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John The Revelator

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The nausea hit him first.

 

It was like a sucker punch to his gut, forcing him to double over, a gasp of pain ripping through his throat. One of Sam’s hands gripped tightly onto the ledge of the desk, the other wrapping around his abdomen, trying to soothe the churning in his stomach.

 

The memories hit him second.

 

It was like a like black and white flip book, the images forcing themselves into his mind one by one in a speed that would have been far too fast for the human mind to comprehend, but Sam did not want to remember the memories to begin with and even then--just by a simple glance--he knew exactly which unwanted memory it was.

 

The anger hit him last.

 

It was as if hearing his father’s voice alone caused the dormant fire within him to rekindle, putting fuel to a fairly tame flame. He could feel the burn of it charring his insides, causing his blood to boil and his flesh to turn to ash.

 

John Winchester was easily the man to blame for the way Sam was.

 

He created the monster.

 

“Sammy?” The concerned edge in his brother’s voice accompanied by the all too gentle touch to the side of his cheek caused Sam to open his eyes that he had not realized he had closed.

 

He was the only one Dean had ever been gentle with. Sometimes it caused Sam’s jaw to clench irritably but there were times like these--times when his big brother could sense something was wrong with him--that Sam allowed Dean to treat him like the little brother that he was.

 

“I’m fine,” Sam said, trying to play it off as if everything was alright, though clearly it was not. “Stomach ache. I guess what people say about drinking beer when it’s hot out is true,” He continued with a small laugh, hoping to convince Dean, who was still looking down at him with a glint of skepticism in the pine of his irises.

 

“Who was on the phone?”

 

“Dad,” replied Sam, his voice nearly choking but he forced himself into a nonchalant calm. “He wants to speak with us.”

 

Surprisingly, Dean scoffed.

“Takes off without so much as a goodbye and now six years later he calls out of the blue and demands to talk to us?” At this, his brother shakes his head. “Nah. Ain’t happenin’.”

 

To say that Sam was more than shocked at his big brother’s attitude would be quite the understatement.

 

All his life, the youngest Winchester had seen nothing but respect in Dean’s eyes for their father. Love was not something the eldest Winchester possessed--not toward anyone who was not Sam and even then it was a stretch to say that a psychopath was capable of feeling love. Possessive maybe but not love.

 

And Sam was more than pleased--a sociopath and a psychopath love story. Although there was an honest ring to it, the youngest was also convinced that he could not harbor love. Only possession of his big brother.

 

Not only did Dean respect John, he was raised as a soldier, bending and curving under his father’s commands. Now he was Sam’s marionette, controlled by his touch instead of words and more than willing to allow his little brother to take control under certain circumstances that he allowed. Except for the bedroom. That was Dean’s domain, his place to pull strings.

 

“You don’t want to see Dad?” Sam tried again to see if the old part of his brother would click together, like a cog in a machine.

 

And again, Dean stunned him.

 

“That’s what I said, Sammy. If he wants to speak to us, then he’s gonna have to come home.”

 

And John had done just that.

 

Days had passed since his phone call and Sam could feel the normalcy returning to him each day that John had not pulled into the driveway. Each day that the phone had remained as silent as a corpse sent him back to the dormant cold once more. Each passing moment that John was not hurting him in some way allowed Sam to live as peacefully as a sociopath could muster.

 

That is, until his short span of tranquility was stolen away from him like a breath from his stone lungs.

 

The sun had started to sink, painting yellows and pinks and purples across the sky’s canvas. Golden rays cast against the rusted hood of the broken down Chevelle that the two Winchester boys had been lounging on. Their backs leaned against the cracked windshield and the metal beneath them warmed their bodies through their denim.

 

Cherry smoke filled the atmosphere between them, silver wisps curled out of their slightly parted mouths. They passed the cigarette back and forth, taking a deep drag before handing it back to the other. Sitting there atop the Chevelle, handing off the cigarette back to his brother, caused a sense of nostalgia to surface inside of him. Sam had picked up his smoking habit from his brother when he was thirteen.

