New Supernatural fic, with Vampire!John
Five Ways John Winchester Didn’t Get Laid (1/5)
Author:
starhawk2005
Date: July 2006
Pairing: John Winchester/OFC
Rating: Adult (18+). Thus parental guidance is strongly suggested. *lol*
Summary: Vampire!John. No, really! And he needs to feed. Need I say anything else?
Disclaimer: God, do I wish I owned John. *pouts*
Please note that “
starhawk2005 cannot be held responsible for any brain melting, spontaneous combusting, or ovary exploding that occurs before/during/after reading this fanfiction. Thank you.” (credit to
_vicodin for the detailed legal disclaimer. *snerk*).
Betas: Heartfelt thanks and scantily-clad John Winchesters to
medicinal_mirth for her kind suggestions. And also to
phantomas, just because she could use a little naked!John (can’t we all?) these days.
Author’s Notes: Spoilery for Dead Man’s Blood and Devil’s Trap.
Crossposted just about every-freakin’-where. Because it’s good to share.
Feedback is appreciated, and encourages me to write more for this fandom.
The old saying has it right. There’s no fool like an old fool.
Foolish mistake number one - blowing up at his boys after they let the Demon get away. They could’ve shot him in the heart, killed both him and his nightmare. But they hadn’t. And while he understands it now, he didn’t then. Instead, he’d stored up his anger. Waited until all three of them were on their feet, out of the hospital.
Then he’d torn into them.
He’d left soon afterwards. He has a Demon to kill, and he doesn’t care what it takes. He’ll forfeit his own life if he has to. Yes. It used to be about protecting Dean and Sam, and if at some point, it had become all about revenge - revenge for Mary, revenge for the loss of the peaceful, settled life that John feels he ought to have had - that’s just as good, far as he’s concerned.
He’s spent nearly a month on the road, looking for signs. Driving through towns looking for clues, for demon lore, for something. Something that will give him the drop on the damned thing.
Which leads to foolish mistake number two - he’s been so intent on the thing’s trail, he doesn’t realize that he’s returned to Manning, Colorado. Or rather, he realizes, but he’s forgotten about a certain female vampire. One whose partner for eternity is dead by his hand. She hasn’t been too happy about that.
He’s forgotten that Kate has his scent, has it for life. He hasn’t thought about the possibility that she may have gathered an army of new friends, and bided her time, waiting for his return. He’s too distracted, too busy seeing the world through tunnel-vision in which the Demon is the only thing that exists for him.
The vampire and her pack attacks him. One punch to the jaw, and he’s out. Dean and Sam aren’t there to step in and interfere this time. Hell, John doesn’t even have time to draw the Colt. Although he probably would hesitate to use it, given he only has one precious bullet left.
He wakes up in their nest, bound to a column by a heavy, rusty chain. Jaw and muscles aching, blood cooling on his skin. Elkin’s Colt lying in plain (mocking) view on the rough table across the room. Guess they’re taking no chances.
John figures that’s the end of the road. Unless his boys have been tracking him, no one knows where he is. His own father had always told him that his impulsiveness and stubbornness were a bad mix, would get him killed. Guess he’d been right.
He waits, expecting to die. But he then discovers that he’s underestimated Kate’s vindictiveness. Or perhaps her cleverness. Yeah, they torture him daily. More beatings, taunting him. Kate and the others drink from him, too - ‘eating in’, she calls it once, with an evil leer - sinking their teeth into his throat, tearing into him. As he tries not to show any pain or fear. They can take his blood, he can’t stop them, but he won’t give them anything more than that. But they’re also smart, his captors. They’ve been careful not to slash open any key veins or arteries, haven’t taken enough to kill him. Kate obviously has long-term plans for him.
Plans which John finds out soon enough when Kate cuts into her own arm. He knows what’s coming now, tries to clamp his jaw shut. No fucking way. He twists and fights, tries to channel the anger and fear into resisting as long as possible. But she only has her friends grab him, hold him still, yank his jaw open. So she can force her open wound against his lips. Even then, John struggles, trying not to swallow, trying to hold on to his humanity. But it doesn’t work. She pinches his nose shut, cutting off his air, not letting him breathe. Until he has no choice. His body can’t resist any longer, not even for a few seconds, and he has to swallow. To be turned. To feel that crawling tingle in his guts, and to know that he’s not going to be the same ever again.
He sits there, helpless, feeling the change take him over. But then the tingle fades, goes away. At first, he doesn’t feel any different. Maybe, by some miracle, it didn’t work on him?
But then he feels the hunger in his belly. A few cramps at first. He doesn’t think anything of it. It’s not like they’ve been feeding him regularly. But it starts to build, to gnaw at him. Then comes the feeling of pressure within his gums. New teeth, straining to get free. He knows now that he has indeed become the monster.
Still chained to the post, he has plenty of time to think. He doesn’t know why Kate did it. Does she expect the lure of immortality, the siren call of vampirism, will make him switch sides? Become tamed, and her pet? Or maybe she did this so he could withstand more pain, more beatings from her and her pack? Eternal agony, if she plays her cards right? Hell, she doesn’t have to do anything but keep him chained here, watching his hunger and desperation grow.
Doesn’t matter. He’s not going to sit here and take it. Not going to let them win. He waits a day or two, pretends to be weak and sick from his need for blood. It’s not far from the truth, after all. But he’s determined. He didn’t let the Demon kill his boys, and he’s not going to let this pack of blood-suckers beat him, either.
He waits until they are asleep, and then breaks through one of the rusted links in the chain, a weakness which he discovered a couple days earlier. A link which still, even rusted, would have been too strong for a human to break open, but not for a vampire. Despite this, however, he pretends he’s still bound. Waits for the perfect moment to strike, to use the element of surprise.
He’s going to kill them all. There’s only six of them - for some reason they haven’t gotten around to making enough new vampires to fill the nest to capacity - and since four of them usually go out to hunt at a time, that leaves only a couple behind to babysit him. They can’t feed on him any more, now that he’s a vampire like them. And the few human prisoners they have at the moment are already close to death. So John knows they’ll need a new food source soon. He waits until he’s alone, the remaining two vampires off in another room. And then he shakes off the chains and finds a weapon - a long dagger lying on the table. Stupid of them, to leave something so dangerous to them just lying around, but he’s grateful.
