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beansideTitle: Saint of Me
Authors:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
beanside &nilchance
Rating: Adult-mentions of m/m.
Fandom: Supernatural
Disclaimer: We don't own the Supernatural boys, I'm afraid. This is strictly for entertainment purposes, no money is made.
Summary: Prequel to Of Bastard Saints. A little more about Andrew and the Winchesters.
“My head hurts,” Andrew whined. “I really don’t feel up to going to school today.”
Jim sighed, walking over to the breakfast table and looking down at his son. His beautiful, pain in the ass son. To be fair, Andrew did have migraines, but judging by the way he was eating, this wasn’t one of them. When the migraines hit, even the whiff of food made Andrew pale and start gagging. “What is it? Math test?”
Andrew looked down into his bowl of cereal. “Career day.”
“Why don’t you want to go to that? It could be fun. See all the different things you could do with your life,” Jim said.
Andrew shook his head. “I don’t want to.”
“Why?”
“I don’t need to. I already know what I want to do,” Andrew admitted softly.
“Really? What’s that? When I was your age, I wanted to be a doctor,” Jim said, smiling.
“I want to be a priest. Like you.”
Jim stared at him, and Andrew ducked his head. “See, even you think it’s stupid.”
“Of course I don’t,” Jim quickly said. “It’s just unexpected. I didn’t think you liked people that much.”
Andrew’s blue eyes fixed him with one of those looks. The ones Jim had come to hate. They didn’t belong on a fifteen year old, even one like Andrew. “Neither do you. Some days, you hate people. The stupid, blathering idiots who show up to ask you for help, for forgiveness, when all they really want is for you to validate them, for someone to tell them that they can go back to do whatever shit they were confessing.”
Yup, that was definitely the words of a future priest. With a sigh, Jim sat at the table and folded his arms. “I don’t hate any of them, Andrew. I resent them at times. I get frustrated. That’s being human. That’s why I go to confession myself. Even priests need a priest.”
Andrew smiled. “I don’t hate everyone either. I like some of the parishioners. I like the Winchesters.”
Jim managed not to roll his eyes. It had become increasingly obvious that Andrew was holding onto a massive crush on Dean, the quiet hero worship shifting to something infinitely more complicated. And, in classic teenager style, something to be a moody bitch over. “That still doesn’t explain why you don’t want to do career day.”
Andrew squirmed a little. “They’ll make fun of me,” he finally muttered.
A spark of anger slid through Jim. He’d had a feeling. Not a shock, really. Andrew still hadn’t caught up to his peers, puberty hadn’t even started to hit. He still stood just under five feet, shorter than most of the girls in his class. And, he was pretty. Not just boyishly cute. Honestly pretty, to the point that it made things difficult with some of the parishoners, who looked at Jim sideways and asked Andrew privately if there was “anything going on he wanted to talk about.” Andrew liked school, loved English, with the poetry and plays. He studied research texts with Jim, memorized exorcisms and taught Sam Latin word by painstaking word. He sparred with Dean and had John’s scarred hands steadying his own as he learned to deal with the mule-kick of a shotgun. He faced down monsters adults couldn’t imagine. And on top of all of that…
Andrew wasn’t human.
“Jim?” Andrew asked.
“Sorry. Woolgathering. Okay. You don’t have to go today.” When Andrew grinned, Jim whapped him gently in the knuckles with a pen. “Instead, you can help me with my sermon.”
“Really?” Judging from the way Andrew lit up and pushed his cereal bowl aside, it wasn’t as much a punishment as Jim had hoped. “What’s it about?”
“Lucifer.”
Andrew wrinkled his nose. “You’re doing a sermon about Lucifer? Thought you hated the fire and brimstone stuff.”
“Not so much the fire and brimstone. It’s more…” Jim tapped the table, searching for the right words. “Dogma says that we’re not supposed to forgive Satan. Which contradicts Christ’s philosophical message of forgiveness and redemption.”
“Contradiction? In the church? Father Murphy, I’m shocked and appalled.” Andrew shrugged. “We’ve seen the enemy, Jim. They killed Mr. Winchester’s wife. They’ve tried to kill us. Is it a contradiction in Christ’s word? Yeah, maybe. But these things, they don’t have mercy. They can’t be reasoned with.”
“Were they always like that?” Jim smiled. “Demonology theory 101, son. Demons were originally created from?”
“The war in heaven, the fall of Lucifer. I know, I know.”
“From angels. Angels cast out of the presence of the Father.” Jim spread his hands. “Children of God. Just like us.”
“Not like us,” Andrew shot back. “Traitors. Rebels.”
“Creatures who suffered from an excess of pride. Who tried to access ranks that they had no right to. Hmm.” Reaching back into the fruit bowl sitting on the counter, Jim grabbed an apple and tossed it to Andrew. “Sound familiar?”
With a wry smile, Andrew caught the apple and set it aside. “We were led astray. The snake? Eve’s temptation?”
“Nothing happens without God’s intent. The existence of evil, the Fall, the creation of Hell, the trial of Job, the suffering of man… it’s all in His plan.” Jim looked at Andrew, the fall of hair in his face, the light in his eyes. Sighed. “Why would the Father punish Satan when he orchestrated the circumstances of his Fall?”