 

Back when they were children, Lawrence used to be a very small, quaint town--one of those towns where everyone knew everyone and the waitresses at the diners knew what your order was before you had even sat down at the table. It was also one of those towns where people knew who did and did not show up for Sunday mass as religiously as attending the local high school games when football season rolled around. Lawrence was so small, in fact, that the junior high school Sam attended was behind the high school, separated only by a chain linked fence and the football field.

 

During his lunch period, all ninety and a half pounds of lanky, preteen Sam would climb over the fence to meet his brother underneath the bleachers on the other side. Often times when he found his brother, he would be seated on his hind haunches, a lit cigarette balancing between his fingers and his eyes would be closed. Other than sleep, this was one of the few times the youngest Winchester ever saw his brother look somewhat at peace.

 

The eldest Winchester concealed his stolen pack of cigarettes--the ones he typically managed to swipe at the local Seven-Eleven--rolled up underneath the sleeve of his shirt, a rectangle shaped growth protruding on his upper arm. Aside from the cigarettes and the packet of cinnamon gum he would purchase to keep the shop owner from suspecting his thievery, Dean always managed to pocket a lollipop or two for Sam.

 

That day, it had been a green apple sucker and a cherry one--to match the sweet scent of the eldest Winchester’s cigarette. It was Sam’s favorite flavor, mostly because it was the kind of cigarettes that his big brother had been smoking since he was thirteen himself. The youngest Winchester had often wondered if Dean smoked the cherry cigarettes because he liked the flavor over the dry bitterness of actual tobacco, or if they were the easiest kind to steal.

 

Perhaps a bit of both, is what Sam had decided on.

 

Sam seated himself down on the patch of grass beside his brother, wordless. The youngest never minded if his clothes were dirty from the grass or dirt, but Dean had this sense of OCD to keep his clothes clean, although it was a subjective form of OCD.

 

The only impurities that were allowed to touch his clothes without him feeling the need to immediately strip them off and clean himself, was blood, grease, and a few years down the road, come. Other than those three things, everything else he tried to repel the best he could.

 

“Here,” Dean said after a long while, handing his little brother the lollipops.

 

“Thanks, De,” replied Sam, taking them from his older brother and he unwrapped the green apple lollipop, tucking the cherry one into the pocket of his jeans to save it for later before he popped the sucker into his mouth.

 

Even long back then, the youngest Winchester had felt Dean’s heated gaze on him as he sucked on the candy. Most of the time--if not all of the time--Sam pretended that he didn’t notice. Didn’t notice when he had heard his brother’s breathing grow shallow as he pushed the sucker to the side with his tongue, pressing it against his cheek in order for him to talk, causing a perfect ball-shaped growth on the outer side of his cheek that almost seemed too big for his mouth. Pretended not to notice when the eldest Winchester shifted in his crouched position, his knees slowly coming together, as if he was hiding something.

 

Sam had known for a long time that Dean had an unhealthy obsession with him, in ways brothers should not--and Sam? Sam didn’t care. Didn’t care because he had felt the same way about Dean and wished with all his little preteen heart that his big brother would do something about his infatuation for him.

 

When Dean had finally taken a step in the direction that his little brother wanted, it was not under very good circumstances.

 

They had both been covered in the fifteen year old boy’s blood, huddling together under the safety of their bleachers, waiting for night to fall. Sam had been trembling--not because he was afraid, but because his body was in a confusing state of arousal from seeing the boy’s blood spill and stain the dirt and from the adrenaline that was pumping furiously through his ninety and a half pound body.

 

Dean had held him close, running his hand--that was still sticky and warm with the boy’s blood--up and down Sam’s arm, tucking him against his body. At the time, Sam had suspected that his big brother had thought that he was cold or afraid, but it was not until three years later, while lying together naked  on a hotel bed like two stacked spoons, that the eldest Winchester had revealed that he knew about Sam’s arousal that day--that he knew he was not afraid.