He sneaks up on and dispatches the first two. It’s almost ridiculously easy. Then he hides himself and waits for Kate and her companions to return. He lurks in the shadows, taking them out one by one. His scent’s all over the barn, so it doesn’t help them much in trying to locate him. He can move more quietly now, faster than he ever could as a human, which also helps with his ‘hunt’. Not to mention he’s been stalking supernatural beings longer than many of them have been vampires.
He deals with them, first cutting their throats and then finishing the job by sawing through the rest of each neck with the dagger, until only Kate is left. She slinks up to him, calling him “Sweetheart”, obviously trying to charm him. Maybe she’s trying to seduce him, or maybe she has her own concealed weapon that she intends to use to behead him. Doesn’t matter - he doesn’t intend to find out. He waits until she’s just within reach, and then he lunges.
Ironic, that if they hadn’t turned him, he would never have been able to escape. Wouldn’t have been able to kill them all.
Her head strikes the floor with a dull clunk, and it’s over.
Except its not. It’s not like the movies. Killing the one who had made you a vampire doesn’t restore you. Doesn’t make you become human again. It doesn’t free him. The only thing that will, is a machete slicing his head from his neck. Or using the Colt’s last bullet on himself.
Which leaves him in a bind. He still feels the drive to hunt. The Demon is still out there. Still a threat to his boys. It needs to die. But he knows that he really ought to kill himself instead, so that he won’t be forced to take innocent lives. Or to endanger his boys, or his friends - the ones Meg hadn’t gotten to, anyway - in his need for blood.
He discovers soon enough, however, that he doesn’t need to take human lives in order to survive. Although fresh animal blood isn’t quite as ‘filling’ as human blood- it’s like eating tofu when you need steak - it gets him by. Cools that first raging hunger, and gets him by in the early hellish weeks of his new life as a blood-sucking parasite.
Once he’s gotten a bead on the hunger, he starts to make plans, because he can’t hang around here forever. He’s got a job to do. He considers the issue. He knows that vampires keep victims in their nests for days or weeks, bleeding them slowly. The few pitiful prisoners kept there during his own time as a captive, for example. Thinking of them now, he hopes they made it out alive. He hadn’t released them himself, he’d just called after he’d gotten a decent distance away, left an anonymous tip with the local police. It was safer, less complicated. Especially since he was so new to this vampire crap.
But this tells him something important. It tells him that human victims don’t need to die to quench his thirst. Hell, those damned vampires had even done that to him, bleeding him day after day, and not just to torture him. So maybe he can take a little blood from one person, and then move on to a new town and take another small amount from another person. Maybe he can survive without murdering the innocent, the very people he and his fellow hunters, and his sons, have been trying to protect through the years.
Maybe he can still get his long-awaited revenge on the Demon. He still has the Colt, which he’d taken back before leaving the vampires’ nest. And the one bullet.
Perhaps this can even work in his favour. He’s stronger, faster, his senses sharper. He’s never heard of a vampire getting possessed by a demon, either, so maybe this…state will offer its own protection. Getting ridden once by that thing was one time too many.
One problem, though. He has to travel at night to avoid the rays of the sun. That’s a bitch.
He repeatedly considers rejoining his boys, but he knows that’s a really bad idea. If he goes back to them, Dean and Sam will again be put in the position of having to kill him. He still doesn’t agree with their actions at the cabin, although he understands their reasons now. He’s not going to put them through that once more.
So he’ll continue his search for the damned devil that killed Mary, that had almost taken Dean’s life. He remembers telling Sammy and Dean that the one thing he never wanted to endure was watching his children die. And the Demon almost made that very nightmare come true. No, he’ll fight this alone, with his newfound powers. He’s not going to risk watching Dean look up at him again, blood pouring from his mouth and chest, begging him.
I’m not done ‘til this Demon is done, he repeats to himself over and over. A mantra. Yes, he hates what he’s become. Loathes it with every fibre of himself.
But he hates the Demon more.
So he takes the time to refine a new hunting technique. A hunt for blood.
His hunting ground tonight is a bar in some two-bit town. John doesn’t care. Blood here’s no different than anywhere else. And he - like any vampire - can still eat and drink. Enough to get someone to drink with him, lowering their guard. Too bad anything he ingests, other than blood, won’t do a goddamned thing to control his hunger.
He goes in, scans the interior of the dim bar with his improved night vision. Searching out likely partners. Donors.
Finally, he spots a woman. Seated alone at one of the rickety, stained tables.
Even now, some things didn’t change - he still goes for blondes. He’s not sure how he feels about that, but all that really matters is the vague sensation in his belly, the one he knows will soon build to a raging pain. He was forced to kill animals during his early hunger-fueled rages, and he doesn’t want to go back there again. Kneeling in mud and droppings, sucking desperately at the throat of a frightened calf, holding it while its struggles get weaker and weaker. Those feelings are worse, in their own way, than anything he’d ever felt before. Even in combat. And he also doesn’t want to wind up killing a person.
So he goes up to her, and uses those manners his long-suffering momma taught him. He asks if she’s alone, and if she’d like another drink.
It’s almost embarrassing to John how easy this is. He doesn’t know if he would’ve had women falling into his lap (almost literally) this easily before he was turned. He’s never tried, after all. He still considers himself a married man. So maybe it’s something vampires put out - a scent, a pheromone - that makes luring their food easier.
Then again, considering the notches on Dean’s belt (not that John has ever really approved of that behaviour, but he’d always supposed that Dean deserved a reward of some kind for all his hunting efforts)…maybe it is a Winchester effect.
It doesn’t take long at all for his companion to become quite tipsy, and for her to start giving John all those little signs that let him know she’s keen to go somewhere with him. The flipping of her blonde locks. The way she brushes her fingertips along her collarbone, unconsciously showing John where she wants him to touch her. He’s known all these tells long before he became a vampire, and he hasn’t forgotten what they mean.
He winds up taking a room for the night at some seedy hotel a few blocks down the road. He motions her into the room ahead of him (more of Momma’s teachings), and shuts the door. He turns the light on quickly, even though he doesn’t need it to see in the dark. He just doesn’t want his partner to witness his eyes flashing inhumanly silver in the dim moonlight coming through the window.
