nilchance | FIC: Of Bastard Saints, 29

Title: Of Bastard Saints
Authors:

beanside
Rating: Adult
Disclaimer: We make no claim of ownership on the Brothers and Daddy Winchester. No infringement is intended, no money is made.
Author Notes: Set after the episode "Devil's Trap."
WARNINGS: Character maiming, violence, more angst than you can shake a stick at, WIP.

Sunset on the eleventh day found John sitting at Missouri's kitchen table, surrounded by paper. For all that Missouri's house looked like it belonged in some 1974 issue of Good Housekeeping, she'd had a fax machine set up in her office. That let John go over the mountain of demonology crap Andrew had faxed over in the last few days: reversing bindings, killing demons without killing the person who bound them, any and all information on Belial that Andrew could find.

Which was good, because if John spent five more minutes around Dean, he was either going to strangle the boy or offer to let Dean shoot him. Anything to make the pale imitation of Dean stop.

And yeah, it was an imitation. Whenever he thought they weren't looking, the smile slipped. The haunted, tired look came back. Even with the act, Dean was quie, head cocked and expression tight like he was listening to something ugly. He kept one eye on Sam, one on the door. He didn't look at John. He slept, or faked sleeping, a lot.

Dean'd earned those silences and a whole new set of scars. He was a grown man now, and John didn't have the right to treat him otherwise. If Dean said he was fine, John would damned well give him space to pretend it was the truth.

For now.

With a low growl of annoyance, John stood, walking along the hallway to the door. "Sam, I'm gonna check on the demon. Open?"

Sam stood slowly, joints protesting, even after a week and a half of basic inactivity. "I think I'm going to go sack out. Poke me and I'll re-lock it." He flicked a finger at the door, listening as the bolts shot back. "Be careful."

"Got it, Sam," John sighed. "I will be."

He opened the door quietly, limping down the stairs until he stood just outside of the Seal. The darkness within, the lazy pulse of the hourglass like a sick heart, made John's skin crawl. "What are you doing to Dean, you son of a bitch?"

And then it was there, in his head. The memory made John's fists clench.

"John, what a pleasant surprise," the demon purred. "I'm not doing anything. After all, you bound me. Doesn't that fix everything? Oh, wait. It really doesn't fix a damned thing, does it? Not a damned thing like your boy up there."

"I know you can talk to me, too. Why aren't you taking your shots, you sick fuck?" John asked, fists clenching.

"Oh, John. Taunting you won't hurt you. I couldn't break you when I was at full strength, so why bother now? All the torments, the torture... but Dean," it purred. "Now that tortures you. That kills you inside. So, really, I am going after you. Through our boy."

"He's not yours," John growled. "Neither of them are."

"Oh, I would go after Sammy, but really. He's of no use to me now," it sighed theatrically.

"What do you mean?" John asked.

"You Winchesters. Always willing to throw the stupid, senseless sacrifice into the mix. When really, it's like spitting on a bonfire. All in the name of love. He burned himself out John, all that power, just... gone." John had the impression of something moving in the circle, stirring the air, there and then gone again. "But then, you knew that. You let him waste it."

"It was Sam's call."

"Of course it was," it murmured. "C'mon, John. We're both fathers. We know the drill. If you threw your weight, you could've made him stop. Would've lost Dean, but then you already have, haven't you? You lost him in that cabin, the moment you felt your cock get hard-"

"Stop," John bit off. "That was you, you sick fuck-"

"-Staring at your son. You would've enjoyed it, us fucking him while he cried." There was a smile in its voice as it purred, "I know I did. Right there in the van-"

John hauled himself to a stop just short of the circle. Dug his nails into his palms until he felt them slick with sweat or blood. "You son of a bitch, what did you-"

"With you in the driver's seat, telling him he was safe. God, John, no wonder he flinches from you." Shadows stirred in the dimly lit circle, rubbing against the seal before receding again. Trick of the light. "But you've given him plenty of reasons for that before I ever darkened your doorstep. He was broken before I got there. A million little cracks for me to wedge my way into. 'Does Daddy really love me?' Fucking pathetic, really."

