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The Greater Good

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A dozen kids dead within the past three months. All of them torn up, guts ripped apart and internal organs missing; gouged out rather than removed with any kind of surgical precision. John scrubs his hand over his face, trying not to dwell on the other injuries the coroner’s report had described in stomach-turning detail; the prolonged and vicious sexual assaults that the brutal trauma indicated, something which certainly explained the terror that would forever be etched onto twelve innocent faces.

Those young lives lost are why this needs to be done. There is no other option. God knows, John and Bobby have scoured the books for every scrap of information ever written about this thing. They'd even brought Caleb and Gordon Walker in to help out. But even after they'd all gone through their lists of contacts, the result had remained the same.

This isn't something that can be killed. Not with a silver knife, not with fire or holy water, not with a goddamn magic bullet. There is a curse on this town that turns men into monsters and the only way to break it is with a sacrifice.

At least, John tells himself, it's not a blood sacrifice that's required. No one else has to lose their life. Only their status.

"You gonna stop moping anytime soon?"

"What?" John looks up to see Bobby staring at him, a bushy eyebrow raised. Sometimes Singer has a way of looking at John that makes him feel like a wet-behind-the-ears rookie all over again.

"You know," Bobby says, kicking out the chair opposite John, flipping off his baseball cap and sitting down. "I'm just as darned sick as you about doing this. But there ain't no other way. Even Pastor Jim agrees this is the only thing to be done."

"He's not the one that has to grab the kid though, is he?" John folds his arms across his chest and leans back, the cheap plastic seat squeaking under his weight.

"You want to let someone else do it? Walker maybe?"

And that's low, because Walker shows as much compassion towards victims as he does to vampires. John wouldn't trust him with a dog, never mind a terrified kid. "Fuck you, Singer," John replies, but his voice is weighted with defeat not anger.

"They're out back now; hiding behind the dumpsters again. To be honest, John, I think we might be doing them a favor."

"We're going to-" John flicks a glance around the diner, but it's late, near closing time and there's no one within earshot. Still, he lowers his voice. "We're going to kidnap a kid and rape him. How the hell is that doing him a favor?"

Just as keen as John to avoid being overheard, Bobby leans forward, elbows on the table, hands clasped together, knuckles white with tension, eyes narrowed and earnest. "You know as well as I do what happens to lost boys who look like that. It's a wonder someone hasn't turned him already. At least we ain't gonna hurt him. And we ain't gonna touch the little one."

"And we aren't gonna dump them back on the streets afterwards," John adds pointedly. It wasn't part of the original plan, and the other hunters think he's nuts, but John's adamant - if they're turning this kid into an omega, they're going to look out for him afterwards. John is. He's going to claim the kid. Sure the boy might not like it at first, but once he's turned he'll come around. He sure will when he hits his first heat. Anyway, it'd be little more than a death sentence to turn him and leave him on the streets. A beautiful, sweet smelling omega with no alpha, yeah, you don't have to be a genius to figure out how that would end. And at least this way, the younger kid gets a home, and some protection.

"You sure you want to saddle yourself with an omega, John?"

John sighs, not particularly wanting to go round this argument again.

"I'm sure we could find somewhere to leave him. Maybe Ellen would take him in." Bobby suggests.

John snorts, "Yeah, you gonna have that conversation with her? Tell her how we kidnapped the kid and raped him?"

Bobby chooses that moment to pick up his cap and study the newest stains decorating it. John nods. "No, I didn't think so. Anyway after that fiasco with the hell-spawn, she's not gonna want to do us a favor any time soon."

Besides, having an omega isn't exactly a hardship. And although John hasn't admitted it, won't ever admit it, there's something about the boy - the fullness of his lips, the sweep of his eyelashes, the gentle curves of his slim frame - that's kicking his dormant alpha instincts to life in a way that they haven't been for...well, not for a long time.

Singer's cellphone rumbles in his pocket. John looks at his watch. It's time.

It's ridiculously easy to get near the kids. A few bucks and some burgers bought their trust the way it never would have done had they been well fed and cared for. Or maybe not their trust exactly; the eldest still shoves the youngest behind him when John approaches. He's a smart kid, wary and alert. If he wasn't so desperate, so damned hungry, he'd probably grab his little brother and disappear long before John got within spitting distance.