He grabs her by the wrist and pulls her into his arms. Carefully. He doesn’t want her to realize how fearsome, unnatural, his strength is. And he hopes he isn’t going too fast for her. While it’s not too late to end this, to find another donor, he’d really prefer not to start this dance all over again.
Bur she doesn’t seem to mind. She leans into him as he kisses her, pressuring her mouth open with his. So he slides his tongue slickly over hers, feeling her shudder against him. His hand slipping next over the side of her throat, where he can feel the pulse race temptingly beneath the skin.
He moves his mouth downward, two days’ worth of stubble rasping against her smooth skin, but she doesn’t protest as he presses his mouth to her neck. Her perfume - ‘Poison’, she’d told him earlier - is almost acrid to his new senses, but he ignores that annoyance. He kisses her there, then runs his tongue over her skin, tasting the salt. He’s acutely aware of the pulse in her neck, the sweet blood calling to him. And he feels the telltale throb in his gums, his new teeth wanting to rip through, to descend. And then to sink deep into that soft skin, let the blood free.
He battles the feeling back. He can control himself, can wait a little longer to slake his dark thirst. To do this in the way that has become (relatively) acceptable to him. Yeah, if he waits half a day longer, it’ll be a different story - he’ll almost certainly be maddened, desperate, ready to kill animals, maybe even to waylay someone in a dark alley - but for now, he can afford to wait for just the right moment.
He spins her around, then pulls her back against him, grinds his erection into her ass. Lifting her hair - straight, not like Mary’s - off and away from her neck and shoulder, baring the side of her throat. He can’t resist leaning in and biting, but lightly. A love-bite, the skin unbroken, unmarred. A taunt directed at his own thirst. Then more strokes of his tongue along the side of her neck, touches which make her shiver and moan. He moves lower, along the curve of her collarbone, one long sweep, as far as he can reach in this position. And then he exhales, cooling the skin, a twinge of guilt as he remembers how much Mary used to like this little trick of his.
She turns to face him again, and her hands move under his leather jacket, his sweater, trying to touch his skin. He pushes her back gently, urges her towards the side of the bed. Then he strips her slowly. Blouse and bra, jeans and underwear and socks, all are soon in a forgotten pile on the floor as he picks her up - again, trying not to make it look as effortless as it is - and lays her down. Studying her as he strips himself. Tan-lines along her chest, and his mouth practically waters at the thought of tracing them with his tongue. Full, heavy breasts, not much like Mary’s at all, and he’s grateful for that difference. Her dark eyes, glazed by the alcohol she’s drunk, watching him greedily as his clothes come off article by article.
He tosses his jeans across the foot of the bed - he’ll need them close at hand later - and climbs on top of her, leaning in to kiss her throat again, to lap at the softness with his tongue. A prelude to later. She tries to touch him, to keep him from sliding down her body, but he won’t allow it. It’s not selfishness, just that he’s learned that he can’t afford to get distracted. Last time he let a sexual partner (donor) reciprocate, he got too into it and lost control, the teeth coming down before he’d been prepared for them. Luckily he’d gotten himself under control before his partner at the time had noticed, but he’d decided then and there that he was going to do all the ‘work’ from now on in these situations. At the very least, he figures it’s payback for the ‘donations’ he’s going to take from them.
So he takes her hands off his shoulders and presses them back down on the pillow. She closes her eyes and leaves them there, lets him do what he wants, which is to shift downwards, to trail kisses down her throat, over the rise of her collarbone, and then down to her breasts. He cups his hand under one, raising the throbbing tip to his lips, unable to resist looking up at her and watching her expression as he suckles. Gently at first, then harder as she pushes up against his mouth, while he runs his hands down to her hips, cradling the curved bones.
She tries to touch him again, forgetting, and he catches her wrists in a firm grip once more. Lays them back on the mattress. So she pushes her hips up sharply into him instead.
He can take a hint. After according her other nipple the same treatment, he slides down lower, between her legs, which spread eagerly to accommodate him. He thinks, not for the first time, that this is far, far better than frightening some poor human in a dark alley. Better than chasing them down, forcing them against the wall, slashing their flesh open with his teeth. As much as he also feels that this gentler method is a betrayal to Mary…
He guides his partner’s legs even further apart, then lowers his head until he can caress her soft folds with the flat of his tongue. He doesn’t touch her clit, not right away. He still remembers how to make love like a mortal man. Even if he no longer is mortal himself. Instead he traces his tongue over every crease, holding her open. Easing his tongue into her, tasting her. Teasing her, making her blood race even faster for him.
She tries once more to touch him, direct him, winding her fingers tightly in his hair. But as much as he doesn’t really mind, it will interfere with the key moment of his plan. So he works her fingers carefully free, and then pins her hands down a final time. Waiting until she stops her half-hearted struggles, until she leaves her hands where he’s placed them. But he makes up for it, her frustrated sigh cut sharply off when he moves his mouth right where he’s sure she wants it.
He teases her clit lightly, using tiny strokes of his tongue. Gradually increasing the pressure. He still has enough man in him to do this properly, dammit. And she seems wordlessly to agree, writhing and moaning. Her skin becoming slick and even saltier with sweat. Delicious.
The throbbing in the little organ under his tongue fuels his blood-lust, but he resists still. Even with her heartbeat racing against his lips, his hands, he fights back the urge to savage her. Not now, and not this spot. He would never - ever - use his teeth on that region. That’s pure cruelty. He’s sunk low - is still sinking, really - but he hasn’t gotten that far down. Never will, if he puts his mind and the remains of his tattered soul into it.
John Winchester isn’t that much of an animal, a monster, just yet. If ever.
She’s almost there. Almost right where he wants - needs - her to be. He readies himself for it, grasping her left leg, gripping her thigh. Holding it still, as he works two fingers of his free hand inside her.
He feels her tense up immediately. She’s right at the precipice, he can sense it. Now. He curls his fingers inside her, prods at sensitive areas, and gives one last hard suck on her clit. As she starts to shake, losing herself in her orgasm, he replaces his mouth with his thumb.
And, letting his teeth descend, he turns his head and sinks them into her inner thigh.
