisses. He changes his mind -- it’s not piranhas she reminds him of, but snakes.
“He’s not ours to play with, sister,” Eisheth says, chiding.
“Oh, I know,” Lilith snaps. “Excuse me for having a look. I just wondered if I could figure out what the young master sees in this human.” She throws John a scathing look, adds, “I have to admit, I’m lost for words.”
Eisheth sighs, says, “Sister,” and doesn’t react when Lilith brushes past her, though she does flinch when one of the doors down the hallway slams shut, causing one of the paintings on the wall to fall and clang against an end-table. “My apologies, John,” the demon says, once she’s taken a deep breath. “None of us here are exactly easy about the young master being at his lessons. Lilith always takes it the worst, you see; she needs the young master’s presence to calm her, otherwise she gets lost in the rage. This is her way of channelling that into something worthwhile. She’s become very good at vitriolic worrying.”
John doesn’t know where to start with all that, so he asks, “The rage?”
“We’re soldiers on a battlefield,” Eisheth says, leading John into the kitchen, nodding at the table. He sits down and she goes back to a bowl on the counter, digs her hands in and starts kneading, John thinks. Her back’s to him, almost making a point of it, and though John still feels she should be exorcised like all the others, he’s beginning to think that she’s not so bad, not really, a dangerous mental place for a hunter.
“Soldiers,” John echoes. “Soldiers making bread?”
Eisheth shoots him a grin over her shoulder, blows an errant strand of hair out of face. “Pain au chocolat, actually. Lils loves chocolate. This should help calm her down.”
John tilts his head, studies the back of the woman cooking, as if he might be able to see the demon inside so long as he looks hard enough. Eisheth isn’t like any other demon John’s exorcised; it’s almost hard to believe she’s one of the four wives of Samael, one of the most experienced prostitutes and demons of temptation found in any level of hell.
“Where are your other sisters?” John asks, fully aware this isn’t why he came here but unable to stop himself from wondering, from asking. If the other three are as confusing as Eisheth, John’s halfway to thinking that maybe all demons are, despite what he knows in his soul to be true.
Eisheth hums, as if she’s thinking, finally says, “Well, Lils is in the bedroom, of course. I think Naamah’s somewhere north of here, and Agra’s out in California, doing something for the master. Or, at least she was the last time I spoke with her.” Eisheth pounds something, says, “Sorry. Lump of butter.”
John waves his hand, even though Eisheth isn’t paying any attention to him. “And you’re all sisters,” he says. “You don’t just call one another that out of convenience?”
“The Creator knew what He was doing when He made us,” Eisheth replies, tightness in her voice when she speaks of God. “There are different kinds of love, John, so there needed to be different representations of them. After we fell, our Lord said that it would make sense for there to be different kinds of lusts to tempt the humans, to balance the loves.” As if she can see the look on John’s face, she says, “The four of us each embody a different aspect of lust, and we mirror the love we once defined: eros love, based on physical attraction, storge love, which draws on emotional intimacy and companionship, pragma, the pragmatic, self-serving love, and ludus, love as a game. Four types of love, so there are four types of lust that exist to twist and deface. That’s what we were made to do, after all.”
John narrows his eyes but doesn’t argue, instead saying, “Eros is Lilith, obviously. And from the stories I’ve heard, Naamah would be pragma. You’re storge?”
Eisheth laughs, moves over to the sink and washes her hands clean of flour. She moves bread pans around, goes back to the bowl of dough and thumps it out onto the counter, starts pressing it out with her hands. “Guilty as charged, I’m afraid. That’s why the young master spends more time with me than he does with Lils or Agra; I’m something of a friend when the right person’s looking and he’s strong enough to resist the lure that makes it more, that turns it into prostitution.”
“He spends more time with Naamah than he does with you?” John asks. He’s surprised, but even as he speaks, he can’t help but think that it makes sense. Pragmatic love, the kind that’s self-serving, that knows what it’s getting into, what it wants and what the cost will be at the end. “Of course he would.”
She hums, says, “The young master is inherently practical.”
John takes that in, thinks about what it might mean for even a demon to say that, then decides that this conversation, such as it is, has gone on long enough. “You said you’d tell me about these lessons. Who’s teaching them? What are they for? Where are they held?”
Eisheth leaves the lump of dough on the counter, covers it with a towel. She goes over to the cabinet, takes out a bar of chocolate, and sits down at the table with John. Half of the chocolate gets broken and left in the wrapper, the other half taken out. She breaks it, offers some to John, who shakes his head. Mary was the one with the sweet tooth, not him.
“None of us know where they’re held,” she says, nibbling on a piece. John can smell the bitter chocolate from eight feet away. “Only the young master, his father, Marchosias, Arioch, and Eligos do, as well as his teacher.”
“Who’s his teacher?” John snaps. “Which demon has the rest of you cowed enough to let a seventeen-year-old human be treated like this?”
Eisheth’s eyes flood with black; she blinks it back but John can tell he’s upset her. “Even I don’t know that,” she hisses. “When Lord Belial says to leave it alone, we damned well leave it alone, John Winchester, or risk more pain and torment than you humans can even dare to dream of. You think that we let him go so easily? That we encourage this?”
John leans forward, matching Eisheth’s look, her tone. “What goes on during these lessons?”