Andrew raised an eyebrow. “Free will. God loads the gun, but Satan pulled the trigger. His call, his fuck-up, his consequences.”
“Language.”
“Sorry.” Andrew settled back in his chair, looking so much like Dean for a moment that Jim smiled. “You’re humanizing Jaws here, Jim.”
“Maybe. Maybe not. If you think about it, if this is actually God’s plan-“
“Which is arguable.”
“- he’s kind of doing a valuable service. It’d be like hating the trash collectors.”
“Have you been drinking?”
Jim smiled. “C’mon, work with me here. If there wasn’t a hell, where would you send the murderers, the child molesters? The rapists? Would they be welcome in heaven?”
“Their families might think so,” Andrew said mildly. “And anyway, evil’s all about perspective. Dean’s grandparents think Mr. Winchester is evil. They think he’s a kidnapper and that he killed his wife. They’d think the hunters who come around here are just paranoid militia members, because they don’t know any different.”
“No. They don’t know. And we don’t know the full extent of what happened between Satan and God.” Jim smiled at the disgusted noise Andrew made. “At best, the scripture is a second-hand account, often affected by translation, differences in oral accounts, the amount of time that lapsed. We don’t know that he’s evil. In Old Testament accounts, Satan was just the Adversary in the sense that he manned the other side of the chessboard. A rival, not necessarily an enemy.”
Andrew tilted his head. “But would there be evil without Satan?”
“I think people have the capacity for great good and evil both. And they decide which side to follow, without any help from on high or below,” Jim said. “So, if you look at it like that, Lucifer performs a function by ruling over hell. Like a landlord. Or even like I do, by giving sanctuary to hunters.”
“Hmm. Okay. So by that, are you saying that Satan isn’t evil?”
“Maybe not,” Jim said. “Maybe he’s just trying to do a job. I don’t really believe in one, ultimate evil. A million little evils, petty cruelties, sure. But an absolute evil? No.”
“Just ask Mrs. Winchester how redeemable demons are,” Andrew said darkly. “That sounds like a lot of ‘what ifs’. You don’t know one way or another. You don’t know if he’s evil or not.”
Jim looked at his son and said, “Such is faith.”
Andrew threw the apple at him.
***
“Full house.”
Andrew looked at his cards, then at the 10 year old sitting across the kitchen table, grinning crookedly at him. Then he sighed, grabbed his wallet, and dug out another five dollars. “You’re your father’s son, you know that?”
“I hope so,” Sam said, all wide eyes and startling sincerity. Then he grinned crookedly, ruining the whole ten going on forty-five thing he had going. “New game?”
“Go Fish,” Andrew said.
“Aww, Andrew, that’s a baby game!”
“And I’m the baby.” Andrew glanced at the clock above the rectory stove. Going on 11. The hunt was running later than it should’ve. How long before Sam caught on that Jim and Andrew were getting nervous? Kid was unnervingly perceptive sometimes. “Take pity, you damn card shark.”
With a tolerant sigh, Sam scooped up the cards and began shuffling them. He had John’s quick, deft hands. “You’d be okay if you didn’t blush so easy.”
“Yeah, yeah.”
A sharp noise rang out, the sound of the heavy church doors ricocheting off the wall. Andrew straightened, coming out of his chair and parking a hand on Sam’s shoulder in time for Jim to stride past the open kitchen door.
Jim gave him a silent look, a quick shake of his head, and managed a tight smile for Sam. “Your dad’s home. He’s going to need stitches, but everybody’s fine. Just give us a few minutes.”
Jim’s expression read: keep Sammy the hell out of Jim’s office until Jim could mop the blood up.
Jesus Christ. Again? Sam wasn’t a stupid kid, and Andrew had a lousy poker face.
Turning, Andrew looked at Sam. Sam looked back at him through his bad haircut, too damned serious for a kid his age, eyes dark with knowledge he shouldn’t have. Andrew sighed and rumpled his hair. “Just a couple minutes, okay?”
“I could help,” Sam said, a mulish edge to his voice. “I can stitch.”
“I know.” Andrew glanced away, looking for any distraction, and fixed on the nearest one. “Help me make some coffee and throw some dinner in the microwave, okay? Your dad’ll be hungry. You know he doesn’t eat.”
Jaw still set, Sam went to grab a plate. When he came back, the stubborn look had a new companion of quiet fear.
Every damn hunt, the poor kid went through this. Either he was coming back bruised to hell from a training exercise, or he was stuck in the church, waiting up to see whether his family would come back alive. Sucked to be a Winchester.
Sucked to care about them, too. Not quite as hard, but still.
Forcing a smile, Andrew grabbed the plate and set it on the counter. “You know how to set up the coffeemaker? Okay. You do that. I’ll go check on the idiots, and I’ll be right back to tell you how badly banged up they actually are. Okay?”
Sam squinted at him, but seemed to get that this was the best offer he’d get. Even if Andrew lied to him, which he damned well planned to if the damage was really bad, it was more honesty than he’d get from his brother. With a sullen nod, Sam went to put the coffeemaker on.
Andrew exhaled slowly, gave him one last look and stepped out onto the hall. He closed the kitchen door behind him, not so much because he thought it’d stop Sam as it’d give himself a little plausible deniability.
And then Dean was there.