She arches, crying out, but doesn’t push him away. He knows she’s in that region where pain and pleasure mix, flying high on the thermals. She probably hasn’t even realized he’s bitten her. With luck, she won’t notice until after he’s long gone.
Her heart races, spurred by her orgasm. It feeds more blood through the small, deep cuts his teeth have made in her skin. Particularly the small nick he’s made in her femoral artery. Means he can make smaller wounds, yet still get the sustenance he needs. All while distracting her with orgasm. Besides, he prefers to drink from the inner thigh anyways. Slower, safer bleed than the jugular, less likely to kill or injure. And the perfume of her arousal is far more to his liking, to his new sense of smell, than the artificial whale-blubber stuff dabbed on her neck.
He drinks, taking in the thick salt-sweet liquid. Careful, as always, not to take too much. He resists the urge to suck harder, draw the hot liquid in quicker, while the woman is helpless and nearly insensible underneath him. All he needs is a few mouthfuls. That quantity will hold him for nearly a week. He knows that well by now - he worked that little detail out soon after starting his human blood-hunts. Those other vampires were greedy pigs in comparison. Besides, he doesn’t really mind the occasional mild hunger pangs that tend to make their appearance after the first few days of fasting. He’s suffered worse things - shrapnel, near-starvation and dehydration while lurking in remote wooded areas - than this. And all that pales in comparison to watching helplessly as a Demon inhabits his body and slices his son to ribbons, mere inches in front of him. Hunger pangs are nothing, compared to watching his son miss death by inches.
He’s stopped drinking, his teeth now retracted back into his gums, but he leaves his mouth sealed over the wounds, lets his saliva clean them. That’s another thing he picked up on, while he’d been a prisoner of Kate and her pack. When they’d been drinking from him repeatedly, he’d noticed that his wounds had a tendency to clot up very quickly. Something in vampire saliva, apparently. Maybe something they’d evolved - assuming they evolved like humans did - so they could use a victim repeatedly, with less chance of them bleeding out? Either way, he sees no reason not to take full advantage of this ‘feature’ of his new self. Saliva alone isn’t going to infect her, a fact confirmed by Elkin’s careful notes on vampires and their habits.
By the time his partner stirs, starting to connect with reality again, the wounds are no longer bleeding. Good. Now if he can just keep her from noticing the damage he’s done to her…He retrieves the condom quickly from his jeans. Some misinformed lore has it that vampire males can’t get erections, but John knows from (now personal) experience that this isn’t true. They can get erections, even have sex and orgasms. What he doesn’t know, is whether vampire semen can infect humans the way vampire blood does. If it can turn them. Just in case, he’s taking no chances.
So John makes his way back up his partner’s body, taking care to block her view of the bite-mark. Distract her, exhaust her, that’s the deal now. “Ready for round two, darlin’?” he asks, holding up the condom. He winks at her, acting out playfulness, trying to ignore the familiar ache in his heart, the sense of wrongness that comes from not being in bed with the one person who deserves to be there. Mary.
“I want to do you,” she pouts. John laughs, gently. “Later,” he replies. “Call it a Ladies’ Night Special - two for the price of one.” He uses his best bedroom voice, low and rumbling.
As usual, it has the desired effect. He climbs up higher on the bed, his erection looming over her face as he lets her roll the condom onto him. And then he’s back between her thighs. Piercing her, thrusting inside her, closing his eyes and enjoying the sensation almost despite himself. His magnified senses making every touch more intense than he ever experienced as a mortal. She feels so hot, so wet around him. Her skin fragrant and sweet with sweat as he leans to her throat again, kissing her. He thrusts hard against her, grinding his pubic bone against her clit.
He loses track of time, but he certainly has far more stamina now than he’s ever had as a human. He waits until she’s incoherent, clutching at his shoulders with clumsy hands, eyes practically rolled back in her head, begging him. Then and only then does he reach between them, stroking her clit gently. And that’s it. She tenses a final time, throwing her head back against the pillows, and gives in to him. He finally allows himself climax as well, sucking in a breath that’s almost a sob, spilling himself inside her.
She’s totally out of it, limp and mostly asleep against damp bedclothes. It’s time. He pulls slowly out of her and backs off, checking the wound quickly, but the new properties in his saliva have done their work. Despite the second rise in her blood pressure, her second orgasm, she’s not bleeding heavily. A little seepage, which he leans in and cleans up with quick darts of his tongue. Waste not, want not.
He covers her with the quilt, then dresses himself as rapidly and quietly as possible. Sneaking to the door, and then out.
It’s not until he’s safely in his truck and pulling away that he lets the very last of his tension - a feeling he’s carried with him from the moment this ‘hunt’ began - disappear. He knows that tension well, from all his days of hunting the supernatural. The tension of knowing something might go wrong, and badly. The tension of knowing how unpredictable the world can be. Like hunting a striga, only to have it get away at the last minute, and then finding it in your hotel room, starting to drain your youngest of his life. Like not knowing Meg and her unnamed demon-possessed friend would find out so goddamned quickly that the Colt you’d brought with you was a fake.
Like hating a thing for twenty-two years, but being unable to use that hate as a defense. Being unable to keep it from inhabiting your body and using you as a weapon against your own flesh and blood. Sons you’d happily die to protect.
Which is why John will keep at this. Despite the constant need to search for blood, the risks he’ll have to take, to ensure he can survive and continue to pursue the Demon. Despite the need to avoid the sun. Despite the fact he hates what he’s become.
Because he knows, now, that it really is all about protecting his boys. At all costs. He’s lost Mary, and that was more than enough. Despite what Dean and Sam might think, even despite what John himself sometimes believes, it’s not all about revenge. Mary’s dead, and she’s not coming back. It’s about protecting the family that remains, it always has been.
Even if it means he can’t be the father to them that he’s wanted to be. That they need him to be.
The Demon and its servants have to die. Even if he has to rip their throats out with his sharp new teeth. Maybe, hopefully, he’ll have more luck against them as a vampire than he did as a mortal.
And then he’ll find a way to have himself ‘put down’. He won’t put his boys through that - he knows they won’t do it. And he’d rather spare them any further painful decision-making.
But that’s for further down the road. Right now, he has a Demon to hunt down. And he isn’t going to fail this time. He’s lost too much already.
FIN
If you liked this fic, feel free to check out my other SPN fic efforts.