 

After a long while of them huddled together, Dean untangled his arm from around the youngest Winchester long enough to light up a cigarette. He took in a deep drag and Sam watched with a sense of awe as the cherry burned bright red and then in admiration as Dean let the sweet tendrils of smoke slip past his lips.

 

“Here, Sammy,” Dean encouraged softly, holding the cigarette up to his baby brother’s lips, gently nudging the butt of it against his bottom lip. “This will calm you down. I don’t have any soft rock tunes right now, so this’ll have to do.” His brother flashed him a smile.

 

Sam hadn’t objected--because he had always been discrete in his secretive curiosity--as he took the cigarette gingerly between his lips, breathing in like he had seen Dean do a multitude of times--except that his big brother had made it look so effortless.

The burn of the smoke caused the youngest to cough until his throat burned, raw.

 

“Try again, but this time, try not to inhale so fast,” His brother instructed, rubbing the spot between his sharp shoulder blades, as if trying to coax his little brother’s inexperienced lungs to take the smoke better.

 

Sam--stubborn as always--took another inhale from the cigarette. He held in the smoke for a little while, enjoying the burn of it in his lungs before he slowly released the sweet smoke from his lips. After a few drags, the youngest Winchester had stopped trembling as the nicotine softly caressed his nerves, coaxing him into relaxation.

 

“There you go, little brother. That’s it,” praised Dean and he waited until Sam was finished with the cigarette before he lifted it to his own mouth to take a long drag.

 

Neither one of them could recall how it had happened--Sam speculated that maybe the nicotine calmed his nerves enough for him to steel his courage--but before either of them could stop themselves, the youngest Winchester was on his knees in front of his big brother, Dean’s cock in his mouth. It was at that point in time, that they had known they crossed a line that they couldn’t return from. There was no going back after that, and neither of them wanted to.

 

The warmth of the eldest Winchester’s lips against the nape of his neck pulled Sam back to the present. He curled his body in closer to Dean’s, one of his hands running beneath his brother’s shirt, blunt nails raking across his abdomen as the eldest Winchester’s teeth slid along the strained muscle in the youngest’s neck, eliciting a soft sigh.

 

Dean’s weight shifted forward, causing Sam to roll onto his back, his spine pressing against the cracked windshield of the Chevelle as the eldest crawled between his legs. His brother scooted down suddenly, grabbing Sam up underneath his legs and pulled him down toward him until only his skull was braced up against the glass and his legs were spread open, inviting Dean to crawl back between them, catching his mouth with a bruising kiss.

 

Cherry mingled with the tang of grease and the taste of beer as their mouths locked into a battle of tongues and teeth. Wandering, grasping hands soon followed their mouths, accompanied by the scrape of blunt nails on flesh and the rubbing of denim against denim.     

 

Dean eventually broke away from his brother’s lips to latch onto his throat, teeth sinking into tender flesh. Sam arched his back up off the metal, a whimper falling past his lips as the eldest marked his creamy skin with a purple and red bruise. Sam’s older brother reached up, intertwining his fingers through his hair, and gave the strands a rough pull, forcing his neck to arch up off the windshield--exposing more of Sam’s throat for the eldest Winchester to abuse with his mouth and teeth.

 

“Gonna mark you up, Sammy,” Dean growled against his brother’s bruised flesh, causing Sam to whimper. “Gonna let everyone know who you belong to.”

 

“Just you, De,” breathed Sam, his entire body trembling from arousal and his voice shaking slightly in anticipation. “Only you.”

 

The eldest Winchester sank his teeth into a fresh expanse of flesh on his brother’s throat as means of an answer, causing a whine to bubble out of Sam’s mouth.