Dean was just standing in the middle of the rectory hall, looking about three days dead, eyes fixed on nothing. Andrew reached for his shoulder, and Dean caved under his touch. The thump as Dean’s knees hit the floor made Andrew wince.
Then Dean tilted his bloody face up, and Andrew stopped thinking.
We’ve been here before.
There was blood on Dean’s lower lip, spattered up across his eyelid and sticking his eyelashes into clumps. Some of it was Dean’s. Andrew touched him, his face, smearing that blood across Dean’s skin and onto his own fingertips.
Dean shivered as Andrew’s fingertips touched his mouth, huddled up on his knees at Andrew’s feet. Some shadow crossed his face, fear and fury. His eyes were-
God. Andrew wanted to-
The images fluttered and shifted in the corners of Andrew’s mind like a thousand restless wings, stirring and whispering and rising as one.
His knees gave a moment later, and he knelt in front of Dean, fingers still fused to those high cheekbones. There was another face there, then another, then another, until he had to close his eyes.
Then, a final face slid up before him, heartbreakingly beautiful. Masculine perfection, high, slanted cheekbones framed by ice-blond waves, eyes the color of a spring sky. And a pair of gleaming wings rising behind him. Grief stabbed through Andrew, and he sucked a hard breath as the vision changed, the winged being laying on the parched earth of an ancient city, his beautiful eyes open and staring. Dead, by the humans’ hands.
And a woman, with wings of a glorious dove gray, stained with red splotches. Dead at the hands of the demons she was in charge of. Her robes torn, her striking face ruined by blows.
And of himself. Of the agony, of the first angel’s body on the pyre, of the flaming blade, slicing through his own wings—falling—into his throne. Of Levi standing behind him, steadying him. That gravel voice: “what is your bidding, my general?”
Andrew bit back a sob as the memories rushed back. Of a hundred who had come since, who he’d loved and hated in equal measures. Not him, not his.
-will come to you stained with the blood of a mother…death of the Morningstar…
Andrew winced, trying to remember the rest of the prophecy, but it slid from his mind, just out of reach. Things were settling in his mind now, background noise, and unbearable loneliness. He forced his eyes open, looking at Dean again.
Dean was still staring into space, eyes focused somewhere past Andrew’s head.
“Dean?” Andrew cupped his cheek gently. “Look at me.”
After a long moment, Dean focused on him. “’drew?”
“Yeah, I’ve got you. You all right?”
“God, I killed her. Amanda.”
Fuck. Andrew stroked along a blood-slick cheek, fighting the urge to lean forward, to lick the blood away, to claim Dean as his own. His body came alive, instantly and viciously hard. He wanted, with an aching, clawing need.
The image swam into his mind, unbidden of Dean under him, lithe body writhing on the altar, bloody lips begging, pleasure and pain written on his face as Andrew fucked him, hard and merciless.
Andrew shuddered. “It’s okay.”
“No,” Dean shook his head. “She hurt Dad, was going to kill him, and I killed her, shot her. I couldn’t stop, Andrew, just kept pulling the trigger, how dare she hurt him. She was pregnant, and I destroyed her, just kept shooting.”
“Sssh.” Andrew stroked his face, hands covered in blood now, slick and wet.
“Dean?” Sam’s voice scaled up. “Dean!”
Andrew finally managed to pull back as Sam rushed out of the kitchen, eyes wide with fear. “Get him into the kitchen, I’m going to get Jim,” he ordered.
Sam ignored him, going to Dean, wrapping his arms around him and squeezing hard. Dean shuddered, burying his bloody face against Sam’s throat. Sam’s voice, unnaturally calm, “Dean, it’s okay. It’s gonna be okay. Where do you hurt? I can stitch it.”
Dean’s answer was muffled, lost.
Andrew hurried towards the office, turning into the bathroom before he got there, closing the door, legs trembling. Jesus, what was wrong with him?
He moved to the sink, looking at his trembling hands, down at his bloodstained clothes, and another image swirled up, standing on the ranks of the dead, looking down at the trembling body of a young woman, enjoying her fear, her pain. She died screaming.
When he came back to himself, he was leaning on the wall, hand roughly stroking his cock, fingers slick with Dean’s blood. Shit, shit, shit. He shouldn’t-couldn’t do this. It was wrong.
But his body was clamoring, screaming for him not to stop.
Fuck.
Closing his eyes, Andrew gentled his grip, shivering at the slick feel of blood on his skin. Nothing in the world like it, that thick, wet feel, the metallic smell, God, were these his thoughts?
He lifted his other hand, covering his mouth, muffling the sob that slid out. Oh god, blood. His tongue darted out, tasting it, tasting Dean, and he shuddered. So good.
His strokes sped, matching the kitten licks of his tongue over his fingers, imagining Dean under him, writhing and begging for Andrew to fuck him hard. Imagined bending forward to taste the blood on Dean’s lips, to feel him come—
“Ohfuck,” Andrew whimpered, shaking as the pleasure slammed into him, sending him over the edge.
Then, brain finally on mute, he washed up and went to check on John.
****
John, as it turned out, was just badly bruised with a couple impressive cuts. He and Jim and Bobby had left to bury Amanda’s body a bit ago, leaving Andrew in charge of an exhausted Sam and a nearly comatose Dean.
Jim had poured the better part of a bottle of whiskey in the coffee he’d handed Dean, cleaning his wounds and, at Andrew’s insistence, tucking him into Andrew’s bed, with Sam asleep on the cot across the room.