Crossposted to AO3
Author:
starhawk2005
Date: July 2006
Pairing: John Winchester/OFC
Rating: Adult (18+). Thus parental guidance is strongly suggested. *lol*
Summary: Vampire!John. No, really! And he needs to feed. Need I say anything else?
Disclaimer: God, do I wish I owned John. *pouts*
Please note that “
starhawk2005 cannot be held responsible for any brain melting, spontaneous combusting, or ovary exploding that occurs before/during/after reading this fanfiction. Thank you.” (credit to
_vicodin for the detailed legal disclaimer. *snerk*).
Betas: Heartfelt thanks and scantily-clad John Winchesters to
medicinal_mirth for her kind suggestions. And also to
phantomas, just because she could use a little naked!John (can’t we all?) these days.
Author’s Notes: Spoilery for Dead Man’s Blood and Devil’s Trap.
Crossposted just about every-freakin’-where. Because it’s good to share.
Feedback is appreciated, and encourages me to write more for this fandom.
The old saying has it right. There’s no fool like an old fool.
Foolish mistake number one - blowing up at his boys after they let the Demon get away. They could’ve shot him in the heart, killed both him and his nightmare. But they hadn’t. And while he understands it now, he didn’t then. Instead, he’d stored up his anger. Waited until all three of them were on their feet, out of the hospital.
Then he’d torn into them.
He’d left soon afterwards. He has a Demon to kill, and he doesn’t care what it takes. He’ll forfeit his own life if he has to. Yes. It used to be about protecting Dean and Sam, and if at some point, it had become all about revenge - revenge for Mary, revenge for the loss of the peaceful, settled life that John feels he ought to have had - that’s just as good, far as he’s concerned.
He’s spent nearly a month on the road, looking for signs. Driving through towns looking for clues, for demon lore, for something. Something that will give him the drop on the damned thing.
Which leads to foolish mistake number two - he’s been so intent on the thing’s trail, he doesn’t realize that he’s returned to Manning, Colorado. Or rather, he realizes, but he’s forgotten about a certain female vampire. One whose partner for eternity is dead by his hand. She hasn’t been too happy about that.
He’s forgotten that Kate has his scent, has it for life. He hasn’t thought about the possibility that she may have gathered an army of new friends, and bided her time, waiting for his return. He’s too distracted, too busy seeing the world through tunnel-vision in which the Demon is the only thing that exists for him.
The vampire and her pack attacks him. One punch to the jaw, and he’s out. Dean and Sam aren’t there to step in and interfere this time. Hell, John doesn’t even have time to draw the Colt. Although he probably would hesitate to use it, given he only has one precious bullet left.
He wakes up in their nest, bound to a column by a heavy, rusty chain. Jaw and muscles aching, blood cooling on his skin. Elkin’s Colt lying in plain (mocking) view on the rough table across the room. Guess they’re taking no chances.
John figures that’s the end of the road. Unless his boys have been tracking him, no one knows where he is. His own father had always told him that his impulsiveness and stubbornness were a bad mix, would get him killed. Guess he’d been right.
He waits, expecting to die. But he then discovers that he’s underestimated Kate’s vindictiveness. Or perhaps her cleverness. Yeah, they torture him daily. More beatings, taunting him. Kate and the others drink from him, too - ‘eating in’, she calls it once, with an evil leer - sinking their teeth into his throat, tearing into him. As he tries not to show any pain or fear. They can take his blood, he can’t stop them, but he won’t give them anything more than that. But they’re also smart, his captors. They’ve been careful not to slash open any key veins or arteries, haven’t taken enough to kill him. Kate obviously has long-term plans for him.
Plans which John finds out soon enough when Kate cuts into her own arm. He knows what’s coming now, tries to clamp his jaw shut. No fucking way. He twists and fights, tries to channel the anger and fear into resisting as long as possible. But she only has her friends grab him, hold him still, yank his jaw open. So she can force her open wound against his lips. Even then, John struggles, trying not to swallow, trying to hold on to his humanity. But it doesn’t work. She pinches his nose shut, cutting off his air, not letting him breathe. Until he has no choice. His body can’t resist any longer, not even for a few seconds, and he has to swallow. To be turned. To feel that crawling tingle in his guts, and to know that he’s not going to be the same ever again.
He sits there, helpless, feeling the change take him over. But then the tingle fades, goes away. At first, he doesn’t feel any different. Maybe, by some miracle, it didn’t work on him?
But then he feels the hunger in his belly. A few cramps at first. He doesn’t think anything of it. It’s not like they’ve been feeding him regularly. But it starts to build, to gnaw at him. Then comes the feeling of pressure within his gums. New teeth, straining to get free. He knows now that he has indeed become the monster.
Still chained to the post, he has plenty of time to think. He doesn’t know why Kate did it. Does she expect the lure of immortality, the siren call of vampirism, will make him switch sides? Become tamed, and her pet? Or maybe she did this so he could withstand more pain, more beatings from her and her pack? Eternal agony, if she plays her cards right? Hell, she doesn’t have to do anything but keep him chained here, watching his hunger and desperation grow.
Doesn’t matter. He’s not going to sit here and take it. Not going to let them win. He waits a day or two, pretends to be weak and sick from his need for blood. It’s not far from the truth, after all. But he’s determined. He didn’t let the Demon kill his boys, and he’s not going to let this pack of blood-suckers beat him, either.
He waits until they are asleep, and then breaks through one of the rusted links in the chain, a weakness which he discovered a couple days earlier. A link which still, even rusted, would have been too strong for a human to break open, but not for a vampire. Despite this, however, he pretends he’s still bound. Waits for the perfect moment to strike, to use the element of surprise.
He’s going to kill them all. There’s only six of them - for some reason they haven’t gotten around to making enough new vampires to fill the nest to capacity - and since four of them usually go out to hunt at a time, that leaves only a couple behind to babysit him. They can’t feed on him any more, now that he’s a vampire like them. And the few human prisoners they have at the moment are already close to death. So John knows they’ll need a new food source soon. He waits until he’s alone, the remaining two vampires off in another room. And then he shakes off the chains and finds a weapon - a long dagger lying on the table. Stupid of them, to leave something so dangerous to them just lying around, but he’s grateful.