 

The youngest writhed beneath his big brother, hips arching up to grind against Dean’s crotch, seeking friction. Dean reached down between them to pin Sam’s hips to the Chevelle, which only caused a frustrated and needy whimper to come from Sam. It was quickly accompanied by an amused chuckle from the eldest.

 

When his older brother had finally allowed him to, Sam slid his hands down Dean’s abdomen, his fingers hooking in the waistband of his big brother’s jeans--teasing the flesh there with a blunt fingernail. The eldest Winchester’s hips rolled forward, the palm of Sam’s hand pressing flat against the button on his brother’s jeans. He had managed to unbutton the jeans and his fingers were about to unzip the fly, when he heard it.

 

A low rumbling in the distance, a mile or two away. The sound of the motorcycle was as familiar to Sam as his brother’s, except the sound of the Panhead caused ice to spill into his veins, freezing him from the inside out. Although it felt as if his blood was made of liquid nitrogen, the youngest Winchester’s heart pounded hard in the bone-cage of his ribs, his heart like a panicked, frightened animal, trying to slip between the impossibly small bars of its cage.

 

The Winchester boys had long recomposed themselves by the time they saw the Panhead coming up the road, a cape of dirt billowing out behind it. Dean stood close to the Chevelle while Sam still sat atop it, unsure if his body had calmed enough to allow him to slide from the hood. He decided not to chance it as the motorcycle came to a rumbling halt a good twenty feet away.

 

The engine to the Panhead was cut off and a man with dark scruff on his jaw and sun tanned skin climbed off of the motorcycle, removing his leather gloves. The man gave each of the boys a welcoming smile--his gaze lingering on Sam the longest--but the warmth of the smile never touched the whiskey brown of his eyes.

 

“Boys,” John Winchester greeted his children in a light tone, the smile still plastered on his wind chapped lips.

 

† † † † †

 

The scent of wood oil, red oak, and dust hung palpable in the air about the boys as they sat around the large red oak table in the Bunker, sitting so close that their shoulders touched. The Winchesters sat to the left of John--Dean sitting right beside him--who was seated on his rightful throne at the head of the table, the rest of the Wayward Sons crowded around the table. Uncle Bobby and Rufus Turner sat on John’s right, Bobby sitting the closest.

 

The Lawrence charter of the Wayward Sons were not the only ones in the enormous bunker library. After John had finished his formalities with his children, he called for an emergency meeting. Charters from around Lawrence had appeared--Topeka, Kansas City, Leavenworth, Mission--and even some as far as Missouri managed to ride over. Those who were not a part of the Lawrence charter stood about the library, standing as close as they could to the table.   

 

When everyone had fallen silent, John spoke, his voice rang out clear and lordly, “I know all of you have many questions. Questions I cannot answer at this time. Questions I can only discuss in private. And some questions I may never answer,” He paused then, his eyes sweeping across the room. “I know all of you want to know where I have been in my six year absence and I promise to discuss my whereabouts all in good time. But that is not the reason I have summoned you all here tonight.”

 

There was a faint murmur of confusion that buzzed in the room. Sam had not bothered to look at any of the other charters. Instead, he kept a watchful eye on Uncle Bobby and Rufus across the table. There was something in the way that they slid each other a quick sideways glance, that made Sam’s eyebrows pinch together.

 

John waited once more for the voices to die down. “Tonight we’ll be exchanging patches. And after that, we’ll be putting my plans into action in order to restore this club to its former glory.”

 

There was a silent thrum of understanding and John swiveled his attention onto Uncle Bobby. Everyone was deathly still as Bobby removed his kutte from around his shoulders, using his pocket knife to cut the President patch from his leather before handing it over to John, who gave him a small incline of his head as a means of thanks. Then it was Rufus’ turn, removing the Vice President patch and handing it over to Uncle Bobby.  

 

John extracted three more patches from the pocket of his leather. “Boys,” He said to his children without so much as glancing up at them. “Remove your kuttes.”