She blinks, smiles at him, her mouth curved even as her blue eyes show worry. “No one knows,” she replies, licking chocolate off of one finger. “The young master never speaks of them to us. All we know about them is what he comes back like.” Eisheth pauses, but at John’s look, must take pity on him. The smile drops from her face, until her entire expression looks honestly concerned. “He takes a beating while he’s there, mentally and physically. I’ve never seen the worst of it, usually Visser takes care of him, along with a few other humans in their group. I know it’s bloody, and painful, because I can still smell that on him when he comes to see me. But, what it does to his mind.”
Eisheth stops, shakes her head, and John can see that she’s trying to hold back tears. Demons can cry -- he never knew. “What does it do?” he asks, as gently as he can. He’s trying to treat her like he would a victim, like a witness who holds the key to a story he needs to get to the bottom of; it seems to be working so far.
“He’s different, when he gets back,” she says, wiping away a stray tear. “Numb, at first, like nothing can touch him, like he doesn’t care.” More tears follow, accompanying her words. “He gets hard, as if no one and nothing can touch him. He hasn’t killed, but the look in his eyes, it’s so old, ancient even past me, and it’s pure evil. Oh, it’s glorious, that look, but it isn’t him.”
John shivers at her description, trying to imagine Ben with that look on his face, beaten and bruised, and finds he simply can’t. Everything he knows of Ben revolts against the idea of the kid looking and acting like that. “But he comes out of it,” he asks. “He snaps out of it? How long does that take?”
Eisheth looks at him and says, “Longer and longer, each time he has a new lesson. Like he’s fighting an uphill battle, one he knows he has no chance of winning.” She takes a deep breath, uses the bottom of her apron to wipe her face clean. Eisheth reaches out, snaps off a chunk of chocolate and shoves it all in her mouth. She chews, swallows, licks stray crumbs off of her lips, and says, “He won’t be the same when he comes back. He never is. And I thank the Prince every time that I don’t see what Visser and the other humans see.”
“Why?” John asks, watching as she stands, goes to the sink and washes her hands, scrubbing under her nails with a brush.
It takes long enough for her to answer that John almost thinks she hasn’t heard him. Eventually, though, she replies, “Because he must be close to dead when they patch him up. And I think I’d storm my Lord’s fortress myself, alone if necessary, to protest the young master’s treatment at the hands of one of my brethren.”
--
Eisheth lets the dough rise for half an hour before spreading it out, cutting it into pieces, stuffing some with chocolate and others with honeyed raisins. John watches her cook in silence, remembering the way Mary used to flit around the kitchen when they first got married, burning the meat, overcooking the potatoes, trying to do too many things at once, either out of impatience or a desire to impress her new husband.
He remembers fucking her against the counter, telling her to slow down and take her time, showing her with his cock what he meant, until she hooked her feet around his legs and took over, rocking slow and steady until they both came, sweating and covered in batter, laughing when the smoke alarm started going off. She’d never burnt anything after that, ended up spending hours in the kitchen for the sheer pleasure of it, loved to feed John with her fingers.
“You look as if you’re used to doing that,” John says.
“With variations, this is something I’ve been cooking since before Marie Antoinette decided everyone could eat cake,” Eisheth says, tart and crisp like the raisins pouring through her fingers. “People have been stuffing bread for centuries. Someone had to keep the tradition alive, even if I started doing this with dates and figs instead of raisins and chocolate.”
John drops his face into his hands, can’t believe that humanity has demons to thank for pain au chocolat. Eisheth crosses the kitchen, drops one hand on John’s shoulder and squeezes before moving on to reach into the pantry behind John, pulling out a package of powdered sugar.
“It’s all Lils’ fault, really,” Eisheth says.
It looks, as she’s moving around, as if she might have something more to say, but the bedroom door slams open and footsteps stomp down the hallway. John looks up, sees Lilith stand in the entryway, hands on her hips, fury on her face. He’s never seen anything more beautiful, never, not in this way, as if she’s been brought to life from his deepest, darkest fantasies, completely opposite from Mary, closer to Ben but still unreal, supernatural.
“You were not about to blame me for your obsession with cooking, were you,” she asks, voice low, heated, sending shivers through John’s body and blood down to his dick. He thinks of Mary, brings up the image of Ben, legs spread and hands on the wall, to his mind, and manages to control himself, to will his arousal away.
Lilith spares him little more than a glance, but Eisheth gives John a concerned look, one he waves away so that she can pay attention to her sister. She sighs, turns back to Lilith, and says, “If I were, it would only be the truth,” voice and words mild, almost placating. “There’s spare chocolate on the table if you don’t want to wait for these to bake.”
Eisheth goes back to the pain, loads them up on the pans. John keeps his eyes on Lilith, watches as her eyes narrow, leans back as she stalks across the kitchen to grab the chocolate on the table. She stands there and eats, watches her sister place the pans in the oven, set the timer.
“I was about to explain the anger to John,” Eisheth says, wiping off the counter with a damp cloth. “But you’re more than welcome to, if you’d like.”
“Too lazy, Eish?” Lilith drawls, chocolate on her teeth. “Too hesitant to share even more of our secrets with the hunter? Because you’ve been as generous as an angel, really.” Eisheth flinches in on herself, and John almost says something in her defence, but Lilith spins and pins her eyes on him, says, “Don’t say a word, human. Sit there and keep your fucking mouth shut and maybe something of what we’re saying will filter into your puny little mind.”
John raises an eyebrow, settles back into his chair and crosses his arms over his chest. Eisheth walks to the sink, starts doing the dishes, making herself as small a target as she possibly can.