Andrew stared at Dean’s face, the soft lips, twisted with pain even in his sleep.
A new warrior, whispered the thing in Andrew’s mind that wasn’t him. But like nothing the world had seen. Maybe this would be the one to kill the Morningstar.
Andrew didn’t want to die.
A hunter’s life was brutal, and usually short. It would be a kindness to end it now.
Liar, liar. Jesus Christ, what was he doing-?
Andrew picked up the syringe they’d left him, the vial of sedative. It would be easy to fill the syringe with air, slide it into a vein. A quick, relatively painless stroke, now, while Dean was asleep. He’d just never wake up.
He laid it against Dean’s arm, picking the most likely vein. Dean was slack in his grip, trusting. Andrew started to press the needle home, but his hand shook too hard to hold it steady.
Andrew pulled back, took a deep breath. Fuck.
“Andrew?” Dean murmured sleepily.
Setting the syringe on the nightstand, Andrew sat on the bed next to Dean. “I’m here. How’re you feeling?”
“Head hurts.”
“You want soemthing?”
“Yeah. Please.”
Andrew slid a pill into his mouth, trying not to let his fingers hesitate in the silken warmth of Dean’s mouth. Then he tilted Dean’s head up and helped him drink another shot of whiskey. “That should help.”
Dean nodded, eyes sliding closed. A second later, they snapped open, suddenly panicked. “Where’s Dad?”
“Sssh. They went to bury her. He’s fine. Jim and Bobby are with him.”
Dean sank back, breathing a little easier. “I thought he was dead,” he muttered. “Was just laying there, didn’t see him breathing. Thought I was too late. She was going to shoot him. While he was laying there.”
“I know. But you did good, Dean. It’s okay. You’re alive, your father’s okay.”
After a long moment, Dean’s eyes slid shut. “Yeah.” His hand curled around Andrew’s, grip desperate on his fingers. “Don’t go.”
“I’ll stay. It’s all right, Sam’s right over there, you’re not alone.” Andrew settled onto the edge of the bed, smoothed the floppy hair off Dean’s forehead. The urge was still there, to take him, to mark Dean as his own. To…do things. Break him. If he couldn’t have Dean, kill him.
It horrified Andrew, made his stomach churn.
He’d obviously had a psychotic break. Wasn’t that what it was called? He was not, nor would he ever be, the Lord of Hell. It wasn’t possible. He was just…confused. That was the only way around it. He was a danger to himself, to Dean.
Andrew stared at Dean’s face, feeling something well up from the pit of his stomach, something warm and gentle that brought tears to his eyes. He couldn’t hurt Dean. Wouldn’t.
He would fix that. As soon as John and the boys left again, he would find a way.
*****
The confessional smelled like incense and Jim’s cologne. It was comforting, somehow. Andrew locked the door, kneeling on the padded bench.
The gun was heavy in his hands, a big revolver. He didn’t want to mess this up. No mistakes. No second chance to get it right. Under the chin and pull the trigger.
“Forgive me Father, for I have sinned,” he whispered. “I know this is wrong, but I’m hoping you’ll accept mitigating circumstances.”
Silence. God had always been silent for him.
“I can’t do this. It’s too much. I love him,” Andrew felt the admission burst out. “I love him, and I’m only going to hurt him. Watch him die, like all the other-“
He thought of John, twisting his wedding ring where he thought no one could see, a steady presence in the dark as the pain wracked Andrew through another sleepless night. He thought of Jim, his patient smile and gentle hands, his voice rising calm and clear through the church, healing and forgiving and offering a hand-up out of the darkness. He thought of Sam, childish grins warring with a streak of pride and anger that went marrow deep.
He thought of Dean. God, he thought of Dean.
“No.” The word sounded weak. Andrew swallowed, feeling the barrel bob against his throat. “I’m not going to- I’m Andrew James Murphy. No one else.”
He took a deep breath, pulled the hammer back on the gun. “I’m sorry, Lord. Please give me strength.”
With a sigh, he pressed it under his chin and steadied himself, pulling up a mental image of Dean’s face. I love you. Be happy, he thought, squeezing the trigger clumsily.
The hammer snapped into place with a noise that was loud in the confessional. There was no explosion, no pain. His hands trembled, slick with sweat on the butt of the revolver.
Andrew closed his eyes, feeling the tears sliding from them. God, he sucked. Fifty rounds in the box, and he picked a dud. Fucking perfect.
Sniffling, he opened his eyes, reloading the gun with shaking hands. He had to do this. No other option. He couldn’t risk that he would hurt someone.
Settling his hands, he pressed the gun back into place, his thumb cocking the gun.
“Andrew! Open this door right now,” Jim bellowed. The doorknob rattled ominously.
With a startled noise, Andrew’s hands jerked, fumbling the gun. It fell to the floor with a thump. “Fuck!” he hissed, bending to grab it.
“Andrew, open this goddamn door!” Jim yelled.
Andrew shrank back from the fury in Jim’s voice, quickly scooping the gun up and pressing it under his chin.
His finger never made it to the trigger. Light exploded behind his eyes; blinding, purifying, burning. He felt his body seize, heard the gun clatter away, heard himself scream.
There was nothing else.