"Funny," John growled, "you're the one in the damned hourglass. Death by Shop Vac? Now that's pathetic."

"I'll give you, he's impressive. Psychotic, of course. Just like pretty Amanda. But impressive. You'd never know that in there's still a scared four year old, who didn't want to talk because he'd start screaming and never stop. I should've taken him then. My mistake. He'd have been right at home with all my other children, because he's belonged to me all along. I just let you borrow him for a while."

His cell phone trilled. John grabbed one-handed, ignoring the demon's low chuckle. "Winchester."

"John." Andrew's voice was ragged and weary. He sounded like he'd been talking non-stop, or possibly screaming. "I've got an option for you for that hourglass."

John looked up. "Permanent?"

"As it gets. Bring it to the church. Friday night."

John thought of the silences, Dean's uneasy sleep, the thicker darkness of the shadows cast in the basement. "Can you take it tonight?" he asked, trying to sound even.

"Friday's as soon as we can do it. Has to be a new moon. Banishing. Sorry."

"All right." John rubbed his eyes. "And this option won't hurt Dean, right?"

"John," Andrew sounded affronted. "Of course not."

"Just checking."

"There is one catch. Dean has to agree to dispose of it." Andrew sighed. "Demon ownership is a tricky business. You have to willingly turn it over to someone else's keeping, or the binding is null and void. He's a stubborn son of a bitch, and he's had time to start to wonder if he could control it. The demon's very One Ring."

"What?" John began, then shook his head. Too much time around Sam. "Never mind. Look, he handed it to me to watch in the cemetery. Does that count?"

"Yes. Thank God, it does. But you still only have half-control over it. Neither of your decisions carries more weight than the other."

Pained, John closed his eyes. His voice was low when he said, "And if I give it to Sam?"

"Then you two can outvote him without damaging the binding." Andrew sounded surprised. "How bad is it over there, exactly?"

"As bad as it's going to get. Will it hurt Sam?"

"I'll be honest, it's not sunshine and picnics. It can't physically hurt any of you, but it can do its damage to your minds. It's got plenty of ammo."

John glanced inside the seal, noticing the demon's silence. Not like the damned thing to shut up when John was on the phone, but it had. "You did good, Andrew. Thank you. Get some sleep."

"Yessir," Andrew muttered, and hung up on him.

John closed his eyes in the early morning quiet, letting his head fall back. An option. God, that was good to hear. Snapping the phone shut, he turned to bare his teeth in a grin at the hourglass. "Gotcha."

"You can't think this will work. You know I'll come back on you."

The sound of footsteps above John's head made him glance at the ceiling. Exasperation warred with a strange fondness for a moment before the second won out. Climbing to his feet, John staggered on the first step and managed okay on the rest of the ones that took him out to the living room.

"You know I'll kill you all. John- John! Don't you fucking turn your back on me! I killed your wife! I'll kill your boys-"

John closed the door behind him, muffling its voice.

A quick look at the couch confirmed that yes, Sam was out cold. All those nights of sitting up with John to watch Dean sleep had finally caught up with him. He'd crashed like he had when he was 4, going abruptly from all energy to complete stillness, long limbs flung in different directions, one foot dangling over the edge of the couch arm and one on Missouri's coffee table. John paused long enough to tug the crocheted throw over Sam's shoulder and tap him gently.

"Mmrgh?"

"Door."

"Mmm." There was the click of the three locks sliding home. Sam rolled over, burying his face in the couch.

John touched his back. "Sam? We need to talk."

Sam flipped over quickly, eyes wide. "Dean-"

"Not about him. The demon. I was talking to Andrew. He's got a way to get rid of the bastard."

"When can we get there?"

"Not til Friday. That's not the problem. As it stands, if Dean won't agree to get rid of it-"

"He won't. He was babbling something the other day, about using it as a weapon--trying to figure out how to do a mobile binding or something. When I called him on it, he shut up. Then he tried to tell me he was kidding." Sam looked up at him. "As it stands?"

"Yeah. He gave it to me in the cemetery, which means I'm half owner. Still, if I take it, my fifty cancels his fifty, and the binding could snap. Then, we're fucked," John muttered.

"So, what are you going to do?" Sam asked suspiciously.