“Soldiers fighting a war,” Lilith says, taking the chair Eisheth had been sitting in before and turning it so that she can straddle it, “that’s what Eish said?” John nods, resists the urge to take the rosary out of his pocket and hold it in front of her face. Lilith snorts, says, “True enough, on some accounts. Tell me, hunter: what happens to a group in the field if their C.O.’s missing?”
John’s drawn to his memories of Vietnam, can’t help it, not when she puts the question that way. “Chaos,” he answers bluntly. “Nothing good, that’s for sure.”
Lilith’s eyes gleam. “We swore our loyalty, our allegiance, our very existence to the young master. For all intents and purposes, he’s our commander and we’re his foot soldiers. He’s gone. We’re demons. You think we’re gonna sit around and make fucking daisy-chains?”
“The young master calms us by his very presence,” Eisheth says, finally speaking up, though she’s being cautious about it. She dries her hands, turns and leans against the sink, glances at the oven timer before looking at Lilith, watching her, wary. “He soothes the part of us that wants to rage and shriek and behave as many humans assume demons behave when they’re on the surface. His presence reminds us that we have a plan, that we are more than mindless beasts intent on damnation and hellfire, that we’re engaged in a battle of strategy with an enemy just as wilful as we are.”
“He’s your conscience,” John half-says, wondering if he’s imagining the undertone in Eisheth’s voice.
Lilith huffs, says, “You’re an idiot, hunter, just like they’ve said. We’re demons, we don’t have fucking consciences.”
Eisheth throws her sister a glance, tells John, “It’s hard to explain, but I think you’re beginning to see. The young master helps us retain our sanity; we’re not on a high enough tier by ourselves to hold on to our minds when we’re in the human realm for long amounts of time. Our Prince anchored us before, just like Lord Belial anchors many, and Lauviah serves his own sworn followers.”
The kitchen goes silent, save for the almost sub-vocal growling coming from Lilith’s direction, until the timer dings, startling John. Eisheth swoops on the oven, pulls out pans of heavenly-smelling pain au chocolat and raisin-stuffed croissants. Lilith takes one right from the pan, unmindful of how hot it might be, and rips a chunk off, chewing and swallowing. John can see the second the chocolate hits, along with the pastry, as some of the tension eases off of Lilith’s shoulders, melts right away like the chocolate has inside of the bread.
“Would you like a piece?” Eisheth asks John.
John watches Lilith lick her lips, stare right at him as she uses her canines to tear off another bite of bread.
“Only if I can wrap it up to go,” he says. Lilith gives him a predatory grin and Eisheth merely smiles sadly and offers John a covered basket.
--
John doesn’t sleep well that night, doesn’t sleep well the next night, either, despite having spent all day tuning up the Impala. On the third day of Ben’s absence, John decides he can’t just sit around or he’ll go crazy; he heads for the city library and starts writing down everything he’s learned over the past couple of weeks, as well as everything he’s guessing at.
That takes up day three, and days four, five, and six are spent in books, hours of dust and grime and papercuts. He lugs Bobby’s books to the library, has claimed a table in one back corner near the religion section and spreads out over the table, books and papers fighting for top spots. Every so often, John makes a note on a different piece of paper, uses coffee breaks to call Ash and leave short messages at the Roadhouse. He texts Dean once a day, simple message that says Ben’s not back yet, and never reads Dean’s replies. He even calls Joshua, his resident expert on demon-touched humans, once, talks to him for thirty seconds.
Day seven comes early, John breaking out of a sound sleep into panic. His nightmares are getting worse.
--
When a search for food yields nothing in sight save some boxes and cartons growing mould, John showers and shaves before he drives to the diner where Alan Visser’s wife works, orders a full breakfast. He made a solid start into it before Mrs. Visser slides into the booth across from him, pot of coffee sitting on the table.
“Alan’s said I owe you an apology,” she says, no prelude, no nonsense in her tone.
“It’s not necessary,” John says, replying mildly, thinking that he just wants some peace and quiet, maybe a top-up on his coffee, nothing more complicated than that, certainly not an apology from some overprotective mother-hen sticking her nose where it doesn’t belong.
She seems to intuit some of what John’s feeling, because she smiles, the expression jagged, almost like it doesn’t fit. “And that’s good, because I’m not giving you one.”
John tilts his head and says, “Oh?” like he’d been expecting that response. In truth, it startles him, until he remembers what she’d been like that night he’d brought Ben in here, with her impatience and distrustfulness.
“Alan said you’re a good man, and good for Ben,” she says, close to haughty. “But my husband has a soft heart and he’s been fooled before. I wanted to let you know that I’m watching you, John Winchester, you and that no-good son of yours.”
“Don’t talk about my son like that,” John says, the beginning traces of anger in his voice. “You don’t know Dean, you have no right at all to lecture me about him.”
She sniffs, stands up and refills John’s coffee cup. “You might’ve fed Ben, and you might’ve made him smile, but don’t assume I’m an idiot, Winchester,” she says, low and quiet, like she doesn’t want anyone else to overhear her. “A fair few of the others have done just as much, and they all turned on him, in the end. When you do the same, we’ll still be here. If you remember anything, remember that.”
The phone rings, cutting her off, and she walks back to the counter, head held high. John’s reluctant to admit that she’s impressed him, just a little, but if pressed, he thinks he might confess to Ben. The kid’s evidently made a good decision, choosing this woman as a protector of sorts.
“Winchester?” she calls out. John looks at her, and she says, “It’s Alan,” like she hates passing on the message.