 

There was a silent hesitation from both of the Winchester boys. Sam shot Dean a look of confusion, but the eldest Winchester did as he was told, standing to remove this leather jacket and draped it face up against the table. Sam quickly followed suit.

 

John held out a patch toward Dean. “Sergeant-at-Arms.”

 

The eldest Winchester took the patch silently, his movements stiff.

 

John then turned to Sam, holding out a patch. “Secretary.”

 

A pinprick of irritation prodded at the youngest. Sam hardly liked wearing the leather underneath his father’s jurisdiction, but to have John embarrass him in front of the other charters, to have him practically spit in his face, was enough to make him keep his arms at his sides.

 

A hardened edge glazed over John’s eyes, an angry warmth spreading throughout the room. “Samuel.” It was a warning, a knife-edged tone to his voice that Sam had known all too well.

 

It was the same voice that John had when he found Sam’s journals months after Dean had been sent away. It was the same voice when the youngest had been struggling beneath his strong grip as he held him down face first into the water as Pastor Jim chanted an exorcism, fighting for breath. It was the same voice when John had Sam locked up in the basement of Pastor Jim’s house where the youngest was screaming and crying to be released, clawing at the door until his fingernails bled. It was the same tone of voice when had visited him from time to time, when Sam would beg for John to take him home, to get him out of the hell he had put him in--all because Sam had been foolish enough to write down his confessions of his love for his brother where someone else could read.

 

And Dean?

 

Dean hadn’t known any of this, nor would Sam tell him. There were many reasons the youngest had for keeping their father’s darker side hidden. It was not because Sam was afraid that Dean would kill him--because his big brother would not hesitate to put a bullet in their father’s skull--but because if John was going to die, it would be by his hands--by his bullet.  

 

After a long, tense moment, Sam finally reached out to take the patch from his father. He was sure to avoid touching his fingers when he grabbed the patch, but Sam dared himself to stare into John’s eyes, the coldness of them having been the theme of many nightmares he had as a child.

 

“Road Captain,” John said after a long while, handing out the patch to Rufus.

 

The rest of the meeting, Sam tuned out. There were times where he would drift in and out of his memories long enough to hear John say something about profit, or guns, or drugs, or warring charters that were not a part of the Wayward Sons.

 

The youngest Winchester did not want to listen to anything his father had to say. He hadn’t wanted to since he was thirteen.

 

John had found Sam’s journal an hour before he had come home from school. There had been a lot of screaming, from both ends--John shouting angry, homophobic slurs, telling Sam that “ain’t no son of mine will be a fag” and the youngest screaming back in defense, his voice breaking and shrill from fear and betrayal.

 

Then his protests had been cut off by a violent backhand, sending him to the floor. Sam could remember the sting from the metal rings that his father wore on the hand that had struck him and he could taste blood in his mouth.

 

Then John’s hand was in Sam’s hair, hauling him up onto his feet. The youngest Winchester had struggled and fought against the older man, his nails digging into the meat of John’s hand that held his hair in a painfully tight grip, tight enough to cause tears to prick at Sam’s eyes and his scalp to burn.

 

After that day, Sam’s life had becoming a living, breathing, walking hell.

 

John had called Pastor Jim--a long time friend of his--to help “cure” his son of his homosexuality.

 

The exorcism had been the first step. Sam remembered kicking and screaming as John forced his smaller body over the edge of the bathtub in the bunker, the water having been blessed minutes before. His face was shoved into the water as the pastor had chanted the exorcism. Sam had fought and clawed and tried desperately to get away, but John had too much weight on him to allow his ninety and a half pound body to get away from him.

 

Each time John had lifted his head up out of the water, Sam only had enough time to sputter and cough and attempt to get another lungful of air before he was shoved back into the water. There had been a time where he had been held under too long and the youngest had started to lose his hold on reality, gray matter slithering across his vision and his small lungs burned with the need for fresh oxygen.