Authors:
beanside &nilchanceRating: Adult-mentions of m/m.
Fandom: Supernatural
Disclaimer: We don't own the Supernatural boys, I'm afraid. This is strictly for entertainment purposes, no money is made.
Summary: Prequel to Of Bastard Saints. A little more about Andrew and the Winchesters.
“My head hurts,” Andrew whined. “I really don’t feel up to going to school today.”
Jim sighed, walking over to the breakfast table and looking down at his son. His beautiful, pain in the ass son. To be fair, Andrew did have migraines, but judging by the way he was eating, this wasn’t one of them. When the migraines hit, even the whiff of food made Andrew pale and start gagging. “What is it? Math test?”
Andrew looked down into his bowl of cereal. “Career day.”
“Why don’t you want to go to that? It could be fun. See all the different things you could do with your life,” Jim said.
Andrew shook his head. “I don’t want to.”
“Why?”
“I don’t need to. I already know what I want to do,” Andrew admitted softly.
“Really? What’s that? When I was your age, I wanted to be a doctor,” Jim said, smiling.
“I want to be a priest. Like you.”
Jim stared at him, and Andrew ducked his head. “See, even you think it’s stupid.”
“Of course I don’t,” Jim quickly said. “It’s just unexpected. I didn’t think you liked people that much.”
Andrew’s blue eyes fixed him with one of those looks. The ones Jim had come to hate. They didn’t belong on a fifteen year old, even one like Andrew. “Neither do you. Some days, you hate people. The stupid, blathering idiots who show up to ask you for help, for forgiveness, when all they really want is for you to validate them, for someone to tell them that they can go back to do whatever shit they were confessing.”
Yup, that was definitely the words of a future priest. With a sigh, Jim sat at the table and folded his arms. “I don’t hate any of them, Andrew. I resent them at times. I get frustrated. That’s being human. That’s why I go to confession myself. Even priests need a priest.”
Andrew smiled. “I don’t hate everyone either. I like some of the parishioners. I like the Winchesters.”
Jim managed not to roll his eyes. It had become increasingly obvious that Andrew was holding onto a massive crush on Dean, the quiet hero worship shifting to something infinitely more complicated. And, in classic teenager style, something to be a moody bitch over. “That still doesn’t explain why you don’t want to do career day.”
Andrew squirmed a little. “They’ll make fun of me,” he finally muttered.
A spark of anger slid through Jim. He’d had a feeling. Not a shock, really. Andrew still hadn’t caught up to his peers, puberty hadn’t even started to hit. He still stood just under five feet, shorter than most of the girls in his class. And, he was pretty. Not just boyishly cute. Honestly pretty, to the point that it made things difficult with some of the parishoners, who looked at Jim sideways and asked Andrew privately if there was “anything going on he wanted to talk about.” Andrew liked school, loved English, with the poetry and plays. He studied research texts with Jim, memorized exorcisms and taught Sam Latin word by painstaking word. He sparred with Dean and had John’s scarred hands steadying his own as he learned to deal with the mule-kick of a shotgun. He faced down monsters adults couldn’t imagine. And on top of all of that…
Andrew wasn’t human.
“Jim?” Andrew asked.
“Sorry. Woolgathering. Okay. You don’t have to go today.” When Andrew grinned, Jim whapped him gently in the knuckles with a pen. “Instead, you can help me with my sermon.”
“Really?” Judging from the way Andrew lit up and pushed his cereal bowl aside, it wasn’t as much a punishment as Jim had hoped. “What’s it about?”
“Lucifer.”
Andrew wrinkled his nose. “You’re doing a sermon about Lucifer? Thought you hated the fire and brimstone stuff.”
“Not so much the fire and brimstone. It’s more…” Jim tapped the table, searching for the right words. “Dogma says that we’re not supposed to forgive Satan. Which contradicts Christ’s philosophical message of forgiveness and redemption.”
“Contradiction? In the church? Father Murphy, I’m shocked and appalled.” Andrew shrugged. “We’ve seen the enemy, Jim. They killed Mr. Winchester’s wife. They’ve tried to kill us. Is it a contradiction in Christ’s word? Yeah, maybe. But these things, they don’t have mercy. They can’t be reasoned with.”
“Were they always like that?” Jim smiled. “Demonology theory 101, son. Demons were originally created from?”
“The war in heaven, the fall of Lucifer. I know, I know.”
“From angels. Angels cast out of the presence of the Father.” Jim spread his hands. “Children of God. Just like us.”
“Not like us,” Andrew shot back. “Traitors. Rebels.”
“Creatures who suffered from an excess of pride. Who tried to access ranks that they had no right to. Hmm.” Reaching back into the fruit bowl sitting on the counter, Jim grabbed an apple and tossed it to Andrew. “Sound familiar?”
With a wry smile, Andrew caught the apple and set it aside. “We were led astray. The snake? Eve’s temptation?”
“Nothing happens without God’s intent. The existence of evil, the Fall, the creation of Hell, the trial of Job, the suffering of man… it’s all in His plan.” Jim looked at Andrew, the fall of hair in his face, the light in his eyes. Sighed. “Why would the Father punish Satan when he orchestrated the circumstances of his Fall?”
Andrew raised an eyebrow. “Free will. God loads the gun, but Satan pulled the trigger. His call, his fuck-up, his consequences.”