That has John moving, and the first thing he says when he takes the phone from her is, "How'd you know I was here?"
"Saw your car out front when I passed by earlier," the pastor says. "Ben's done."
John blinks, says, "What?"
Alan sighs, explains. "Ben's done with this round of lessons. He called from the car; he'll be at the church in a few minutes. I thought you'd like to know."
"I'm on my way," John says, and drops the phone, leaves it hanging. He can hear Mrs. Visser calling out after him, but he ignores her, heads straight for the Impala.
--
John drives to the church, parks as near to the entrance as he can, first spot after the handicapped spaces, and gets out of the car. Alan's on the steps, waiting, in a pair of blue jeans and a Hard Rock Cafe sweatshirt that John can't help grinning at despite the anxiety making waves in his stomach.
"Second honeymoon," Alan offers in explanation. "It's worn in and the stains come out pretty good, but the wife won't mind if there are more."
John's about to ask what that means, why Alan looks as if he's expecting a hearse, not Ben, but he sees Alan stiffen, follows his gaze. It's not the black hybrid that Arioch drives, that dropped Ben off at the motel and then turned around and picked him up a week ago; instead, it's the SUV that John has come to associate with Marchosias. John steps forward as the vehicle slows to a stop, and the window rolls down to reveal a grinning host with black eyes, cocky tilt to his head.
"Ah, Winchester, we meet again. Tell me, how's that son of yours doing?" Marchosias -- it has to be Marchosias -- looks as if he knows something John doesn't, the way he's smiling, practically laughing.
The back door opens and Ben steps out, unsteady on his feet, though he slams the door shut hard enough to rock the car. John moves towards Ben but stops when the kid stares at him, blank and even.
"Your watchdog'll come and find you later," Marchosias says to Ben, eyes gleaming as he licks his teeth. "Be good, young master." He turns to John, says, "Watch out," and the window rolls up as the SUV pulls away in a squeal of tires.
Ben's tense, looks exhausted as he stands there, weight on one foot, eyes shadowed and wary behind a sea of calm emptiness. John thinks of what Eisheth said, can't help shuddering.
"I've been worried," John says, once he gets closer, seeing Pastor Visser taking a step forward out of the corner of one eye. It's hard to remember that this is the kid John fucked against a wall, that he's been in screaming matches with, that he's falling for against his will; it's even harder to remember that, despite the worry, they didn't part on the best of terms. John doesn't apologise, not to many people, never if he can help it, but he says, "I'm sorry for what I said before. I've had time to think, and I talked to some people -- I was wrong. Are you." John pauses, wonders if he's lost the right to ask, but decides to anyway. "Are you okay?"
Ben doesn't move, doesn't react. John hates the dead look in the kid's eyes, wishes there was something he could do or say to kindle the fire in them. Hell, at this point, he'd even take anger. John moves around the corner of the bench and freezes when he sees Ben skitter backwards.
"Just leave," Ben says, and the tone of voice is so tired, so numb, that John's left gaping. "Just. Just take your son and your friend and get out of town. You're not wanted here. You never were."
"Ben," Alan says, narrowing the distance between him and Ben, reaching out and gently touching the kid's arm. "Ben, you don't mean that. This is John. You like him, remember?"
Ben hisses, jerks away from Alan's touch and wavers on his feet, blood draining from his face. John guesses it's from the sudden movement but doesn't know why that might happen, unless.
"What did they do to you?" John asks, the question half a growl. "Ben. What the fuck did they do?"
Ben narrows his eyes; John holds his breath as he watches a spark come to life in the depths of those green cats-eyes. "Nothing I didn't want and everything I asked for," he replies. The tone sounds moderately more alive but the words have John furious.
Alan must be able to see that there's going to be some kind of explosion, either from one of them or between them, because he's trying to get John to calm down, trying to get Ben to sit down. John wants to tell the pastor to stop wasting his time, that he and Ben fight all the damned time and sometimes even mean it, but Ben merely looks at the man and he's stepping back, holding up his hands in a gesture of resignation.
"I'm calling Dan. Don't go anywhere," Alan tells Ben before the man walks away, muttering under his breath.
Ben nods, a sharp, jerking movement, and doesn't say anything else.
"What do you mean, nothing you didn't want," John asks.
Anyone else would recognise the danger implicit in John's tone, would be trying to placate him or be backing away, but Ben holds his ground and sneers. "What, are you deaf now, Winchester? I asked for it. You need me to explain that to you?" Ben turns his face to one side, spits on the ground, comes perilously close to hitting the edge of John's shoe. "Always knew hunters were idiots, but I thought you were better. Guess I was wrong."
John's seeing red, eyes focusing like tunnel-vision on the kid standing in front of him. He's almost about to open his mouth and lay into the kid, but he realises he's actually seeing red -- it's not saliva lying on the ground, staining a small puddle into the cement, but blood. Just like that, the anger fades into fear and worry, and he looks up at Ben, asks, softly, "What happened?"
Ben shrugs, though the corners of his mouth tighten like he's holding back a grimace of pain. "Lessons," he says, simple and plain.
"You've been gone for a week," John says, arguing weakly. "You were in lessons all that time?"
"Let's say I'm a slow learner," Ben replies, and the shadow's back in his eyes.
John blinks, shakes his head. "No, you aren't," he says firmly. Ben's smart, would have to be to survive all this time on the streets, not to mention how he's survived inside of a system that only makes sense to demons. Besides, even Bobby's been impressed with how intelligent Ben is, what kinds of things he knows and what sorts of connections he can draw between seemingly unrelated things -- and it takes a lot to impress Bobby.