He sneaks up on and dispatches the first two. It’s almost ridiculously easy. Then he hides himself and waits for Kate and her companions to return. He lurks in the shadows, taking them out one by one. His scent’s all over the barn, so it doesn’t help them much in trying to locate him. He can move more quietly now, faster than he ever could as a human, which also helps with his ‘hunt’. Not to mention he’s been stalking supernatural beings longer than many of them have been vampires.
He deals with them, first cutting their throats and then finishing the job by sawing through the rest of each neck with the dagger, until only Kate is left. She slinks up to him, calling him “Sweetheart”, obviously trying to charm him. Maybe she’s trying to seduce him, or maybe she has her own concealed weapon that she intends to use to behead him. Doesn’t matter - he doesn’t intend to find out. He waits until she’s just within reach, and then he lunges.
Ironic, that if they hadn’t turned him, he would never have been able to escape. Wouldn’t have been able to kill them all.
Her head strikes the floor with a dull clunk, and it’s over.
Except its not. It’s not like the movies. Killing the one who had made you a vampire doesn’t restore you. Doesn’t make you become human again. It doesn’t free him. The only thing that will, is a machete slicing his head from his neck. Or using the Colt’s last bullet on himself.
Which leaves him in a bind. He still feels the drive to hunt. The Demon is still out there. Still a threat to his boys. It needs to die. But he knows that he really ought to kill himself instead, so that he won’t be forced to take innocent lives. Or to endanger his boys, or his friends - the ones Meg hadn’t gotten to, anyway - in his need for blood.
He discovers soon enough, however, that he doesn’t need to take human lives in order to survive. Although fresh animal blood isn’t quite as ‘filling’ as human blood- it’s like eating tofu when you need steak - it gets him by. Cools that first raging hunger, and gets him by in the early hellish weeks of his new life as a blood-sucking parasite.
Once he’s gotten a bead on the hunger, he starts to make plans, because he can’t hang around here forever. He’s got a job to do. He considers the issue. He knows that vampires keep victims in their nests for days or weeks, bleeding them slowly. The few pitiful prisoners kept there during his own time as a captive, for example. Thinking of them now, he hopes they made it out alive. He hadn’t released them himself, he’d just called after he’d gotten a decent distance away, left an anonymous tip with the local police. It was safer, less complicated. Especially since he was so new to this vampire crap.
But this tells him something important. It tells him that human victims don’t need to die to quench his thirst. Hell, those damned vampires had even done that to him, bleeding him day after day, and not just to torture him. So maybe he can take a little blood from one person, and then move on to a new town and take another small amount from another person. Maybe he can survive without murdering the innocent, the very people he and his fellow hunters, and his sons, have been trying to protect through the years.
Maybe he can still get his long-awaited revenge on the Demon. He still has the Colt, which he’d taken back before leaving the vampires’ nest. And the one bullet.
Perhaps this can even work in his favour. He’s stronger, faster, his senses sharper. He’s never heard of a vampire getting possessed by a demon, either, so maybe this…state will offer its own protection. Getting ridden once by that thing was one time too many.
One problem, though. He has to travel at night to avoid the rays of the sun. That’s a bitch.
He repeatedly considers rejoining his boys, but he knows that’s a really bad idea. If he goes back to them, Dean and Sam will again be put in the position of having to kill him. He still doesn’t agree with their actions at the cabin, although he understands their reasons now. He’s not going to put them through that once more.
So he’ll continue his search for the damned devil that killed Mary, that had almost taken Dean’s life. He remembers telling Sammy and Dean that the one thing he never wanted to endure was watching his children die. And the Demon almost made that very nightmare come true. No, he’ll fight this alone, with his newfound powers. He’s not going to risk watching Dean look up at him again, blood pouring from his mouth and chest, begging him.
I’m not done ‘til this Demon is done, he repeats to himself over and over. A mantra. Yes, he hates what he’s become. Loathes it with every fibre of himself.
But he hates the Demon more.
So he takes the time to refine a new hunting technique. A hunt for blood.
His hunting ground tonight is a bar in some two-bit town. John doesn’t care. Blood here’s no different than anywhere else. And he - like any vampire - can still eat and drink. Enough to get someone to drink with him, lowering their guard. Too bad anything he ingests, other than blood, won’t do a goddamned thing to control his hunger.
He goes in, scans the interior of the dim bar with his improved night vision. Searching out likely partners. Donors.
Finally, he spots a woman. Seated alone at one of the rickety, stained tables.
Even now, some things didn’t change - he still goes for blondes. He’s not sure how he feels about that, but all that really matters is the vague sensation in his belly, the one he knows will soon build to a raging pain. He was forced to kill animals during his early hunger-fueled rages, and he doesn’t want to go back there again. Kneeling in mud and droppings, sucking desperately at the throat of a frightened calf, holding it while its struggles get weaker and weaker. Those feelings are worse, in their own way, than anything he’d ever felt before. Even in combat. And he also doesn’t want to wind up killing a person.
So he goes up to her, and uses those manners his long-suffering momma taught him. He asks if she’s alone, and if she’d like another drink.
It’s almost embarrassing to John how easy this is. He doesn’t know if he would’ve had women falling into his lap (almost literally) this easily before he was turned. He’s never tried, after all. He still considers himself a married man. So maybe it’s something vampires put out - a scent, a pheromone - that makes luring their food easier.
Then again, considering the notches on Dean’s belt (not that John has ever really approved of that behaviour, but he’d always supposed that Dean deserved a reward of some kind for all his hunting efforts)…maybe it is a Winchester effect.
It doesn’t take long at all for his companion to become quite tipsy, and for her to start giving John all those little signs that let him know she’s keen to go somewhere with him. The flipping of her blonde locks. The way she brushes her fingertips along her collarbone, unconsciously showing John where she wants him to touch her. He’s known all these tells long before he became a vampire, and he hasn’t forgotten what they mean.
He winds up taking a room for the night at some seedy hotel a few blocks down the road. He motions her into the room ahead of him (more of Momma’s teachings), and shuts the door. He turns the light on quickly, even though he doesn’t need it to see in the dark. He just doesn’t want his partner to witness his eyes flashing inhumanly silver in the dim moonlight coming through the window.