“Language.”
“Sorry.” Andrew settled back in his chair, looking so much like Dean for a moment that Jim smiled. “You’re humanizing Jaws here, Jim.”
“Maybe. Maybe not. If you think about it, if this is actually God’s plan-“
“Which is arguable.”
“- he’s kind of doing a valuable service. It’d be like hating the trash collectors.”
“Have you been drinking?”
Jim smiled. “C’mon, work with me here. If there wasn’t a hell, where would you send the murderers, the child molesters? The rapists? Would they be welcome in heaven?”
“Their families might think so,” Andrew said mildly. “And anyway, evil’s all about perspective. Dean’s grandparents think Mr. Winchester is evil. They think he’s a kidnapper and that he killed his wife. They’d think the hunters who come around here are just paranoid militia members, because they don’t know any different.”
“No. They don’t know. And we don’t know the full extent of what happened between Satan and God.” Jim smiled at the disgusted noise Andrew made. “At best, the scripture is a second-hand account, often affected by translation, differences in oral accounts, the amount of time that lapsed. We don’t know that he’s evil. In Old Testament accounts, Satan was just the Adversary in the sense that he manned the other side of the chessboard. A rival, not necessarily an enemy.”
Andrew tilted his head. “But would there be evil without Satan?”
“I think people have the capacity for great good and evil both. And they decide which side to follow, without any help from on high or below,” Jim said. “So, if you look at it like that, Lucifer performs a function by ruling over hell. Like a landlord. Or even like I do, by giving sanctuary to hunters.”
“Hmm. Okay. So by that, are you saying that Satan isn’t evil?”
“Maybe not,” Jim said. “Maybe he’s just trying to do a job. I don’t really believe in one, ultimate evil. A million little evils, petty cruelties, sure. But an absolute evil? No.”
“Just ask Mrs. Winchester how redeemable demons are,” Andrew said darkly. “That sounds like a lot of ‘what ifs’. You don’t know one way or another. You don’t know if he’s evil or not.”
Jim looked at his son and said, “Such is faith.”
Andrew threw the apple at him.
***
“Full house.”
Andrew looked at his cards, then at the 10 year old sitting across the kitchen table, grinning crookedly at him. Then he sighed, grabbed his wallet, and dug out another five dollars. “You’re your father’s son, you know that?”
“I hope so,” Sam said, all wide eyes and startling sincerity. Then he grinned crookedly, ruining the whole ten going on forty-five thing he had going. “New game?”
“Go Fish,” Andrew said.
“Aww, Andrew, that’s a baby game!”
“And I’m the baby.” Andrew glanced at the clock above the rectory stove. Going on 11. The hunt was running later than it should’ve. How long before Sam caught on that Jim and Andrew were getting nervous? Kid was unnervingly perceptive sometimes. “Take pity, you damn card shark.”
With a tolerant sigh, Sam scooped up the cards and began shuffling them. He had John’s quick, deft hands. “You’d be okay if you didn’t blush so easy.”
“Yeah, yeah.”
A sharp noise rang out, the sound of the heavy church doors ricocheting off the wall. Andrew straightened, coming out of his chair and parking a hand on Sam’s shoulder in time for Jim to stride past the open kitchen door.
Jim gave him a silent look, a quick shake of his head, and managed a tight smile for Sam. “Your dad’s home. He’s going to need stitches, but everybody’s fine. Just give us a few minutes.”
Jim’s expression read: keep Sammy the hell out of Jim’s office until Jim could mop the blood up.
Jesus Christ. Again? Sam wasn’t a stupid kid, and Andrew had a lousy poker face.
Turning, Andrew looked at Sam. Sam looked back at him through his bad haircut, too damned serious for a kid his age, eyes dark with knowledge he shouldn’t have. Andrew sighed and rumpled his hair. “Just a couple minutes, okay?”
“I could help,” Sam said, a mulish edge to his voice. “I can stitch.”
“I know.” Andrew glanced away, looking for any distraction, and fixed on the nearest one. “Help me make some coffee and throw some dinner in the microwave, okay? Your dad’ll be hungry. You know he doesn’t eat.”
Jaw still set, Sam went to grab a plate. When he came back, the stubborn look had a new companion of quiet fear.
Every damn hunt, the poor kid went through this. Either he was coming back bruised to hell from a training exercise, or he was stuck in the church, waiting up to see whether his family would come back alive. Sucked to be a Winchester.
Sucked to care about them, too. Not quite as hard, but still.
Forcing a smile, Andrew grabbed the plate and set it on the counter. “You know how to set up the coffeemaker? Okay. You do that. I’ll go check on the idiots, and I’ll be right back to tell you how badly banged up they actually are. Okay?”
Sam squinted at him, but seemed to get that this was the best offer he’d get. Even if Andrew lied to him, which he damned well planned to if the damage was really bad, it was more honesty than he’d get from his brother. With a sullen nod, Sam went to put the coffeemaker on.
Andrew exhaled slowly, gave him one last look and stepped out onto the hall. He closed the kitchen door behind him, not so much because he thought it’d stop Sam as it’d give himself a little plausible deniability.
And then Dean was there.
Dean was just standing in the middle of the rectory hall, looking about three days dead, eyes fixed on nothing. Andrew reached for his shoulder, and Dean caved under his touch. The thump as Dean’s knees hit the floor made Andrew wince.