Ben wavers on his feet, puts one hand out and surreptitiously steadies himself by gripping the back of the bench; John follows the angle of Ben's arm and sees that there are bruises and abrasions around Ben's wrists, that his knuckles are skinned.
"Why is Alan calling Dan?" John asks, hoping against hope that he can catch Ben off-balance; ordinarily, he's relatively sure it would be futile, but Ben's gotten paler and looks like he's having trouble focusing.
"Because Dan was an emergency medical," Alan starts to say, coming back out of the church. He stops mid-sentence, after looking at Ben, and snaps out, "John, catch him before he falls."
John's already moving, having seen the shudder Ben gave before his fingers slipped off of the bench, and he's there just in time to keep the kid from cracking open his skull on the cement. Ben's eyes are closed, and John stares for a moment at the kid's face before he realises that the back of Ben's sweater is damp with something.
He goes to check and see what it is, but Alan says, "Not out here," in a voice that seems to know what it's talking about. "Come on, carry him inside. We'll need to get him cleaned before Dan can do anything anyway."
"Cleaned? Before Dan can do anything? Alan, Pastor, what's the problem?" John asks, though he's lifting Ben, carrying him in his arms, inwardly wondering how the kid can be so light even though he's close to John's height. John holds Ben tighter, hears the kid's breathing change, sound soothed instead of pained; Ben curls into him and John wants to kill someone.
--
Alan leads him to a back room somehow connected to the vestry and is telling John that this church used to be an old opera house, before opera fell out of style, that there are labyrinthine tunnels and attics connecting the two floors and the basement together, crooked little staircases and narrow hallways so that the musicians and performers could easily get from one side of the building to the other, top to bottom, as the stage directions called for.
"We've closed up some of the passages," Alan says, gesturing for John to put Ben down on a little sofa in one of the farthest rooms away from the front door. "No, on his stomach. Yes, like that," the pastor instructs. "But others are kept open. There's a door in the back that Dan has a key to, I'll be right back." At John's look, guessing what John's about to say, Alan says, "Dan's going to need water and better light. I had to move the lamps up to the altar a week or so ago, so I'm going to get those and then grab the filtered water we have around here somewhere."
John nods, pulls over an ottoman and sits down, holding one of Ben's hands in his own. He's rubbing one thumb over Ben's fingertips, but then remembers what he'd seen out front, before Ben passed out. He looks down, brushes his thumb lightly over the skinned knuckles, then pushes up the sleeve of a sweater John's just now realising is a different one than the dark green cable-knit one Ben left wearing last week.
He hadn't been imagining things -- Ben's wrist and lower arm is torn up, covered in bruises and red skin as if Ben had rope tied around him and fought it. No blisters that John can see, thankfully, but there doesn't seem to be one square inch of Ben's arm from his fingers to his elbow that's untouched.
Very carefully, having put two and two together, John starts moving Ben's sweater away from his body; the kid shivers but doesn't wake up. John swallows, feeling the fabric stick to something, and slows down, but he doesn't stop until he's maneuvered the sweater off of Ben's body. He drops the fabric on the floor and just stares.
John's not sure how long it's been since Ben left wherever this lessons are held at, but the kid's still bleeding; half of the wounds are sluggishly letting out blood, the other half are just barely scabbed over, still damp. From what John can tell, it looks like Ben was whipped: the wounds are narrow and long, but deep. John wants to vomit but he won't let himself.
"You won't go back there," he whispers, leaning down and resting his cheek on Ben's head, inhaling the smell of hair and sweat, tears and blood. "I swear it, Ben. You'll never go back there."
--
Footsteps echo on the floor; John's not sure how long it's been but they aren't coming from the direction Alan left in. John reacts immediately, pulls the gun from his jeans and aims in, crouching on the floor in front of Ben, a bottle of Holy Water in his other hand.
Dan comes around the corner and freezes mid-step, holds up his hands so that John can see what he's carrying: a cell phone in one hand, closed, and a field medic's kit in the other, big red cross on the side of the case. "I'm not possessed," Dan says. "I'm just here to patch Ben up."
John swallows, stands and sets the gun down on a small table near Ben's feet, but doesn't let go of the Holy Water. "How'd I know if you were lying?" he asks, and can't stop the rise of bitterness. If there had been three solid things in his world before this, now there's only two: Mary's still dead and Dean's still all he has left of his family, but demons aren't reacting to the things they should be the way they should be.
Dan looks sympathetic but not much; he brushes past John and sighs when he sees the mess some damned demon has made of Ben's back, picks up one wrist to look at the damage, then asks, "Where's Alan?"
"Gone to get some better lights and some water," John replies, still watching Dan carefully, cautiously. The other man doesn't so anything but hum acknowledgment before pulling over the ottoman and opening the kit. He takes out antibiotic ointment, wads of cotton, and starts with Ben's knuckles, cleaning them before wrapping them in some cotton and tape.
"Army?" John asks, watching Dan work his way up Ben's arms, cleaning everything, wrapping and bandaging when necessary.
Dan glances up, quick flick of his eyes, and says, "Marines, 2/8," before returning his attention to Ben. "I was in Lebanon, then Grenada. Saw enough and decided once I was out that I wanted to learn to heal as well as kill. Went through the classes and worked as an EMT until my wife died. I moved down here, opened the store, and found out that taking care of this kid was a full-time job."