He grabs her by the wrist and pulls her into his arms. Carefully. He doesn’t want her to realize how fearsome, unnatural, his strength is. And he hopes he isn’t going too fast for her. While it’s not too late to end this, to find another donor, he’d really prefer not to start this dance all over again.
Bur she doesn’t seem to mind. She leans into him as he kisses her, pressuring her mouth open with his. So he slides his tongue slickly over hers, feeling her shudder against him. His hand slipping next over the side of her throat, where he can feel the pulse race temptingly beneath the skin.
He moves his mouth downward, two days’ worth of stubble rasping against her smooth skin, but she doesn’t protest as he presses his mouth to her neck. Her perfume - ‘Poison’, she’d told him earlier - is almost acrid to his new senses, but he ignores that annoyance. He kisses her there, then runs his tongue over her skin, tasting the salt. He’s acutely aware of the pulse in her neck, the sweet blood calling to him. And he feels the telltale throb in his gums, his new teeth wanting to rip through, to descend. And then to sink deep into that soft skin, let the blood free.
He battles the feeling back. He can control himself, can wait a little longer to slake his dark thirst. To do this in the way that has become (relatively) acceptable to him. Yeah, if he waits half a day longer, it’ll be a different story - he’ll almost certainly be maddened, desperate, ready to kill animals, maybe even to waylay someone in a dark alley - but for now, he can afford to wait for just the right moment.
He spins her around, then pulls her back against him, grinds his erection into her ass. Lifting her hair - straight, not like Mary’s - off and away from her neck and shoulder, baring the side of her throat. He can’t resist leaning in and biting, but lightly. A love-bite, the skin unbroken, unmarred. A taunt directed at his own thirst. Then more strokes of his tongue along the side of her neck, touches which make her shiver and moan. He moves lower, along the curve of her collarbone, one long sweep, as far as he can reach in this position. And then he exhales, cooling the skin, a twinge of guilt as he remembers how much Mary used to like this little trick of his.
She turns to face him again, and her hands move under his leather jacket, his sweater, trying to touch his skin. He pushes her back gently, urges her towards the side of the bed. Then he strips her slowly. Blouse and bra, jeans and underwear and socks, all are soon in a forgotten pile on the floor as he picks her up - again, trying not to make it look as effortless as it is - and lays her down. Studying her as he strips himself. Tan-lines along her chest, and his mouth practically waters at the thought of tracing them with his tongue. Full, heavy breasts, not much like Mary’s at all, and he’s grateful for that difference. Her dark eyes, glazed by the alcohol she’s drunk, watching him greedily as his clothes come off article by article.
He tosses his jeans across the foot of the bed - he’ll need them close at hand later - and climbs on top of her, leaning in to kiss her throat again, to lap at the softness with his tongue. A prelude to later. She tries to touch him, to keep him from sliding down her body, but he won’t allow it. It’s not selfishness, just that he’s learned that he can’t afford to get distracted. Last time he let a sexual partner (donor) reciprocate, he got too into it and lost control, the teeth coming down before he’d been prepared for them. Luckily he’d gotten himself under control before his partner at the time had noticed, but he’d decided then and there that he was going to do all the ‘work’ from now on in these situations. At the very least, he figures it’s payback for the ‘donations’ he’s going to take from them.
So he takes her hands off his shoulders and presses them back down on the pillow. She closes her eyes and leaves them there, lets him do what he wants, which is to shift downwards, to trail kisses down her throat, over the rise of her collarbone, and then down to her breasts. He cups his hand under one, raising the throbbing tip to his lips, unable to resist looking up at her and watching her expression as he suckles. Gently at first, then harder as she pushes up against his mouth, while he runs his hands down to her hips, cradling the curved bones.
She tries to touch him again, forgetting, and he catches her wrists in a firm grip once more. Lays them back on the mattress. So she pushes her hips up sharply into him instead.
He can take a hint. After according her other nipple the same treatment, he slides down lower, between her legs, which spread eagerly to accommodate him. He thinks, not for the first time, that this is far, far better than frightening some poor human in a dark alley. Better than chasing them down, forcing them against the wall, slashing their flesh open with his teeth. As much as he also feels that this gentler method is a betrayal to Mary…
He guides his partner’s legs even further apart, then lowers his head until he can caress her soft folds with the flat of his tongue. He doesn’t touch her clit, not right away. He still remembers how to make love like a mortal man. Even if he no longer is mortal himself. Instead he traces his tongue over every crease, holding her open. Easing his tongue into her, tasting her. Teasing her, making her blood race even faster for him.
She tries once more to touch him, direct him, winding her fingers tightly in his hair. But as much as he doesn’t really mind, it will interfere with the key moment of his plan. So he works her fingers carefully free, and then pins her hands down a final time. Waiting until she stops her half-hearted struggles, until she leaves her hands where he’s placed them. But he makes up for it, her frustrated sigh cut sharply off when he moves his mouth right where he’s sure she wants it.
He teases her clit lightly, using tiny strokes of his tongue. Gradually increasing the pressure. He still has enough man in him to do this properly, dammit. And she seems wordlessly to agree, writhing and moaning. Her skin becoming slick and even saltier with sweat. Delicious.
The throbbing in the little organ under his tongue fuels his blood-lust, but he resists still. Even with her heartbeat racing against his lips, his hands, he fights back the urge to savage her. Not now, and not this spot. He would never - ever - use his teeth on that region. That’s pure cruelty. He’s sunk low - is still sinking, really - but he hasn’t gotten that far down. Never will, if he puts his mind and the remains of his tattered soul into it.
John Winchester isn’t that much of an animal, a monster, just yet. If ever.
She’s almost there. Almost right where he wants - needs - her to be. He readies himself for it, grasping her left leg, gripping her thigh. Holding it still, as he works two fingers of his free hand inside her.
He feels her tense up immediately. She’s right at the precipice, he can sense it. Now. He curls his fingers inside her, prods at sensitive areas, and gives one last hard suck on her clit. As she starts to shake, losing herself in her orgasm, he replaces his mouth with his thumb.
And, letting his teeth descend, he turns his head and sinks them into her inner thigh.
She arches, crying out, but doesn’t push him away. He knows she’s in that region where pain and pleasure mix, flying high on the thermals. She probably hasn’t even realized he’s bitten her. With luck, she won’t notice until after he’s long gone.