John ambles towards them slowly, nose wrinkling as he tries not to breathe in the acrid stench of stale urine and rotting food. Hearing a muffled scrape and scuffle in the alley behind him, John’s hand darts to the gun hidden in his waistband, he turns just in time to spot a rat the size of a pet dog scurrying out from behind a tipped over garbage can. “Fuck,” he swears under his breath, staggering a few steps to the side and slipping on what he hopes is just decomposing garbage. As he steadies himself, he thinks he hears sniggers from the boys. Brats. John would rather face down a werewolf than a beady-eyed, disease-carrying rodent any day of the week.

It says a lot that the boys don't even flinch when the rat runs past them.

"Hey, guys," John nods at the kids as he approaches their ill-concealed hiding spot. He shoves his hands in his pockets and keeps his shoulders slumped, trying to look as harmless as a 6ft 2" ex-marine – turned hunter can look. He's had a few nights to work on the boys; it's taken time to figure this nightmare of a case out. The first night that John had handed the eldest kid his cup of coffee and the spare change in his pocket, it wasn't even for a nefarious reason. Just good old concern for two boys that looked one more bitter winter’s night away from freezing to death.

"Hey," the eldest replies, backing up a step and almost standing on his brother.

"So kid, I thought maybe we could talk."

"Yeah, I don't think so, mister." John can almost taste the wary mistrust rippling off the kid.

"My name's John, John Winchester."

"Yeah? Good for you."

Little smart-ass, John thinks in approval. "You got a name, kid?"


"Mind sharing, so I don't have to keep calling you kid?"

The boy chews on his bottom lip for a second, shuffles his feet, but eventually grudgingly admits, "Dean."

"And I'm Sam. Samuel James Campbell." A little voice peeps up from the shadows.

"Sammy!" Dean berates his younger brother and scowls at John who bites back a laugh.

"It's very nice to meet you, Sam. You too, Dean. Aren't you a little young to be out here on your own?"

If Dean wasn’t already skittish, he is now. John’s questions are rattling him. His hand seeks out his brother’s and his eyes dart around the alley nervously. "What are you – a cop or something? I'm eighteen alright, so just leave us alone. Come on, Sammy,” he says, “Let's go."

There's no way that Dean's a day over sixteen. If that. With his soft voice and baby smooth skin, it's obvious he hasn't hit puberty yet. The kid might be primed to be an alpha, but his knot sure hasn't popped. Now, thanks to John, it never will.

He had hoped to persuade the boys to come with him without making a scene. It's not like there's anyone around, certainly not anyone who cares about two runaways, but he hadn't wanted to risk leaving behind a trail of witnesses.

"I’m not a cop, Dean, I swear. Just listen," John holds a hand up, palm open, trying to stop Dean from taking off without scaring him. "You're a bright kid; you know you can't live rough for much longer. It's cold now, and the weather's just going to get worse. You want Sam to get sick, freeze to death?"

"Screw you, mister." Dean spits, wrapping his arm around his younger brother. "I'd never let anything happen to Sammy."

"I know you wouldn't mean to, Dean. But sooner or later, your luck is going to run out. Living on the streets is no life for you or your brother. Why don't you let me help?" It's not working, John realizes with a sinking feeling. They're going to bolt. "Just come with me, hear me out." A hint of desperation has edged into his voice, which Dean – smart kid – doesn’t miss.

"I don't think so," Dean snaps, sidling away and dragging Sam with him, his eyes locked on John the whole time. "You're either gonna fuck me, or shop me to the cops, and I don't...hey!, Sammy...mmphh."

Walker's hand clamps over Dean's mouth, shutting him up. John grabs Sam and gets kicked in the nuts for his trouble.

Thank god Caleb's pulled his van across the bottom of the alley.

"What the hell were you doing, Winchester? Trying to seduce the little brat?" Gordon says, full of his usual charm. He's pretty much had to pick Dean up in order to wrestle him towards the van. "Did you really think he'd roll over and play nice? That he'd volunteer to be the sacrifice in this twisted ritual?"