"I could give it to-"

"Yes," Sam said firmly. "I accept."

"Sam," John said tiredly. "Think about this for a second. It'll be able to talk to you, taunt you. Possibly visit you in nightmares, throw up the worst moments of your life on the mental viewmaster."

Sam's eyes hardened. "Is that what it's been doing to you?"

John studied the floor. "No. It knows that the best way to get to me is through Dean." He met Sam's eyes. "Or you. I hate to give it another target, hate to ask it of you, but-"

"Dad," Sam said, cutting him off. "Yes."

John let out a soft breath. "Do you willingly accept possession of the demon Belial, bound in his hourglass by your brother's blood?"

"Yes." Sam winced at the little flare of power along his skin. "Ow."

John touched his head lightly. "I'm sorry."

Sam shook his head. "Don't worry about it. You should get some rest."

"I think I will. Thanks, Sam," John murmured fondly, watching Sam turn back over, his breathing deepening. Must be nice.

John looked up, hearing a slow footstep in the hallway above him. Dean. So much for that whole 'yell if you need help' thing.

By the time John got upstairs, Dean was already halfway to the bathroom. Halfway because he'd apparently run out of steam in the hallway, his body reminding him that he'd just been through hell. Dean slumped against the wall, giving John a lopsided smile that almost looked genuine. If John ignored the clammy sweat, the dark circles under his eyes, and the way he drew his shoulder back when John went to steady him. "Hey, Dad. What's doing?"

John shrugged, letting his hand drop. "Been worse. Your brother's finally sleeping."

"About time." Gingerly, Dean took a step forward. When he didn't fall on his face, he took another. "I need a shower. 'Cause dude, between the Thorazine and the smell, I'm starting to feel like Keith Moon. After he bit it."

"Zombies," John noted. "Hard to get the smell off."

"Not that I don't think you tried and all, but the whore baths just aren't cutting it anymore." Dean held up the new cast Dr. Santos had put on him the day before. "And now that I can get this bitch wet, I'm going to shower."

Moving slowly, because he'd learned quickly that moving fast spooked Dean, John reached up, rumpling his hair. "Afterwards, if you want, I could cut the blue out."

Dean flashed him a smirk. "That's the fifth time since I came to you've offered that. And here I thought you liked the color blue."

"Not on your hair," John muttered. Giving Dean's hair a last tug, John turned. "I think I'm going to take a nap, follow your brother's example. Call me if you need anything. Don't want you trying the stairs yet."

Dean nodded. "Yessir."

John headed for the bedroom, flopping on the bed with a grimace. Now that they were home, and the adrenaline had worn down, he was feeling the damage he'd done to his leg. The low-level constant ache he'd been able to ignore had scaled up to a vicious biting pain whenever he walked. It was harder to compartmentalize now, to put out of his mind.

He laid there, hand absently rubbing the thigh muscle and staring at the ceiling. Friday. They could finally get rid of the bastard that had haunted their lives in just three days. Maybe then they could finally get their lives back on track. Maybe then, Dean would come back to them. All the way, instead of the shell they were living with now.

If the demon hadn't been lying, the way Dean was acting wasn't surprising. If anything, it should be worse. Dean seemed... distant. Not broken, not even deeply wounded. Just checked out until further notice, until the world was enough to pull him back. It'd been worse when he was a kid, the eerily silent 4 year old who wouldn't meet anyone's eyes but John's and who wouldn't let Sam out of his sight. Compared to that, this was mild.

Then again, Dean had always been a good liar and a better actor. It was how he got his way onto crime scenes and out of the social worker's office back in the day. He'd never been able to con John before. John'd let Dean think he was getting away with shit before, but he'd known.

If the demon had been telling the truth, Dean would be worse. He wouldn't have found out through the demon. John would know. He'd have to know.

After a few minutes, John lifted his head, suddenly aware of the quiet. The silence. No shower running. Shit.

He stumbled along the hallway, pausing outside the door. What if he was just shaving, or cutting the godawful dye out of his hair? Didn't want Dean to think he couldn't be trusted. Jesus, no wonder he'd been a shitty father. He had no clue what the hell he was supposed to do.