Lebanon. From what John remembers hearing on the television and from the few people he keeps in touch with from his old unit, that whole conflict was quick but bloody, terrorists blowing things up and giving the States an excuse to put one foot in the Middle East and not ever bring it back.
"How often does he look this bad?" John asks, standing near Ben's feet, close to the gun.
Dan shrugs, says, "'Bout every time he comes back. Actually, to be honest with you? This is the best. No bruising on his upper arms, nothing on his face, and these wounds were made cleanly, which means no one actually laid a hand on him. I haven't checked his feet yet, but Alan said Ben was standing easily enough."
John can't believe what he's hearing but it would make sense with the way Alan didn't have a problem arguing with Ben, with the look Dan had walking in here. He hears another set of footsteps, but the rhythm's familiar, if a little heavier.
Alan walks in, holding a large container of water, sets it down next to Dan's feet and looks over Ben's back. "Not as bad as we'd feared, then," he says to Dan, before he dips a cloth into the water and starts to wipe off Ben’s back.
Both of the men are taking this calmly, far too calmly for John's taste. "How often does he have these lessons?" he asks, thinking that maybe, if he was used to seeing this more often, he'd react in the same way, cool heads and steady hands.
Dan's too busy threading a needle for stitches to look up, but he answers, "It's been a while since the last set."
That's not an answer and all three men know it; John's ready to push but Alan says, "Longer between and this time it's shorter? That doesn't make sense, though, does it? I can't think of any reason why his teacher would be happier now than."
Alan stops abruptly and John looks the pastor right in the face and says, "It's about me."
No one can say anything to that.
--
Dan sews quickly, gets all the sutures done in about an hour and a half. Ben hasn't regained consciousness and John's thankful because they aren't doing this with any anaesthetic. Once the stitches are in place, ugly black silk thread carving up and down and across Ben's back, Dan cleans the excess blood up, tweezes fabric out of some of the smaller cuts, cracks his knuckles.
"He doesn't have any scars," John says, as Dan's checking Ben's legs and feet to make sure they're unharmed. "If it's worse than this, why doesn't he have scars?" Dan's hand pauses and Alan stiffens; neither of the two men look at each other. "Dan? Alan?"
Alan breaks first, probably because John's glaring right at him. "When the sutures are ready to come out," he explains, "Ben will go home and his father will do it. No one in the city's ever taken out a thread from Ben's injuries. After he leaves the house and comes back here, there won't be any sign he was injured."
Demon-tainted and demon-touched, but now they're saying that Ben's demon-healed -- there's no way to remove a thing like that from a person's soul. Or, John reminds himself, no way that he knows of right now. He'll find something.
"How often does he have lessons?" John asks, tone placid despite the worry and anger battling for dominance inside of him.
"At least once every five or six weeks," Dan says, finally sitting back, closing up his kit. "Sometimes once a month."
John nods, lets that percolate, then says, "I'm taking him with me. Back to the motel for now, but after that. I'm taking him away from here, with me."
Alan looks at him and says, "If you can get him to leave, we owe you a debt of gratitude, John."
"People have tried before?" John asks before he can stop himself.
Dan turns to look at him, disbelief written all over his expression. "You think we'd let a child stay here and go through this? You honestly think we wouldn't do everything in our power to make him go? The best we can do is far less than what we've done; we've pushed and pushed and pushed to get him to accept even this much help from us." Dan stands up, grabs his kit, and says to Alan, "Call me if you need me," before leaving without addressing another word to John.
John thinks he’d be offended, if it wasn’t for Alan’s murmured apology. “Ben spends a lot of time at Dan’s, more than he does with me, anymore,” he adds. “I’ve never seen as many symbols of protection around this city as I do at Dan’s store. Still,” he says, “I can’t blame Ben. He wants to keep the guns locked up, safe from the demons.”
“He said something about that,” John says, trying to wrack his mind. It was when he and Dean had come back, wanted to try out the range. “Wait. He said he doesn’t do guns. Why? And why would a pastor have keys to the shooting range?”
“Dan lets me work there to supplement my income,” Alan explains, feeling the nape of Ben’s neck, for a temperature, John thinks. He resists the urge to go over and rip the man’s hand off, doesn’t know where it comes from. “As for Ben and guns, you should ask him.”
John nods, sees Ben shift slightly, not close to consciousness but in some instinctive response to a stimulus that John’s not aware of.
“Will you need help getting back to your motel?” Alan asks, once a few minutes have passed.
“No,” John replies. “We’ll be fine.”
If Alan hears the unspoken dismissal, the implicit alliance, he doesn’t say anything about it.
--
John tucks Ben into bed, careful of the kid’s injuries; he lays Ben on his side and props the kid’s wrists on a pillow, decides he’ll take the bandaging off tomorrow to let the injuries air. He brushes hair off of Ben’s forehead, leans down and kisses Ben’s forehead, allowing himself the luxury of fond softness after a week of worry.
With the television on, the lights blazing, the curtains drawn, and John’s things scattered about the room, it almost looks cozy, like evening instead of early afternoon. He suddenly wishes he had more to offer Ben than the Impala, wishes he could prove himself and his worth with a house, property, something tangible and stable.
Ben probably wouldn’t like stable, though, John thinks, and wonders if he’s consoling himself, justifying his own way of life. Used to roaming as he wants, Ben’s likely to find a house, a permanent location, somewhat constraining, much like Dean’s grown used to. One more thing Ben will have in common with Dean, and a good thing, too; between the two of them, they need all the common ground they’re able to scout out.