John doesn't have to tell Walker to watch his mouth; Dean's renewed struggles illustrate the point just fine.

Walker yelps and lurches dangerously, nearly dropping Dean, before he firms his grip on the furious kid and regains his balance. "Little shit bit me."

"No goddamn wonder," John says, breaking into a sweat with the effort it's taking to wrangle little Samuel Campbell into the van. The kid's all flailing limbs and sharp elbows. "You're scaring the crap out of him."

Bobby, sitting in the back of the van, swears a blue streak when two furious kids are thrown, kicking and spitting like wildcats, on top of him. It takes all three of them to subdue the two boys, zip ties and duct tape doing what smooth talking couldn't. In a strange way, John's kind of proud of the fight they put up.



"You don't think we should give him something to calm him down?" Caleb says looking doubtfully at the scarlet-cheeked, feral-eyed boy. John was just thinking the same thing. Since they reached the cabin and split up the boys - locking Sam in the spare room and securing Dean in the center of the pentagram - Dean has been like a boy possessed. Pissed and terrified in equal measure. There's blood trickling down his skinny wrists where the plastic cuffs are biting into his skin, but he's still fighting against them.

"No," Bobby's response is blunt and decisive, but there's an apology hidden under his gruff tone. "I ain't gonna risk screwing up the ritual. We do this once and we do it right."

"So, are we ready to get this show on the road?" Walker claps his hands and grins. The dick.

"Would it kill you to be less of an asshole?" Caleb snaps.

Walker quirks that cocky smirk of his, the one that makes John want to knock his pearly white teeth out, and throw his jacket across the back of the sofa. A plume of dust billows into the air, and yeah maybe this isn’t the classiest place to perform a ritual, but it's isolated and that's the main thing. "I'm not going to wring my hands and weep about turning a street rat, so either we do this now, or you find another alpha."

It's tempting to tell Walker to take a hike, but they need him. And he knows it. The ritual requires at least three alphas in their prime, plus one to read the incantation. Bobby's got the book of lore in his hands, the incantation bookmarked and ready to go. He's passed his prime apparently, so he'd said, without meeting anyone's eyes. John suspects he just doesn't have the stomach for what they're about to do. In theory, yeah sure, he's all for it, but in - getting your own hands dirty - practice, not so much.

John doesn't have the luxury of those dubious morals. And deep, deep, down in the blackest recesses of his soul, he's glad. This boy is his secret desires come to life. Young, spirited and oh so pretty. On a normal day turning the kid would remain an illicit fantasy, a wicked want that would stay locked in John's dreams and late night jerk-offs. Today isn't a normal day.

"We ain't monsters, Gordon, watch your attitude. What we're doing is bad enough, there's no need to be cruel." Bobby says.

Walker just rolls his eyes.

"John," Bobby carries on, ignoring him. "We should get started. The boy's only gonna get more worked up. Might as well get this over with."

A flare of excitement shoots up John’s spine, one that he's careful to hide. He's not an asshole like Walker. He's not. He approaches Dean cautiously, careful not to disturb any of the blood-daubed lines as he steps into the pentagram.

He kneels down so he's level with the bound boy - ankles strapped together and wrists, now scraped raw, tied behind his back - takes a breath to calm his (arousal) nerves.

"Dean....Dean. I know you're scared, but I want you to listen to me for a minute, please. Dean, buddy, come on, calm down and listen."

Dean's nostrils flare above his taped mouth, he's breathing hard, his heart is probably racing in that scrawny chest. John licks his lips. "There's a curse over this town. Something that's turning men into monsters, making them kill kids. Twelve kids so far, your age...younger, kids like Sam. Now, we've found a way to stop it. There's a ritual, a spell. And I'm sorry, I really am, but part of that ritual requires the turning of an immature alpha into an omega."

Dean's eyes go wide, enormous in his pale face. It makes him look even younger - young and scared and vulnerable. And John - dick stiffening in his pants - is going to hell.

"We won't hurt you. I swear, kid. We're just gonna...we need to turn you, the three of us, while Bobby reads out the incantation. And afterwards....afterwards....I'm going to take care of you. I know this isn't fair, I know it's a lot to ask, but you're gonna save a lot of lives. Maybe even yours or your brother's."