Then Dean tilted his bloody face up, and Andrew stopped thinking.
We’ve been here before.
There was blood on Dean’s lower lip, spattered up across his eyelid and sticking his eyelashes into clumps. Some of it was Dean’s. Andrew touched him, his face, smearing that blood across Dean’s skin and onto his own fingertips.
Dean shivered as Andrew’s fingertips touched his mouth, huddled up on his knees at Andrew’s feet. Some shadow crossed his face, fear and fury. His eyes were-
God. Andrew wanted to-
The images fluttered and shifted in the corners of Andrew’s mind like a thousand restless wings, stirring and whispering and rising as one.
His knees gave a moment later, and he knelt in front of Dean, fingers still fused to those high cheekbones. There was another face there, then another, then another, until he had to close his eyes.
Then, a final face slid up before him, heartbreakingly beautiful. Masculine perfection, high, slanted cheekbones framed by ice-blond waves, eyes the color of a spring sky. And a pair of gleaming wings rising behind him. Grief stabbed through Andrew, and he sucked a hard breath as the vision changed, the winged being laying on the parched earth of an ancient city, his beautiful eyes open and staring. Dead, by the humans’ hands.
And a woman, with wings of a glorious dove gray, stained with red splotches. Dead at the hands of the demons she was in charge of. Her robes torn, her striking face ruined by blows.
And of himself. Of the agony, of the first angel’s body on the pyre, of the flaming blade, slicing through his own wings—falling—into his throne. Of Levi standing behind him, steadying him. That gravel voice: “what is your bidding, my general?”
Andrew bit back a sob as the memories rushed back. Of a hundred who had come since, who he’d loved and hated in equal measures. Not him, not his.
-will come to you stained with the blood of a mother…death of the Morningstar…
Andrew winced, trying to remember the rest of the prophecy, but it slid from his mind, just out of reach. Things were settling in his mind now, background noise, and unbearable loneliness. He forced his eyes open, looking at Dean again.
Dean was still staring into space, eyes focused somewhere past Andrew’s head.
“Dean?” Andrew cupped his cheek gently. “Look at me.”
After a long moment, Dean focused on him. “’drew?”
“Yeah, I’ve got you. You all right?”
“God, I killed her. Amanda.”
Fuck. Andrew stroked along a blood-slick cheek, fighting the urge to lean forward, to lick the blood away, to claim Dean as his own. His body came alive, instantly and viciously hard. He wanted, with an aching, clawing need.
The image swam into his mind, unbidden of Dean under him, lithe body writhing on the altar, bloody lips begging, pleasure and pain written on his face as Andrew fucked him, hard and merciless.
Andrew shuddered. “It’s okay.”
“No,” Dean shook his head. “She hurt Dad, was going to kill him, and I killed her, shot her. I couldn’t stop, Andrew, just kept pulling the trigger, how dare she hurt him. She was pregnant, and I destroyed her, just kept shooting.”
“Sssh.” Andrew stroked his face, hands covered in blood now, slick and wet.
“Dean?” Sam’s voice scaled up. “Dean!”
Andrew finally managed to pull back as Sam rushed out of the kitchen, eyes wide with fear. “Get him into the kitchen, I’m going to get Jim,” he ordered.
Sam ignored him, going to Dean, wrapping his arms around him and squeezing hard. Dean shuddered, burying his bloody face against Sam’s throat. Sam’s voice, unnaturally calm, “Dean, it’s okay. It’s gonna be okay. Where do you hurt? I can stitch it.”
Dean’s answer was muffled, lost.
Andrew hurried towards the office, turning into the bathroom before he got there, closing the door, legs trembling. Jesus, what was wrong with him?
He moved to the sink, looking at his trembling hands, down at his bloodstained clothes, and another image swirled up, standing on the ranks of the dead, looking down at the trembling body of a young woman, enjoying her fear, her pain. She died screaming.
When he came back to himself, he was leaning on the wall, hand roughly stroking his cock, fingers slick with Dean’s blood. Shit, shit, shit. He shouldn’t-couldn’t do this. It was wrong.
But his body was clamoring, screaming for him not to stop.
Fuck.
Closing his eyes, Andrew gentled his grip, shivering at the slick feel of blood on his skin. Nothing in the world like it, that thick, wet feel, the metallic smell, God, were these his thoughts?
He lifted his other hand, covering his mouth, muffling the sob that slid out. Oh god, blood. His tongue darted out, tasting it, tasting Dean, and he shuddered. So good.
His strokes sped, matching the kitten licks of his tongue over his fingers, imagining Dean under him, writhing and begging for Andrew to fuck him hard. Imagined bending forward to taste the blood on Dean’s lips, to feel him come—
“Ohfuck,” Andrew whimpered, shaking as the pleasure slammed into him, sending him over the edge.
Then, brain finally on mute, he washed up and went to check on John.
****
John, as it turned out, was just badly bruised with a couple impressive cuts. He and Jim and Bobby had left to bury Amanda’s body a bit ago, leaving Andrew in charge of an exhausted Sam and a nearly comatose Dean.
Jim had poured the better part of a bottle of whiskey in the coffee he’d handed Dean, cleaning his wounds and, at Andrew’s insistence, tucking him into Andrew’s bed, with Sam asleep on the cot across the room.
