The Father Speaks In The Son
Title: The Father Speaks in the Son
Genre: Gen PG 13 for language
Characters: John, Dean, Sam and Ben.
Summary: A thirteen year old boy, a demon, and the journey of a lifetime. Protection, love and family comes in many forms. Is grand theft auto genetic?
Special thanks to the amazing tiggeratl1whose incredible artwork turned a fic, into a work of art. Also too, she deserves accolades for cheerleading….she probably has carpal tunnel from all the pom-pom waving and hand holding. As usual, thanks to the gaelicspiritwithout whom I would never have been able to finish this. She is a great beta and a wonderful friend.
“By the time a man realizes that maybe his father was right, he usually has a son who thinks he’s wrong.” - Charles Wadsworth
He came home a quarter to three. He always came home a quarter to three, found his key by touch - it had a weathered yellowed rubber key band on it, easy to find in the dark - and jiggled the key in the lock. The tumblers fell, the gentle snick of the lock catching, uncatching, and he opened the door.
The smell hit him first, metallic and harsh and something else, thick oppressive and foul.
This wasn’t all right. Terror skittered into him hard and fast, his heart pounded so loudly that he thought it might burst. There was so much blood. Everywhere. The floor, the ceiling. Scratches so deep in the hardwood floors that he could see subfloor. A gouge running from ceiling to floor and his mom? He wasn’t even sure if it was her…but it had to be her.
There was a something glistening and vaguely familiar but so inappropriately and obscenely perched on the lamp that his mind couldn’t process it. Liver? Heart? Spleen? It was splattered - does an organ splatter? - on the lamp that he and his mom found at a yard sale. Neither of them thought it particularly attractive but Mom just had to have it.
He remembered her laugh, “It’s only two dollars; you’ll learn to live with it.” They bought it and although he had laughed and teased his mom relentlessly about the ugly iron lamp, it felt oddly comforting.
Iron is good. Not as good as silver maybe but good. Keep it around the house; you’d be surprised when a good iron poker comes in handy.
The blood was dry now, dark and red and cracked, but he could see where it had dripped down the cast iron. He cut his eyes back to his mom. Was it his mom? A part of him felt like he should check for a pulse or gently close her eyes but he did neither of those things.
There was a noise then, a growl, low and rough. He trembled and glanced hard to the right. It had come from the right, hadn’t it? He felt the ground shift under him. An earthquake? Was it an earthquake? Could an earthquake eviscerate his mother and throw her - he looked at the iron lamp again - liver on a lamp?
He could feel the sweat drip down his face and pool at the hollow of his neck, his breathing harsh and ragged. From the right a dark shape moved in his direction. Dark and smoky and loathsome. Human-like, naked and, even though he didn’t want to look, between its legs was a profane version of a cock. Hideous and lascivious. He gagged, bile rising. The thing slithered and hitched itself in his direction, almost reptilian in it’s movements. There was a scrape of nails and scales on the floor.
He couldn’t move. He could barely breathe. Then from somewhere a voice bellowed in his head. The voice rumbled, dark and commanding.
“Christo! SAY IT!”
There was no denying the order.
He yelled the word without hesitation and the thing shrank back with a hideous screeching noise. It curled upon itself, mangled claws and misshapen body writhing in agony.
And he ran.
He heard the scream; felt warm arms around him and found the smell of man to be comforting. Man smell was different than woman. He wanted those arms around him. Needed them. There was no soft flannel, no smell of motor oil and leather, but the arms were real enough.
Suddenly it occurred to him that it was him who was screaming. Why was he screaming? The cop held him tightly, a bear of a man who smelled vaguely of coffee and cigarettes. He let himself lean into the embrace and although the screaming stopped, he shuddered and shook, sobbing like two-year old. Then the cop gently directed him off the porch, steadied him and led him to the front yard. There he settled for a minute under the Rowan tree that he and mom planted just this year.
He looked up expecting green eyes and was puzzled to fine kindly brown ones. The cop, Burkholder, he read quickly ushered him toward a waiting ambulance.
He struggled then. He didn’t need an ambulance, his mom needed an ambulance, but the paramedic slid his arm effortlessly around his and there was a handoff of sorts, then soft words and “Lay down, kiddo, let’s take a look” once again he expected green eyes but this time was met with blue eyes and curly blonde hair and a boy a little older than himself. Twenties maybe but quick and thorough.
He could hear something about shock and BP 148 over 90, tachycardia, diaphoresis. He didn’t know what the guy meant, but he was cold and he allowed himself to be pushed onto the stretcher. There were blankets and a sudden prick in his arm.
“Just starting some fluids, bud.”
Then straps over and around. He tried to fight then. The restraints, they scared him more than then anything else almost - not more than the blood and his mom and the thing. That wasn’t scary; that had been terrifying - but the blonde boy settled a cool hand on his forehead.
“It’s okay, bud…just a bumpy ride. What’s your name kid?”
“Ben.”