If anything the boy looks even more terrified.

"Okay, listen, I'm going to peel this tape off. Because you need to ingest the alpha...y’know, the alpha semen....and if you take it orally as well as....well, y’know...then this could go a lot faster. And I think you want that, Dean. Now we're miles from the town, the middle of nowhere really and no one is gonna hear you if you scream. All that's gonna happen is you'll scare your little brother. So be good, and stay calm for me, okay?"

While John peels the tape off his lips as gently as possible, Dean stays unnaturally still, frozen like a spindly-legged deer caught in a spotlight. John tries not to notice how badly the kid's trembling. How white his face is. How red and puffy and tempting his lips are.

Dean doesn't scream. He looks John straight in the eyes and says with quiet conviction, "If you touch my brother, I'll kill you."

Despite the tenuous position that the boy's in, there's an intractable determination in his voice that nearly convinces John he could do it too. Then Dean breaks into a dry, hacking coughing fit and suddenly the protective older brother dissolves away leaving behind a frightened and vulnerable boy.

Caleb, his eyes darting guiltily over the scared kid - lingering just a fraction too long on that sinful mouth - hands John a bottle of water. John offers it to Dean, nudging it towards his lips. Torn between the real need for water and flat out fear of his captors, it takes a minute for Dean to concede, and reluctantly take a sip. "He's only eleven," Dean says, voice paper thin and brittle. "He's a kid, just a little kid."

"I won't touch him." John assures him. "None of us will, I swear."

"Why the fuck should I believe you?" Dean croaks. "You and your psycho buddies are about to rape me."

And that – well, that's hard to argue with. Not when you look at it from Dean's point of view.

"Okay," Gordon says. "Enough of this bullshit. The boy's not falling for your charm, Winchester. We're wasting time. Who's first up?"

Unfortunately, as crass and callous as Gordon is, he's not wrong. He's also not going to be the first one to take the boy.

"Me," John says, glancing up at Gordon with a challenge in his eyes, daring him to argue. Walker just holds his hands up, smirks and stands back.

"I'm going to take your clothes off," John explains, gently. "We need to...well, we need to come on you, rub it into your skin."

"Please, please don't do this." Dean begs, wriggling desperately, chafing delicate skin.

John ignores the pleas, slips the knife from his ankle rig and quickly and efficiently cuts the scruffy clothes from Dean's body.

The kid is gorgeous. Sharp bones under youthful softness. Freckles the color of coffee, sprinkled like summer rain over creamy skin. Dusky pink nipples, as sweet and tempting as ripe strawberries rising up from a boyish chest, and a plump cock with a fleshy base that is just months, weeks, away from popping a knot. Was weeks away from popping a knot.

Unquestionably, the boy could do with a bath and a few good meals. But underneath the street grime, is a divine body that John wants to worship. And later he will. Now, he just needs to get down to business.

John pushes Dean onto his knees, his head down towards the floor, hands still bound behind his back. A bottle of lube thumps onto the floor beside him, thrown by whom, he has no idea. He can't take his eyes off Dean's ass; it's plump, pale and fucking edible. And not designed to take alpha cock. John can't resist grabbing those perfect cheeks, curved round and full, in his hands and squeezing; watching with a dry mouth as rosy color blossoms across ivory flesh. He does it again, spreading Dean's cheeks apart and catching his first glimpse of Dean's hole - small, dark and inviting.

Using the lube, a generous dollop, he presses the tip of his finger into Dean's ass.

"No……please, don't....please God...please..." John pretends not to hear the prayers spilling from Dean's lips.

Dean's hole clings to John's finger, so tight, so hot. If he was a crueler man, John would break him open right now on his cock. The urge is there, dark and ugly, lurking just under the surface. Two fingers, more lube, Dean's ass trying to resist, trying its best to keep John out. John twists and scissors trying to stretch the clenching muscle.

"Relax, Dean," he murmurs, petting the skin on Dean's back, rubbing circles over his ribs -- so prominent, the boy is skin and bones; this is for the best, for his own good -- with his thumb. "You need to relax, or this is going to hurt real bad."

"You don't have to do this," Dean pleads. "I won't tell. I promise. Just let me go. Let me and Sammy go, please."