Her heart races, spurred by her orgasm. It feeds more blood through the small, deep cuts his teeth have made in her skin. Particularly the small nick he’s made in her femoral artery. Means he can make smaller wounds, yet still get the sustenance he needs. All while distracting her with orgasm. Besides, he prefers to drink from the inner thigh anyways. Slower, safer bleed than the jugular, less likely to kill or injure. And the perfume of her arousal is far more to his liking, to his new sense of smell, than the artificial whale-blubber stuff dabbed on her neck.
He drinks, taking in the thick salt-sweet liquid. Careful, as always, not to take too much. He resists the urge to suck harder, draw the hot liquid in quicker, while the woman is helpless and nearly insensible underneath him. All he needs is a few mouthfuls. That quantity will hold him for nearly a week. He knows that well by now - he worked that little detail out soon after starting his human blood-hunts. Those other vampires were greedy pigs in comparison. Besides, he doesn’t really mind the occasional mild hunger pangs that tend to make their appearance after the first few days of fasting. He’s suffered worse things - shrapnel, near-starvation and dehydration while lurking in remote wooded areas - than this. And all that pales in comparison to watching helplessly as a Demon inhabits his body and slices his son to ribbons, mere inches in front of him. Hunger pangs are nothing, compared to watching his son miss death by inches.
He’s stopped drinking, his teeth now retracted back into his gums, but he leaves his mouth sealed over the wounds, lets his saliva clean them. That’s another thing he picked up on, while he’d been a prisoner of Kate and her pack. When they’d been drinking from him repeatedly, he’d noticed that his wounds had a tendency to clot up very quickly. Something in vampire saliva, apparently. Maybe something they’d evolved - assuming they evolved like humans did - so they could use a victim repeatedly, with less chance of them bleeding out? Either way, he sees no reason not to take full advantage of this ‘feature’ of his new self. Saliva alone isn’t going to infect her, a fact confirmed by Elkin’s careful notes on vampires and their habits.
By the time his partner stirs, starting to connect with reality again, the wounds are no longer bleeding. Good. Now if he can just keep her from noticing the damage he’s done to her…He retrieves the condom quickly from his jeans. Some misinformed lore has it that vampire males can’t get erections, but John knows from (now personal) experience that this isn’t true. They can get erections, even have sex and orgasms. What he doesn’t know, is whether vampire semen can infect humans the way vampire blood does. If it can turn them. Just in case, he’s taking no chances.
So John makes his way back up his partner’s body, taking care to block her view of the bite-mark. Distract her, exhaust her, that’s the deal now. “Ready for round two, darlin’?” he asks, holding up the condom. He winks at her, acting out playfulness, trying to ignore the familiar ache in his heart, the sense of wrongness that comes from not being in bed with the one person who deserves to be there. Mary.
“I want to do you,” she pouts. John laughs, gently. “Later,” he replies. “Call it a Ladies’ Night Special - two for the price of one.” He uses his best bedroom voice, low and rumbling.
As usual, it has the desired effect. He climbs up higher on the bed, his erection looming over her face as he lets her roll the condom onto him. And then he’s back between her thighs. Piercing her, thrusting inside her, closing his eyes and enjoying the sensation almost despite himself. His magnified senses making every touch more intense than he ever experienced as a mortal. She feels so hot, so wet around him. Her skin fragrant and sweet with sweat as he leans to her throat again, kissing her. He thrusts hard against her, grinding his pubic bone against her clit.
He loses track of time, but he certainly has far more stamina now than he’s ever had as a human. He waits until she’s incoherent, clutching at his shoulders with clumsy hands, eyes practically rolled back in her head, begging him. Then and only then does he reach between them, stroking her clit gently. And that’s it. She tenses a final time, throwing her head back against the pillows, and gives in to him. He finally allows himself climax as well, sucking in a breath that’s almost a sob, spilling himself inside her.
She’s totally out of it, limp and mostly asleep against damp bedclothes. It’s time. He pulls slowly out of her and backs off, checking the wound quickly, but the new properties in his saliva have done their work. Despite the second rise in her blood pressure, her second orgasm, she’s not bleeding heavily. A little seepage, which he leans in and cleans up with quick darts of his tongue. Waste not, want not.
He covers her with the quilt, then dresses himself as rapidly and quietly as possible. Sneaking to the door, and then out.
It’s not until he’s safely in his truck and pulling away that he lets the very last of his tension - a feeling he’s carried with him from the moment this ‘hunt’ began - disappear. He knows that tension well, from all his days of hunting the supernatural. The tension of knowing something might go wrong, and badly. The tension of knowing how unpredictable the world can be. Like hunting a striga, only to have it get away at the last minute, and then finding it in your hotel room, starting to drain your youngest of his life. Like not knowing Meg and her unnamed demon-possessed friend would find out so goddamned quickly that the Colt you’d brought with you was a fake.
Like hating a thing for twenty-two years, but being unable to use that hate as a defense. Being unable to keep it from inhabiting your body and using you as a weapon against your own flesh and blood. Sons you’d happily die to protect.
Which is why John will keep at this. Despite the constant need to search for blood, the risks he’ll have to take, to ensure he can survive and continue to pursue the Demon. Despite the need to avoid the sun. Despite the fact he hates what he’s become.
Because he knows, now, that it really is all about protecting his boys. At all costs. He’s lost Mary, and that was more than enough. Despite what Dean and Sam might think, even despite what John himself sometimes believes, it’s not all about revenge. Mary’s dead, and she’s not coming back. It’s about protecting the family that remains, it always has been.
Even if it means he can’t be the father to them that he’s wanted to be. That they need him to be.
The Demon and its servants have to die. Even if he has to rip their throats out with his sharp new teeth. Maybe, hopefully, he’ll have more luck against them as a vampire than he did as a mortal.
And then he’ll find a way to have himself ‘put down’. He won’t put his boys through that - he knows they won’t do it. And he’d rather spare them any further painful decision-making.
But that’s for further down the road. Right now, he has a Demon to hunt down. And he isn’t going to fail this time. He’s lost too much already.
FIN
If you liked this fic, feel free to check out my other SPN fic efforts.
Crossposted to AO3