MASTERPOST | NEXT
Genre: Gen PG 13 for language
Characters: John, Dean, Sam and Ben.
Summary: A thirteen year old boy, a demon, and the journey of a lifetime. Protection, love and family comes in many forms. Is grand theft auto genetic?
Special thanks to the amazing tiggeratl1whose incredible artwork turned a fic, into a work of art. Also too, she deserves accolades for cheerleading….she probably has carpal tunnel from all the pom-pom waving and hand holding. As usual, thanks to the gaelicspiritwithout whom I would never have been able to finish this. She is a great beta and a wonderful friend.
“By the time a man realizes that maybe his father was right, he usually has a son who thinks he’s wrong.” - Charles Wadsworth
He came home a quarter to three. He always came home a quarter to three, found his key by touch - it had a weathered yellowed rubber key band on it, easy to find in the dark - and jiggled the key in the lock. The tumblers fell, the gentle snick of the lock catching, uncatching, and he opened the door.
The smell hit him first, metallic and harsh and something else, thick oppressive and foul.
This wasn’t all right. Terror skittered into him hard and fast, his heart pounded so loudly that he thought it might burst. There was so much blood. Everywhere. The floor, the ceiling. Scratches so deep in the hardwood floors that he could see subfloor. A gouge running from ceiling to floor and his mom? He wasn’t even sure if it was her…but it had to be her.
There was a something glistening and vaguely familiar but so inappropriately and obscenely perched on the lamp that his mind couldn’t process it. Liver? Heart? Spleen? It was splattered - does an organ splatter? - on the lamp that he and his mom found at a yard sale. Neither of them thought it particularly attractive but Mom just had to have it.
He remembered her laugh, “It’s only two dollars; you’ll learn to live with it.” They bought it and although he had laughed and teased his mom relentlessly about the ugly iron lamp, it felt oddly comforting.
Iron is good. Not as good as silver maybe but good. Keep it around the house; you’d be surprised when a good iron poker comes in handy.
The blood was dry now, dark and red and cracked, but he could see where it had dripped down the cast iron. He cut his eyes back to his mom. Was it his mom? A part of him felt like he should check for a pulse or gently close her eyes but he did neither of those things.
There was a noise then, a growl, low and rough. He trembled and glanced hard to the right. It had come from the right, hadn’t it? He felt the ground shift under him. An earthquake? Was it an earthquake? Could an earthquake eviscerate his mother and throw her - he looked at the iron lamp again - liver on a lamp?
He could feel the sweat drip down his face and pool at the hollow of his neck, his breathing harsh and ragged. From the right a dark shape moved in his direction. Dark and smoky and loathsome. Human-like, naked and, even though he didn’t want to look, between its legs was a profane version of a cock. Hideous and lascivious. He gagged, bile rising. The thing slithered and hitched itself in his direction, almost reptilian in it’s movements. There was a scrape of nails and scales on the floor.
He couldn’t move. He could barely breathe. Then from somewhere a voice bellowed in his head. The voice rumbled, dark and commanding.
“Christo! SAY IT!”
There was no denying the order.
He yelled the word without hesitation and the thing shrank back with a hideous screeching noise. It curled upon itself, mangled claws and misshapen body writhing in agony.
And he ran.
He heard the scream; felt warm arms around him and found the smell of man to be comforting. Man smell was different than woman. He wanted those arms around him. Needed them. There was no soft flannel, no smell of motor oil and leather, but the arms were real enough.
Suddenly it occurred to him that it was him who was screaming. Why was he screaming? The cop held him tightly, a bear of a man who smelled vaguely of coffee and cigarettes. He let himself lean into the embrace and although the screaming stopped, he shuddered and shook, sobbing like two-year old. Then the cop gently directed him off the porch, steadied him and led him to the front yard. There he settled for a minute under the Rowan tree that he and mom planted just this year.
He looked up expecting green eyes and was puzzled to fine kindly brown ones. The cop, Burkholder, he read quickly ushered him toward a waiting ambulance.
He struggled then. He didn’t need an ambulance, his mom needed an ambulance, but the paramedic slid his arm effortlessly around his and there was a handoff of sorts, then soft words and “Lay down, kiddo, let’s take a look” once again he expected green eyes but this time was met with blue eyes and curly blonde hair and a boy a little older than himself. Twenties maybe but quick and thorough.
He could hear something about shock and BP 148 over 90, tachycardia, diaphoresis. He didn’t know what the guy meant, but he was cold and he allowed himself to be pushed onto the stretcher. There were blankets and a sudden prick in his arm.
“Just starting some fluids, bud.”
Then straps over and around. He tried to fight then. The restraints, they scared him more than then anything else almost - not more than the blood and his mom and the thing. That wasn’t scary; that had been terrifying - but the blonde boy settled a cool hand on his forehead.
“It’s okay, bud…just a bumpy ride. What’s your name kid?”
“Ben.”
MASTERPOST | NEXT