"Shhh," John says, sliding a third finger in alongside the other two, shoving in a little harder than he intended when a whimpered gasp tumbles from Dean's lips.

John's cock is harder than it’s been since he was seventeen years old and taking sweet Mary's virginity in the back of her father's Chevy.

"Come on Winchester. We haven’t got all night." Walker growls.

When John unbuckles his belt and frees his cock from his jeans, Bobby walks around the pentagram, lighting the red candle at each of the points. Once that's done, he steps back and starts reciting from the book of lore. It would be easier if they could cut Dean's ankles free, spread those coltish legs. But the boy would likely kick like a mule if they did. Next time, John thinks, the next time he fucks him, he'll spread him wide.

The angle might be awkward, but that first push in, the tight, grasping, heat surrounding him, is almost too much. John groans, loud and base, from the depth of his guts. He hears Gordon laugh. It's not difficult to block him out. John tries to be gentle. Kind. Take his time and ease Dean into this. But after half a dozen, careful shallow thrusts, he can't hold back. He thrusts in until his balls are squashed against Dean's ass. Dean's crying, squirming and it feels incredible. Delicious pressure pulsing around John's dick. He holds still for just a minute, lets the kid wriggle and dance on his cock then he pulls out, slowly slowly, until only the head of his cock is nestled between unwilling flesh, then he shoves in all the way and Dean screams.

There might be a part of John that feels guilty, but it's not enough to make him stop. This is, John tells himself, as his hips slap forward and his fingers clamp around Dean's narrow waist, this is for the greater good. Saving lives. Stopping evil. That's what they do.

John isn't going to last long, not this first time. So he doesn't even try. When he feels his knot starting to swell, he slams into Dean hard, squeezes his fingers around the base of his own cock stopping himself from locking with the boy. They all need to fuck him before he can get knotted. He needs as much come as possible, in him, on him, to start the turning process.

It's almost painful not knotting the boy. If he smelled like omega, there's no way John would be able stop himself. As it is, his orgasm hits like a hurricane. It rushes through him, a heady blast that leaves him stunned and breathless. He rocks back, his dick - still hard, popping out of Dean's ass and dragging a long trail of come with it. John scoops up it up, massages the sticky mix of spunk and lube into the boy's flushed skin.

Caleb goes next. Dean sobs, pleads as Caleb fucks into him. Caleb apologizes over and over, a repentant litany, even as he pounds into Dean. His hand on the back of Dean's neck, holding his head down onto the floor. Caleb lasts even less time than John. His eyes screwing shut as his thrusts stutter to a halt. He almost catches his knot on Dean's rim, only pulling out at the last second. Come trickles down the back of Dean's thighs. Caleb rubs it all in until Dean's skin shines.

Gordon wastes no time. His pants are discarded, dick in hand before he steps into the pentagram. Even as John's telling him to be careful, not to hurt the boy, his own dick is slipping in and out of his fist, as hard as iron and leaking like he's got spunk to spare. Gordon, all dark muscle and barely contained violence, looks huge next to the kid. Such stark contrast, especially when his dick, not as thick as John's but it has to be 8" long, slams into Dean's pale little ass.

Dean screams again, a broken cry that's muffled by Walker's hand covering those cherry red lips.

Walker fucks like an animal. Like a mean old dog breeding a bitch. Shows no mercy, no compassion. Fast and brutal thrusts, racing towards his completion. John, stripped out of his boots and jeans, steps into the pentagram before Gordon finishes. Ready to intervene, haul him off, if he tries to knot.

Another load of come filling him up, Dean’s ass is dripping, sticky, and his scent is changing, ever so subtly. Where it was bland before, barely there, it's now twisting into a fresh tang. Like spring is in the air, the promise of warmth and sunshine just around the corner. Nearly in reach.

They slice the zip ties binding Dean's ankles and his wrists. The boy's a shaky mess; too far gone to be able to fight. As Bobby reads on, they all take another turn. John flips Dean onto his back, spreads his legs, fingers wrapped around lean calves holding them in the air, and fucks him, slow, steady this time. Hitting the gland inside of him that's swelling, even as his cock is, gradually, imperceptibly, shrinking.