He can almost see Ben’s scoff, the mocking look, and he murmurs, “He defended you, y’know,” as if there’s someone arguing with him. “He already thinks of you as part of us.” Part of me, he wants to add, but even now, here, alone except for his unconscious lover, to say something like that would be too much, would feel too much.
“We’ll leave when you’re able,” John says, promises. “I don’t care about this hunt anymore, about what’s going on. The hunters in town will have to deal with it -- they’ve let it go on this long, they should pay for it. We’ll go west, maybe, or up north-east. I always liked Vermont. There should be something up there we can do.”
Ben doesn’t react. Then again, John didn’t expect him to.
--
The kid wakes up in the middle of the night. It’s not slow and easy, not by a long shot: the kid bolts upright, out from under John’s arm, his hair mussed, eyes wild, and looks like he’s searching for someone’s eyes to claw out.
“Hey,” John says, sitting up as well, sheets falling to bunch around his waist. “Hey, Ben, Ben, what is it?”
“Be,” Ben starts to say, chest heaving as he gasps, one hand coming up to his throat, as if he’s trying to throw off someone or something, like there are hands around his throat. He stops, doesn’t finish the word, and John frowns, trying to figure out what Ben might have been about to practically scream.
Ben breathes and all of the tension drains away, just like that, everything going back to normal. John’s amazed, reaches out and tentatively places a hand on Ben’s shoulder, mindful of the sutures under the t-shirt he’d wrangled on to the kid earlier. Ben turns, lays eyes on John, and all of John’s instincts are telling him to cower, to make himself as small as possible in hopes that whatever large and deadly creature is passing might miss him, might not see him.
“John Edward Winchester,” Ben murmurs, and a small smile crosses his lips. It’s cold, cruel, and matches the look in his eyes perfectly, an ancient, old evil that even the demons who hate Ben might bow at the feet of.
At this moment, John understands how Ben’s the key, how he might be capable of unlocking the doors to hell and opening them for any and all hellspawn who want to walk over the earth. He hates it, hates seeing that look, and he prays it’s only reflex that has him saying, “Christo,” nothing more.
Ben doesn’t react to the name, just tilts his head in the way that’s reminded John of Mary before, of Dean. “If it doesn’t work on demons like Kokabiel, like Eisheth Zenunim, what makes you think it’s going to work on someone like me?” he asks, voice as loud as the breeze brushing through dead leaves outside. “And if it has no impact on humans, why are you wasting breath, John Winchester?”
“Because I’m worried,” John says, answering before thinking. “I’m worried about you, Ben. I don’t want to see you possessed or hurt or trampled on anymore?”
“They won’t possess me,” Ben says, and John wants to slap away the smile on the kid’s face. “Only one of them has the power and He won’t leave hell, not until I open the gates and make Him a place of power here, on the surface.” Ben’s eyes are gleaming, not with fever or anger, but with the hard practicality of knowing what needs to be done and how to do it.
Despite how dry John’s mouth is, despite how much he thinks, in this one, brief, instant, that maybe Bobby’s right and they should kill Ben, he says, “I won’t let them do that, Ben. I won’t let you do that.”
The lights in the bathroom flicker, on-off, on-off, in split-motion that makes John think of ghosts. There are shadows moving outside, something more than branches, less than people, and the wind picks up, howls once before settling.
“You can’t stop me,” Ben says. It’s not bravado, but pure and simple fact, and it has John’s hand connecting with Ben’s cheek a second later.
John breathes, can’t believe he’s just slapped his lover, but when he sees something pushing at the back of Ben’s eyes, he feels relieved. He wasn’t doing that to Ben, but to whatever it is that these lessons bring out in him, is trying to help Ben and this seems to be working. Ben blinks, shakes his head, and when he stills, looks back at John, his eyes are cold and hard again, nothing of Ben in the brittle green depths. John thinks of what Eisheth said, the evil in Ben’s eyes isn’t him, and narrows his own eyes.
“You’re not my Ben,” John says. “You’re not Ben at all. What the hell are you?”
“I am Ben,” the kid replies, sliding out of bed, standing next to it in his boxers and one of John’s t-shirts, too big for his frame. His eyes are like green ice and ooze menace. “But I’m not yours. I don’t belong to anyone.”
The words hurt, would hurt even more if John thought Ben meant them, under whatever this part of him is. John gets out of bed as well, standing on the other side, hands itching for a gun, a knife, a weapon of any kind.
“Ben,” John says, trying to figure out how to call Ben back, to help him fight what an Eisheth called an uphill battle. He’s not expecting Ben to narrow his eyes, glare at him and tilt his chin up; he’s even less prepared to go flying across the room and end up pinned against the wall. John gags, then finds his breath, back aching from the impact, and watches as Ben sashays around the bed, towards him. John almost expects to see wings crush their way out of the kid’s back, wouldn’t be surprised if they did at any second. “You’re telekinetic,” John says, wheezing the slightest bit, shocked. “Why didn’t you ever say anything.”
“You should see everything I can do,” Ben murmurs, coming to a stop in front of John, lifting one hand and running it down John’s chest, pausing when his palm’s pressed against John’s stomach. “The name-giving was inborn, did you guess that yet? The only thing. And everything else comes from my father, the gifts he gave to me when I was still a baby.”