Andrew stared at Dean’s face, the soft lips, twisted with pain even in his sleep.
A new warrior, whispered the thing in Andrew’s mind that wasn’t him. But like nothing the world had seen. Maybe this would be the one to kill the Morningstar.
Andrew didn’t want to die.
A hunter’s life was brutal, and usually short. It would be a kindness to end it now.
Liar, liar. Jesus Christ, what was he doing-?
Andrew picked up the syringe they’d left him, the vial of sedative. It would be easy to fill the syringe with air, slide it into a vein. A quick, relatively painless stroke, now, while Dean was asleep. He’d just never wake up.
He laid it against Dean’s arm, picking the most likely vein. Dean was slack in his grip, trusting. Andrew started to press the needle home, but his hand shook too hard to hold it steady.
Andrew pulled back, took a deep breath. Fuck.
“Andrew?” Dean murmured sleepily.
Setting the syringe on the nightstand, Andrew sat on the bed next to Dean. “I’m here. How’re you feeling?”
“Head hurts.”
“You want soemthing?”
“Yeah. Please.”
Andrew slid a pill into his mouth, trying not to let his fingers hesitate in the silken warmth of Dean’s mouth. Then he tilted Dean’s head up and helped him drink another shot of whiskey. “That should help.”
Dean nodded, eyes sliding closed. A second later, they snapped open, suddenly panicked. “Where’s Dad?”
“Sssh. They went to bury her. He’s fine. Jim and Bobby are with him.”
Dean sank back, breathing a little easier. “I thought he was dead,” he muttered. “Was just laying there, didn’t see him breathing. Thought I was too late. She was going to shoot him. While he was laying there.”
“I know. But you did good, Dean. It’s okay. You’re alive, your father’s okay.”
After a long moment, Dean’s eyes slid shut. “Yeah.” His hand curled around Andrew’s, grip desperate on his fingers. “Don’t go.”
“I’ll stay. It’s all right, Sam’s right over there, you’re not alone.” Andrew settled onto the edge of the bed, smoothed the floppy hair off Dean’s forehead. The urge was still there, to take him, to mark Dean as his own. To…do things. Break him. If he couldn’t have Dean, kill him.
It horrified Andrew, made his stomach churn.
He’d obviously had a psychotic break. Wasn’t that what it was called? He was not, nor would he ever be, the Lord of Hell. It wasn’t possible. He was just…confused. That was the only way around it. He was a danger to himself, to Dean.
Andrew stared at Dean’s face, feeling something well up from the pit of his stomach, something warm and gentle that brought tears to his eyes. He couldn’t hurt Dean. Wouldn’t.
He would fix that. As soon as John and the boys left again, he would find a way.
*****
The confessional smelled like incense and Jim’s cologne. It was comforting, somehow. Andrew locked the door, kneeling on the padded bench.
The gun was heavy in his hands, a big revolver. He didn’t want to mess this up. No mistakes. No second chance to get it right. Under the chin and pull the trigger.
“Forgive me Father, for I have sinned,” he whispered. “I know this is wrong, but I’m hoping you’ll accept mitigating circumstances.”
Silence. God had always been silent for him.
“I can’t do this. It’s too much. I love him,” Andrew felt the admission burst out. “I love him, and I’m only going to hurt him. Watch him die, like all the other-“
He thought of John, twisting his wedding ring where he thought no one could see, a steady presence in the dark as the pain wracked Andrew through another sleepless night. He thought of Jim, his patient smile and gentle hands, his voice rising calm and clear through the church, healing and forgiving and offering a hand-up out of the darkness. He thought of Sam, childish grins warring with a streak of pride and anger that went marrow deep.
He thought of Dean. God, he thought of Dean.
“No.” The word sounded weak. Andrew swallowed, feeling the barrel bob against his throat. “I’m not going to- I’m Andrew James Murphy. No one else.”
He took a deep breath, pulled the hammer back on the gun. “I’m sorry, Lord. Please give me strength.”
With a sigh, he pressed it under his chin and steadied himself, pulling up a mental image of Dean’s face. I love you. Be happy, he thought, squeezing the trigger clumsily.
The hammer snapped into place with a noise that was loud in the confessional. There was no explosion, no pain. His hands trembled, slick with sweat on the butt of the revolver.
Andrew closed his eyes, feeling the tears sliding from them. God, he sucked. Fifty rounds in the box, and he picked a dud. Fucking perfect.
Sniffling, he opened his eyes, reloading the gun with shaking hands. He had to do this. No other option. He couldn’t risk that he would hurt someone.
Settling his hands, he pressed the gun back into place, his thumb cocking the gun.
“Andrew! Open this door right now,” Jim bellowed. The doorknob rattled ominously.
With a startled noise, Andrew’s hands jerked, fumbling the gun. It fell to the floor with a thump. “Fuck!” he hissed, bending to grab it.
“Andrew, open this goddamn door!” Jim yelled.
Andrew shrank back from the fury in Jim’s voice, quickly scooping the gun up and pressing it under his chin.
His finger never made it to the trigger. Light exploded behind his eyes; blinding, purifying, burning. He felt his body seize, heard the gun clatter away, heard himself scream.
There was nothing else.
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Date: 2006-07-19 08:49 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-07-21 01:15 pm (UTC)