John's surprised when instead of waiting, Caleb kneels over Dean's face and jacks himself off. He curls his fingers around his cock and fucks his fist furiously, reaches down and pinches Dean's nose. Dean gasps, mouth flying open, muscles tensing, fighting the new attack. Caleb shudders and comes, aims for Dean's open mouth, coats his teeth, his tongue, his lips with hot, milky, spunk. "Swallow, kid." He says, voice wavering but insistent. "Be a good boy and swallow it down. You don't want to choke and I ain't letting go of your nose until you swallow."

Dean obeys, closes his mouth, swallows, tears streaming down his face.

Out of nowhere, John's orgasm crashes over him. He bucks and comes with a shout that echoes against the rafters. Caleb's yelling at him not to knot, and he can feel Gordon standing behind him ready to drag him back. Again, when he slides his dick out of Dean --slips so easily now, Dean's hole surrendering to the pounding, taking alpha cock like a born omega -- he massages the strings of come into Dean's skin; over his belly, up his chest, over his nipples. Wipes up a glob that's sticking in the kid's hair with his thumb, presses it against Dean's mouth.

"Suck, Dean. Suck it off for me." Dean's lips close around John's thumb and, a little hesitantly to begin with, he sucks. His eyes meet John's, an accusing glare burning brightly, then like a light blinking out, they go flat, defeated.

The candles flicker, shadows dancing over the room, as Walker takes his second turn. He flips Dean onto his belly, smacks the kid's ass when he tries to crawl away. Even though he's come twice, John's dick appreciates the scarlet handprint decorating fragile skin.

Walker takes his time. Fucks hard, but at a leisurely pace. He bends over Dean, hiding him from view completely, whispering in his ear; things that make the sobs escalate. John glances at Bobby, sees a scowl on the old man's face, thinks maybe the old hunter is the only one not under the boy's spell.

The scent in the room changes after the third time they all fuck Dean. Sex, obviously hangs heavy in the air, but now there's the unmistakable overpoweringly sweet aroma of unmated omega.

All three men, naked and slick with sweat, surround the boy. Walker's just come. His dick hanging soft, spent - Dean's lips still wet with his release. His first blow job, unenthusiastic and messy. Caleb shot his load in the boy's ass, the hole now gaping, not even attempting to close up. Fresh come dribbles down the inside of his thighs.

The flames on the candles quiver and spark, the wicks burnt down low. Bobby's voice is a broken husk, a constant whisper in the background.

Dean's eyes shine wet, as dark and damaged as trampled grass in his blanched face. His seductive lips are bruised and ruddy. Come clings to his eyelashes, his eyebrows, the soft line of his jaw. His freckles buried below a sticky gloss. He lies exhausted, weak and beautiful.

John slides home; no resistance, no fight. He leans over Dean's limp body and steals kisses from those wicked lips for the first time. Nuzzles against the fluttering beat in the boy's throat, inhales his new, addictive scent. Pumps his hips, skin slapping against skin. Snakes his hand between their bodies, wraps his fingers around Dean's neglected cock. Angles his hips just right, slides against Dean's sensitive prostate with every thrust. Coaxes, with constant friction and firm touches, the boy's unwilling cock to life. It's a languid, lazy fuck. Like leisurely Sunday morning lovemaking. Time - slow moving and hazy - to kiss and lick, to learn curves and dips, tastes and sounds. John feels his orgasm creeping up on him, rolling up from the base of his spine. He thrusts in deep, hits Dean's sweet spot dead on, thumbs the head of the boy's dick. Whispers, “Good boy, Dean, good boy,” in the shell of his ear. Static fills the air, prickling at the back of John's neck, and he comes hard, knot finally, thank god, finally slamming inside the boy's ass, locking them together. Dean cries out, spills weakly in John's hand.

A cold blast of air whips through the room. The candles blink out as one. John sinks his teeth into Dean's neck. Bites through skin, below Dean's ear, tastes blood, honey sweet. Makes Dean his.

The boy passes out while John's still pulsing inside of him, filling him up. The change complete, irreversible. The curse broken.