The bed behind them shivers, then moves a foot closer; Ben gestures and one of the pillows levitates, displaying the gun hiding underneath. Ben jerks his fingers and the gun flies to his hand, sits there comfortably, like Ben knows what he’s doing, is more at home with guns than he ever let on before.
John inhales, seeing the safety click itself off, and says, “You don’t do guns.” Ben grins and John feels the force holding him to the wall double. He grimaces, calming himself enough to breathe and little more, says it again. “Ben, you don’t do guns. Remember? You told me that yourself.”
“Oh, hunter,” Ben purrs, moving closer, rubbing himself against John. “You were supposed to be such a threat, did you know that? And yet, here you are, at my mercy. I could do what my father wants and bring you to him right now; I could make it so that you’d go willingly, by yourself, did you know that? Or I could do what my teacher says,” Ben whispers, standing on his tip-toes and licking at John’s neck, “and just kill you now, save father the trouble.” Ben inhales, bites down and John can feel blood rising to the surface of his skin, can feel the tiny little teeth-marks settle into his flesh.
Everything in him wants to fight, wants to rage and scream and get out of this trap, kill the bastard who caught him, cursing himself for being so stupid and getting into this situation, but this is Ben and there hasn’t been anything, anyone, since Mary that John has wanted as much as he wants this kid for himself.
“Do it, then,” he growls, staring in Ben’s eyes. “Kill me or take me to your thrice-damned father. Whatever you want, I’ll do, and you don’t need to waste time on any more tricks, any more games. I’m not a complicated man, Ben; you know what I want and what I’m willing to do to get it.”
Ben’s eyes flicker, some little light in them that has John hoping against hope, but Ben merely sighs and turns around. The pillow falls at the same time as John, both of them dropping to the ground in a loud thump. “It’s not as much fun if you don’t fight,” he mutters, stalking to the bathroom and slamming the door, locking it, without touching it.
--
John tries to sleep but can’t, the look on Ben’s face imprinted on his eyelids every time he closes them. In the end, John turns the television on, sound practically on mute, and doesn’t see whatever informercial’s playing at this time of day. He wants something to kill, something that he can hurt, that he can make pay for this, and after half an hour of silent seething, John stands up, goes over to the desk, and searches the index of both the Pseudomonarchia Daemonum and Michaelis’ Admirable History, making a list of all the demons whose names begin with ‘Be.’
It takes a couple hours, but the list, in the end, is quite short, no more than two dozen names. John rearranges them in order of their importance, and comes up short when the top two names are ones that have been thrown around quite a bit lately: Beezelbub and Belial. What was it Eisheth said, that when Lord Belial tells them to leave it alone, to stop asking questions about Ben’s lessons, they do?
He has a terrible feeling now and he looks over at the bathroom door. John’s a patient man when he has to be, has survived slow, near-torturous treks through jungles and stake-outs in trees, can outwait and outthink any supernatural creature he comes up against. He’s constantly telling Dean to slow down and get all the facts before making a decision or going after something supernatural, but John’s never been one to sit back and wait when his family’s in trouble.
The lockpick set is in his hands after a second of rummaging through the duffel, and John rests on one knee, taking a deep breath as he looks at the bathroom door handle. He wants to do this, won’t regret it, no matter what happens or what’s waiting for him on the other side, so he jimmies the lock in half-a second, no challenge, really, and puts the set out of reach before he turns the handle, lets the door swing open.
Ben’s sitting on the floor, crammed in between the toilet and the stained bathtub, knees pulled up to his chest. His eyes are closed and he looks like he’s asleep, apart from the way his lips are moving, as if he’s praying.
John gets closer, feels an irrational surge of anger at the thought that Ben’s praying to his demonic father again, after John told him not to, but he watches Ben’s lips and is surprised. Ben’s reciting the litaniae sanctorum, in Latin, without a misstep. Alan had said that Ben attended church, went to Mass, but John hadn’t realised that this teenager, demon-touched, actually knows the prayers and can say them.
“…Sancte Martine,” Ben says.
“Ora pro nobis,” John responds. Ben shudders, pauses, opens his eyes and stares right at John, though John gets the impression that the kid isn’t seeing him, is instead looking right through him at something or someone else. That worries John, but Ben’s eyes are closer to normal, fractured and broken but without that cold gleam from earlier, not the numb look from the steps of the church.
Ben continues with the prayer and John says the responses; when the prayer’s done, Ben starts in on the litaniae de sanctus angelis ex sacra scriptura. John struggles to remember the words -- praying to the saints is all well and good, but he’s never believed in angels the way that Jim does, up in Minnesota, or even the way Bobby does, so he never took the time to memorise the litany -- but he settles in, lulled by Ben’s slow, steady rhythm. At one point, he reaches out, takes Ben’s hands, and the kid lets him, doesn’t react except to blink and say the next angel’s name.
--
Ben moves from prayer to prayer, and though John’s bones hurt from sitting on the cold tile, he doesn’t move, says the responses as he’s prompted by the form of the prayers, holding Ben’s hands. Finally, when the sun’s just started to lighten up the room behind them, Ben blinks, stops. John holds his breath, waits for something, and sighs when Ben just leans his head back and falls asleep.
He manages to get his arms around Ben enough to pull him out, then picks Ben up and tucks him back into bed. John stands there, thinks for a second, then turns his phone off and crawls next to Ben, cradles him close and tight. For the briefest instance, John thinks that, even in sleep, Ben is going to fight him, but Ben exhales and scoots in closer.
--
Part Seven