 

When John and Pastor Jim had been convinced that the exorcism had not worked, Sam was forced to live in the pastor’s basement. He could remember screaming at the top of his lungs, pounding on the basement door demanding to be released until he screamed himself hoarse--until he had clawed at the door, leaving lines of blood where his nails had finally given way underneath his incessant scratching.

 

It was in that basement, where Sam had been faced with the peak of his hell.

 

Conversion therapy is what Pastor Jim had explained he was doing to the youngest Winchester when he had zip tied him to a chair in the basement. He would then show Sam homoerotic videos or images. If the youngest had shown any sign of arousal, Pastor Jim would inject him with drugs that caused him to vomit immediately. Sometimes, if Sam’s pulse quickened, or if his breathing hitched, or even if a muscle in his lower abdomen twitched, he would be injected.   

 

And when all else seemed to fail, the youngest Winchester was subjected to electroshock therapy.

 

Sam remembered being strapped down to a table, his arms and legs and even his chin and forehead were pinned down with leather straps. He had begged John. He had cried and pleaded for him to not let Pastor Jim do it, tried to convince his father that he was “better”--that he was “cured” of his homosexuality tendencies.

 

Neither John nor Pastor Jim believed him.

 

There were times that the electroshock therapy lasted longer than what was recommended, sometimes resulting in burn marks against the youngest Winchester’s temples. The pain from the burns paled in comparison to the excruciating pain he had to endure when powerful electrical currents ran through his body, causing him to arch up against the restraints, biting down hard on the rubber in his mouth to keep him from shattering his teeth.

 

Three years. Three years Sam had to endure the pain and crying and constant humiliation. Each time John had come to visit his son over those three years, the youngest would crumple at his feet, clinging to his legs and cry and beg for John to take him home. After years of being denied the one thing he had wanted most in the world--beside his brother’s comfort--Sam was finally released a month before Dean was to return home.

 

John Winchester and Pastor Jim had thought they broke Sam--thought they had cured him.

 

The men had not destroyed, but created something far darker inside of the youngest Winchester than what either of them could fathom. They had given birth to a monster, but oh, how they quickly learned the severity of their mistakes a year after John had left.

 

When the meeting had adjourned, John waited until all of the Wayward Sons had exited the library, leaving only himself and his two sons before he turned his attention toward the eldest. “I need to speak to your brother. Alone.”

 

The tone had left no room for argument and Dean--being the good soldier Sam had known him to be--gave John a nod, sneaking a quick glance in Sam’s direction before he left, shutting the heavy, library door behind them.  

 

The silence that followed was deafening, the tension thick between them as John and the youngest Winchester stared at each other across the way, the only thing between them being the table. After a long while, a smile cracked at the corner of John’s mouth, but there was nothing kind nor fatherly about it.

 

“I heard about Pastor Jim’s death,” John began slowly, his whiskey eyes scanning Sam’s own icy kaleidoscope gaze.

 

“Did you?” replied Sam, feigning blunt interest.

 

“Papers said they found his body in the basement of his house,” John gave a dramatic pause, searching for any signs of fault in his son’s demeanor. “Said he committed suicide by electrocution.”

 

It was Sam’s turn to smile, his broken and twisted and dark. “Maybe his conscious weighed too heavily on him and he couldn’t stand it anymore. After all, I couldn’t imagine living with myself knowing that I tortured a child for three years,” At this, Sam saw a jump of muscles in his father’s jaw. “But don’t worry, father. He was a man of God, right? I’m sure he’s in Heaven…” The youngest paused. “With his wife and children.”

 

A flash of realization passed over John’s facial features. “Police said they never found the bodies. Only his.”

 

The beast inside of Sam’s chest gave a deep growl of dark glee. “Maybe they didn’t dig deep enough.”

 

The youngest Winchester flashed a smile that was all teeth and dimples before he turned on his heel, leaving John Winchester alone in the Bunker’s enormous library.