Still tied together, John picks the unconscious boy up, shelters him from the covetous eyes of the others, carries him through to a bedroom. Curls around him on the bare mattress, inhales his scent. Maps and memorizes every inch of the pretty omega. His omega. It takes at least thirty minutes for John's knot to shrink enough to even attempt to pull out. He's in no rush anyway. He feels like he's just won the lottery. Just come home after years in the desert. Discovered the meaning of life.



Eventually John drags himself away; leaves Dean, sound asleep, on the bed while he cleans up in the bathroom, grabbing a cloth and soaking it in hot water to wash down the omega. On the way back, he peeks into the tiny bedroom where Sam has been locked and finds the kid, cried out and dozing in the middle of the bed. He leaves the door unlocked. Knows Sam won't run off without his brother.

Bobby and Caleb are scrubbing the floor, eyes locked on the blood and spunk staining the wood. Faces flushed with shame and guilt. There's no sign of Walker; his boots and jacket are gone. John's glad.

Dean's awake when John walks into the room; sitting in a tight little ball in the middle of the bed, arms wrapped around his bony knees. Too late, John realizes he should have covered the boy with a blanket. Given him some illusion of privacy, security. Allowed him to cover the bruises and fingermarks etched into his skin.

"Dean," John says gently, standing in the open doorway. "It's over. It's all over. You're okay. You did so well."

Dean rocks silently in the middle of the bed, head tucked down so John can't see his face.

"You were so brave, Dean. I'm proud of you. The curse...the curse is broken. You saved countless lives, kiddo, I promise you." John cautiously approaches the bed. "You were such a good boy, Dean. And you don't need to worry anymore; I'm going to keep you safe, take care of you, you and Sam."

Dean's head snaps up at the mention of his brother’s name and guilt hits John like a sucker punch in the solar plexus. Dried blood, tears, sweat, and come, stain the boy's face. His lips are bruised crimson, inflamed and raw. His cheeks puffy from crying. His eyes - God, the despair and terror in the kid's eyes nearly sends John to his knees.

"Please, I'll be good. I'll be so good. I'll let you f...fuck me. I'll let you all f...f..." John has to strain to hear what Dean's saying; the quiet words that are spilling from the boy’s lips in a breathless panic. "I'll even suck your cock. I'll do anything mister, anything. Just, please, please don't touch my brother. Don't touch my brother. Please, God please. Don’t…don’t..."

John lurches backward, horrified by the fear emanating from the omega. The fear that he’d caused. "Dean, no. We won't. No, I promise. No-one's going to touch Sam. He's safe. You're both safe. I promise."

He wants to reach out, to comfort and reassure. Wants to fold Dean in his arms, draw him into a hug. Every alpha instinct he possesses is screaming out in rage, desperate to protect and soothe the distraught omega. When he steps forward though, Dean flinches. His agitated pleading grows frantic. Louder. The words jumbling into a frenzied babble. His fingers tearing at his hair, scratching his face.

"Dean! Dean!" The yell is followed by thundering footsteps. Sam barrels full pelt into the room, shoving past a frozen John. "Dean!" Sam dives onto the bed, throws himself at his big brother.

"Dean. Oh god! It's's okay."

"Sammy?" Dean gasps, eyes wide and glassy. "Sammy, you okay?"

Sam does what John can't and wraps his skinny arms around Dean, holding him tight. "I'm fine, Dean. I promise. It's okay. We're okay."

John sees the moment the boy spots the claiming mark on his brother’s neck. The way his whole body tenses. "What did you do?" He hisses at John. "What did you psychos do to my big brother?"

"I'm sorry, Sam." John says, aiming for calm assertiveness, missing by a clear mile. "We had to do it. We had to turn him. Had to do it to break a curse, and save the lives of the kids in the town. It's all over now, I promise, and I'm going to look after him. Look after both of you. Make sure you're safe."

"Fuck you." Sam says, the obscenity shocking to John's ears, coming from the lips of a child. "Fuck you all."

He nudges Dean down onto the mattress. Covers his brother's trembling and abused body with his own. Curls his face into Dean's throat.

John watches the two boys cling to each other from the doorway. Regret a heavy weight in his chest.

"It's okay, Dean." John hears Sam murmur. "Everything's going to be all right. I'm going to look after you now."