Then, John heard the soft, shaky breath behind the door. Fuck.

Dean didn't look up when he opened the door a crack. John wasn't even sure he'd heard the door open.

Dean was sitting on the edge of the tub, his arms wrapped around his naked chest, shuddering silently while tears slid down his face.

John stepped into the tiny room, leaving the door open, and Dean looked up, eyes wide, and for a heartbeat, terrified. After a moment he seemed to recognize John, and he looked back down, the shaking getting worse.

Oh, God. No. Not this.

The demon... maybe it hadn't lied. Maybe the truth was worse.

"S'okay," Dean choked, "I'm okay, Dad, just- just get out."

Watching closely for any sign that Dean might bolt, John stepped closer, flipping the lid down and lowering himself onto the toilet. It was close enough that their knees almost touched.

Dean made a soft noise. Not quite a sob, less than a whimper. "'m sor-"

"Shh." John reached out, waiting for the inevitable flinch, and laid his hand on the side of Dean's head.

The flinch never came. Instead, Dean tilted his head into the touch, his breath sliding out on a shuddering sigh. John grabbed Dean's waistband and pulled him closer along the rim of the tub, then slid his arm around his boy's shoulders, offering comfort.

For a moment, he was sure Dean was about to run. Then, with a choked, broken noise, he leaned into John, laying his head against his father's shoulder.

John stared at nothing for a moment, feeling hate and rage choke him. It'd be easy to leave this to Sam, to storm back downstairs and scream at the demon until he was hoarse. But it'd be useless.

John tightened his grip, pulling Dean closer, feeling his son's tears sear against his shoulder. Somehow, they hurt worse than the leg ever could. "Shh. It's all right," he murmured, pressing a light kiss to the top of Dean's head. "We're here, Dean. Trust Sammy and me, all right? We've got your back."

John thought Dean might have nodded, but it was hard to tell.

Whatever Andrew had planned, Friday couldn't come fast enough for John's taste.

Unfortunately, that would wait for another day. Right now, it was enough to have Dean pressed against him, solid and whole. The rest would have to fall into place as it came.

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Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

From:

lilmissfury.livejournal.com

You know when you told me that there was a part that was John/Dean in that oh so wrong Winchester way I thought I would have to wait forever, instead I turn on my computer and get this! *bounces like a giddy school girl*

Okay now that that's done I'd like to tell you that this was one of the best parts yet. And not just for the John/Dean. You made something that could've been just exposition completely and utterly compelling. I sat here and read this entire story when I should've been doing stuff at home. (We're in the midst of spring cleaning around here which sucks ass).

Between the demon talking about how Dean gave John a hard on and John angsting about how bad it is for him to feel the way he feels about his son I just wanted to scream and cuddle both of them.

"I'll give you, he's impressive. Psychotic, of course. Just like pretty Amanda. But impressive. You'd never know that in there's still a scared four year old, who didn't want to talk because he'd start screaming and never stop. I should've taken him then. My mistake. He'd have been right at home with all my other children, because he's belonged to me all along. I just let you borrow him for a while."

This little paragraph gutted me for a lot of reasons, but one of the main things is that he doesn't want to talk because he's afraid he's gong to start screaming and never stop. I never thought of Dean's silence like this I always thought he just didn't really want to talk.

Of course our Dean has made up for it since then but ah well.

Watching closely for any sign that Dean might bolt, John stepped closer, flipping the lid down and lowering himself onto the toilet. It was close enough that their knees almost touched.

Dean made a soft noise. Not quite a sob, less than a whimper. "'m sor-"

"Shh." John reached out, waiting for the inevitable flinch, and laid his hand on the side of Dean's head.

The flinch never came. Instead, Dean tilted his head into the touch, his breath sliding out on a shuddering sigh. John grabbed Dean's waistband and pulled him closer along the rim of the tub, then slid his arm around his boy's shoulders, offering comfort.

For a moment, he was sure Dean was about to run. Then, with a choked, broken noise, he leaned into John, laying his head against his father's shoulder.

Oh damn it you can't tease me like this! You ladies are just friggen evil!

From:

Especially when you make plans...

FIC: Of Bastard Saints, 29

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